A MODERN INSTANCE

BY

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS

INTRODUCTION. 

Mr. Howells has written a long series of poems, novels, sketches, stories, and essays, and has been perhaps the most continuous worker in the literaryart among American writers. He was born at Martin's Perry, Belmont County, Ohio, March 1, 1837, and the experiences of his early life have beendelightfully told by himself in _A Boy's Town_, _My Year in a Log Cabin_, and _My Literary Passions_. These books, which seem like pastimes in themidst of Howells's serious work, are likely to live long, not only asplayful autobiographic records, but as vivid pictures of life in the middlewest in the middle of the nineteenth century. The boy lived in a home wherefrugality was the law of economy, but where high ideals of noble livingwere cheerfully maintained, and the very occupations of the householdtended to stimulate literary activity. He read voraciously and with aninstinctive scent for what was great and permanent in literature, andin his father's printing-office learned to set type, and soon to makecontributions to the local journals. He went to the state Capitol to reportthe proceedings of the legislature, and before he was twenty-two had becomenews editor of the _State Journal_ of Columbus, Ohio. 

But at the same time he had given clear intimations of his literaryskill, and had contributed several poems to the _Atlantic Monthly_. Hisintroduction to literature was in the stirring days just before the war forthe Union, and he had a generous enthusiasm for the great principles whichwere then at stake. Yet the political leaven chiefly caused the breadhe was baking to rise, and his native genius was distinctly for work increative literature. His contribution to the political writing of the day, besides his newspaper work, was a small campaign life of Lincoln; andshortly after the incoming of the first Republican administration hereceived the appointment of consul at Venice. 

At Venice he remained from 1861 to 1865, and these years may fairly betaken as standing for his university training. He carried with him toEurope some conversance with French, German, Spanish, and Italian, and aninsatiable thirst for literature in these, languages. Naturally now heconcentrated his attention on the Italian language and literature, butafter all he was not made for a microscopic or encyclopaedic scholar, leastof all for a pedant. What he was looking for in literature, though hescarcely so stated it to himself at the time, was human life, and itwas this first-hand acquaintance he was acquiring with life in anothercircumstance that constituted his real training in literature. To pass fromOhio straight to Italy, with the merest alighting by the way in New Yorkand Boston, was to be transported from one world to another; but he carriedwith him a mind which had already become naturalized in the large world ofhistory and men through the literature in which he had steeped his mind. Noone can read the record of the books he had revelled in, and observe theagility with which he was absorbed, successively, in books of greatlyvarying character, without perceiving how wide open were the windows of hismind; and as the light streamed in from all these heavens, so the inmatelooked out with unaffected interest on the views spread before him. 

Thus it was that Italy and Venice in particular afforded him at once thegreatest delight and also the surest test of his growing power. The swiftobservation he had shown in literature became an equally rapid survey ofall these novel forms before him. The old life embedded in this historiccountry became the book whose leaves he turned, but he looked with thegreatest interest and most sympathetic scrutiny on that which passedbefore his eyes. It was novel, it was quaint, it was filled with curious, unexpected betrayals of human nature, but it was above all real, actual, a thing to be touched and as it were fondled by hands that were deft bynature and were quickly becoming more skilful by use. Mr. Howells began towrite letters home which were printed in the _Boston Daily Advertiser_, andgrew easily into a book which still remains in the minds of many of hisreaders the freshest of all his writings, _Venetian Life_. This wasfollowed shortly by _Italian Journeys_, in which Mr. Howells gathered hisobservations made in going from place to place in Italy. A good many yearslater, after returning to the country of his affection, he wrote a thirdbook of a similar character under the title of _Tuscan Cities_. But his useof Italy in literature was not confined to books of travels; he made andpublished studies of Italian literature, and he wove the life of thecountry into fiction in a charming manner. Illustrations may be found in_A Foregone Conclusion_, one of the happiest of his novels, whose sceneis laid in Venice, in _The Lady of the Aroostook_, and in many slightsketches. 

When Mr. Howells returned to America at the close of his term as consul, hefound warm friends whom he had made through his writings. He served for ashort time on the staff of _The Nation_, of New York, and then was invitedto Boston to take the position of assistant editor of the _AtlanticMonthly_ under Mr. Fields. This was in 1866, and five years later, on theretirement of Mr. Fields, he became editor, and remained in the positionuntil 1881, living during this period in Cambridge. He was not only editorof the magazine; he was really its chief contributor. Any one who takes thetrouble to examine the pages of the _Atlantic Index_ will see how far hiswork outnumbers in titles that of all other contributors, and the range ofhis work was great. 

He wrote a large proportion of the reviews of books, which in thosedays constituted a marked feature of the magazine. These reviews wereconscientiously written, and showed penetration and justice, but they hadbesides a felicitous and playful touch which rendered them delightfulreading, even though one knew little or cared little for the book reviewed. Sometimes, though not often, he wrote poems, but readers soon learnedto look with eagerness for a kind of writing which seemed almost moreindividual with him than any other form of writing. We mean the humoroussketches of every-day life, in which he took scenes of the commonestsort and drew from them an inherent life which most never suspected, yetconfessed the moment he disclosed it. He would do such a common-placething as take an excursion down the harbor, or even a ride to town in ahorse-car, and come back to turn his experience into a piece of genuineliterature. A number of these pieces were collected into a volume entitled_Suburban Sketches_. 

It is interesting to observe how slowly yet surely Mr. Howells drewnear the great field of novel-writing, and how deliberately he laid thefoundations of his art. First, the graceful sketch which was hardlymore than a leaf out of his note-book; then the blending of travel withcharacter-drawing, as in _A Chance Acquaintance_ and _Their WeddingJourney_, and later stories of people who moved about and thus found theincidents which the author had not to invent, as in _The Lady of theAroostook_. Meanwhile, the eye which had taken note of surface effects wasbeginning to look deeper into the springs of being, and the hand which haddescribed was beginning to model figures also which stood alone. 

So there followed a number of little dramatic sketches, where the personsof the drama carried on their little play; and since they were not on astage before the spectator, the author constructed a sort of literary stagefor the reader; that is to say, he supplied by paragraphs what in a regularplay would be stage directions. This is seen in such little comedies as _ACounterfeit Presentment_, which, indeed, was put on the stage. But insteadof pushing forward on this line into the field of great drama, Mr. Howellscontented himself with dexterous strokes with a fine pen, so to speak, andcreated a number of sparkling farces like _The Parlor Car_. 

The real issue of all this practice in the dramatic art was to disengagethe characters he created from too close dependence on the kind ofcircumstance, as of travel, which the author did not invent, and to givethem substantial life in the working out of the drama of their spiritualevolution. Thus by the time he was released from editorial work, Mr. Howells was ready for the thorough-going novel, and he gave to readers suchexamples of art as _A Modern Instance_, _The Rise of Silas Lapham_, andthat most important of all his novels, _A Hazard of New Fortunes_. By thetime this last novel was written, he had become thoroughly interested, notmerely in the men, women, and children about him, but in that mysterious, complex order named by us society, with its roots matted together as in aswamp, and seeming to many to be sucking up maleficent, miasmatic vaporsfrom the soil in which it was rooted. Like many another lover of his kind, he has sought to trace the evils of individual life to their source in thiscomposite order, and to guess at the mode by which society shall rightitself and drink up healthy and life-giving virtues from the soil. 

But it must not be inferred that his novels and other literary work havebeen by any means exclusively concerned with the reconstruction of thesocial order. He has indeed experimented with this theme, but he has alwayshad a sane interest in life as he sees it, and with the increasing scopeof his observation he has drawn his figures from a larger world, whichincludes indeed the world in which he first began to find his charactersand their action. 

Not long after retiring from the _Atlantic_ he went to live in New York, and varied his American experience with frequent travels and continuedresidence in Europe. For a while he maintained a department in _Harper'sMagazine_, where he gave expression to his views on literature and thedramatic art, and for a short period returned to the editorial lifein conducting _The Cosmopolitan_; later he entered also the field oflecturing, and thus further extended the range of his observation. For manyyears, Mr. Howells was the writer of "Editor's Easy Chair" in Harper'sMagazine. In 1909 he was made president of the American Academy of Arts andLetters. Mr. Howells's death occurred May 11, 1920. 

This in fine is the most summary statement of his career inliterature, --that he has been a keen and sympathetic observer of life, andhas caught its character, not like a reporter going about with a kodak andsnapping it aimlessly at any conspicuous object, but like an alert artistwho goes back to his studio after a walk and sets down his comments on whathe has seen in quick, accurate sketches, now and then resolving numberlessundrawn sketches into some one comprehensive and beautiful picture. 

THE SEQUENCE OF MR. HOWELLS'S BOOKS. 

Mr. Howells is the author of nearly seventy books, from which the followingare selected as best representing his work in various fields and at variousperiods. 

Venetian Life. Travel and description. 1867. 

Their Wedding Journey. Novel. 1871. 

Italian Journeys. Travel and description. 1872. 

Suburban Sketches. 1872. 

Poems. 1873 and 1895. 

A Chance Acquaintance. Novel. 1873. 

A Foregone Conclusion. Novel. 1874. 

A Counterfeit Presentment. Comedy. 1877. 

The Lady of the Aroostook. Novel. 1879. 

The Undiscovered Country. Novel. 1880. 

A Fearful Responsibility, and Other Stories. 1881. 

A Modern Instance. Novel. 1881. 

The Rise of Silas Lapham. Novel. 1884. 

Tuscan Cities. Travel and description. 1885. 

April Hopes. Novel. 1887. 

A Hazard of New Fortunes. Novel. 1889. 

The Sleeping Car, and Other Farces. 1889. 

A Boy's Town. Reminiscences. 1890. 

Criticism and Fiction. Essays. 1891. 

My Literary Passions. Essays. 1895. 

Stops of Various Quills. Poems. 1895. 

Literary Friends and Acquaintances. Reminiscences, 1900. 

Heroines of Fiction. Criticism. 1901. 

The Kentons. Novel. 1902. 

Literature and Life. Criticism. 1902. 

London Films. Travel and Description. 1905. 

A MODERN INSTANCE. 

I. 

The village stood on a wide plain, and around it rose the mountains. Theywere green to their tops in summer, and in winter white through theirserried pines and drifting mists, but at every season serious andbeautiful, furrowed with hollow shadows, and taking the light on massesand stretches of iron-gray crag. The river swam through the plain in longcurves, and slipped away at last through an unseen pass to the southward, tracing a score of miles in its course over a space that measured but threeor four. The plain was very fertile, and its features, if few and of purelyutilitarian beauty, had a rich luxuriance, and there was a tropical riot ofvegetation when the sun of July beat on those northern fields. They wavedwith corn and oats to the feet of the mountains, and the potatoes covereda vast acreage with the lines of their intense, coarse green; the meadowswere deep with English grass to the banks of the river, that, doubling andreturning upon itself, still marked its way with a dense fringe of aldersand white birches. 

But winter was full half the year. The snow began at Thanksgiving, andfell snow upon snow till Fast Day, thawing between the storms, and packingharder and harder against the break-up in the spring, when it covered theground in solid levels three feet high, and lay heaped in drifts, thatdefied the sun far into May. When it did not snow, the weather waskeenly clear, and commonly very still. Then the landscape at noon had astereoscopic glister under the high sun that burned in a heaven without acloud, and at setting stained the sky and the white waste with freezingpink and violet. On such days the farmers and lumbermen came in to thevillage stores, and made a stiff and feeble stir about their doorways, andthe school children gave the street a little life and color, as they wentto and from the Academy in their red and blue woollens. Four times a daythe mill, the shrill wheeze of whose saws had become part of the habitualsilence, blew its whistle for the hands to begin and leave off work, in blasts that seemed to shatter themselves against the thin air. Butotherwise an arctic quiet prevailed. 

Behind the black boles of the elms that swept the vista of the street withthe fine gray tracery of their boughs, stood the houses, deep-sunken in theaccumulating drifts, through which each householder kept a path cut fromhis doorway to the road, white and clean as if hewn out of marble. Somecross streets straggled away east and west with the poorer dwellings; butthis, that followed the northward and southward reach of the plain, was themain thoroughfare, and had its own impressiveness, with those square whitehouses which they build so large in Northern New England. They were allkept in scrupulous repair, though here and there the frost and thaw of manywinters had heaved a fence out of plumb, and threatened the poise of themonumental urns of painted pine on the gate-posts. They had dark-greenblinds, of a color harmonious with that of the funereal evergreens in theirdooryards; and they themselves had taken the tone of the snowy landscape, as if by the operation of some such law as blanches the fur-bearing animalsof the North. They seemed proper to its desolation, while some houses ofmore modern taste, painted to a warmer tone, looked, with their mansardroofs and jig-sawed piazzas and balconies, intrusive and alien. 

At one end of the street stood the Academy, with its classic façade and itsbelfry; midway was the hotel, with the stores, the printing-office, and thechurches; and at the other extreme, one of the square white mansions stoodadvanced from the rank of the rest, at the top of a deep-plunging valley, defining itself against the mountain beyond so sharply that it seemed as ifcut out of its dark, wooded side. It was from the gate before this house, distinct in the pink light which the sunset had left, that, on a Saturdayevening in February, a cutter, gay with red-lined robes, dashed away, andcame musically clashing down the street under the naked elms. For thewomen who sat with their work at the windows on either side of the way, hesitating whether to light their lamps, and drawing nearer and nearer tothe dead-line of the outer cold for the latest glimmer of the day, thepassage of this ill-timed vehicle was a vexation little short of grievous. Every movement on the street was precious to them, and, with all thekeenness of their starved curiosity, these captives of the winter could notmake out the people in the cutter. Afterward it was a mortification to themthat they should not have thought at once of Bartley Hubbard and MarciaGaylord. They had seen him go up toward Squire Gaylord's house half an hourbefore, and they now blamed themselves for not reflecting that of course hewas going to take Marcia over to the church sociable at Lower Equity. Their identity being established, other little proofs of it reproached theinquirers; but these perturbed spirits were at peace, and the lamps wereout in the houses (where the smell of rats in the wainscot and of potatoesin the cellar strengthened with the growing night), when Bartley and Marciadrove back through the moonlit silence to her father's door. Here, too, thewindows were all dark, except for the light that sparely glimmered throughthe parlor blinds; and the young man slackened the pace of his horse, as ifto still the bells, some distance away from the gate. 

The girl took the hand he offered her when he dismounted at the gate, and, as she jumped from the cutter, "Won't you come in?" she asked. 

"I guess I can blanket my horse and stand him under the wood-shed, "answered the young man, going around to the animal's head and leading himaway. 

When he returned to the door the girl opened it, as if she had beenlistening for his step; and she now stood holding it ajar for him to enter, and throwing the light upon the threshold from the lamp, which she liftedhigh in the other hand. The action brought her figure in relief, andrevealed the outline of her bust and shoulders, while the lamp flooded withlight the face she turned to him, and again averted for a moment, as ifstartled at some noise behind her. She thus showed a smooth, low forehead, lips and cheeks deeply red, a softly rounded chin touched with a faintdimple, and in turn a nose short and aquiline; her eyes were dark, and herdusky hair flowed crinkling above her fine black brows, and vanished downthe curve of a lovely neck. There was a peculiar charm in the form of herupper lip: it was exquisitely arched, and at the corners it projecteda little over the lower lip, so that when she smiled it gave a piquantsweetness to her mouth, with a certain demure innocence that qualified theRoman pride of her profile. For the rest, her beauty was of the kind thatcoming years would only ripen and enrich; at thirty she would be evenhandsomer than at twenty, and be all the more southern in her type for thepaling of that northern, color in her cheeks. The young man who looked upat her from the doorstep had a yellow mustache, shadowing either side ofhis lip with a broad sweep, like a bird's wing; his chin, deep-cut belowhis mouth, failed to come strenuously forward; his cheeks were filled toan oval contour, and his face had otherwise the regularity common toAmericans; his eyes, a clouded gray, heavy-lidded and long-lashed, were hismost striking feature, and he gave her beauty a deliberate look from themas he lightly stamped the snow from his feet, and pulled the seal-skingloves from his long hands. 

"Come in, " she whispered, coloring with pleasure under his gaze; and shemade haste to shut the door after him, with a luxurious impatience of thecold. She led the way into the room from which she had come, and set downthe lamp on the corner of the piano, while he slipped off his overcoat andswung it over the end of the sofa. They drew up chairs to the stove, in which the smouldering fire, revived by the opened draft, roared andsnapped. It was midnight, as the sharp strokes of a wooden clock declaredfrom the kitchen, and they were alone together, and all the other inmatesof the house were asleep. The situation, scarcely conceivable to anothercivilization, is so common in ours, where youth commands its fate andtrusts solely to itself, that it may be said to be characteristic of theNew England civilization wherever it keeps its simplicity. It was notstolen or clandestine; it would have interested every one, but would haveshocked no one in the village if the whole village had known it; all that agirl's parents ordinarily exacted was that they should not be waked up. 

"Ugh!" said the girl. "It seems as if I never should get warm. " She leanedforward, and stretched her hands toward the stove, and he presently rosefrom the rocking-chair in which he sat, somewhat lower than she, and liftedher sack to throw it over her shoulders. But he put it down and took up hisovercoat. 

"Allow my coat the pleasure, " he said, with the ease of a man who is nottoo far lost to be really flattering. 

"Much obliged to the coat, " she replied, shrugging herself into it andpulling the collar close about her throat. "I wonder you didn't put it onthe sorrel. You could have tied the sleeves around her neck. "

"Shall I tie them around yours?" He leaned forward from the lowrocking-chair into which he had sunk again, and made a feint at what he hadproposed. 

But she drew back with a gay "No!" and added: "Some day, father says, thatsorrel will be the death of us. He says it's a bad color for a horse. They're always ugly, and when they get heated they're crazy. "

"You never seem to be very much frightened when you're riding after thesorrel, " said Bartley. 

"Oh, I've great faith in your driving. "

"Thanks. But I don't believe in this notion about a horse being viciousbecause he's of a certain color. If your father didn't believe in it, Ishould call it a superstition; but the Squire has no superstitions. "

"I don't know about that, " said the girl. "I don't think he likes to seethe new moon over his left shoulder. "

"I beg his pardon, then, " returned Bartley. "I ought to have saidreligions: the Squire has no religions. " The young fellow had a rich, caressing voice, and a securely winning manner which comes from the habitof easily pleasing; in this charming tone, and with this delightfulinsinuation, he often said things that hurt; but with such a humorousglance from his softly shaded eyes that people felt in some sort flatteredat being taken into the joke, even while they winced under it. The girlseemed to wince, as if, in spite of her familiarity with the fact, itwounded her to have her father's scepticism recognized just then. She saidnothing, and he added, "I remember we used to think that a redheadedboy was worse-tempered on account of his hair. But I don't believe thesorrel-tops, as we called them, were any more fiery than the rest of us. "

Marcia did not answer at once, and then she said, with the vagueness of onenot greatly interested by the subject, "You've got a sorrel-top in youroffice that's fiery enough, if she's anything like what she used to be whenshe went to school. "

"Hannah Morrison?"

"Yes. "

"Oh, she isn't so bad. She's pretty lively, but she's very eager to learnthe business, and I guess we shall get along. I think she wants to pleaseme. "

"_Does_ she! But she must be going on seventeen now. "

"I dare say, " answered the young man, carelessly, but with perfectintelligence. "She's good-looking in her way, too. "

"Oh! Then you admire red hair?"

He perceived the anxiety that the girl's pride could not keep out of hertone, but he answered indifferently, "I'm a little too near that colormyself. I hear that red hair's coming into fashion, but I guess it'snatural I should prefer black. "

She leaned back in her chair, and crushed the velvet collar of his coatunder her neck in lifting her head to stare at the high-hung mezzotints andfamily photographs on the walls, while a flattered smile parted her lips, and there was a little thrill of joy in her voice. "I presume we must be agood deal behind the age in everything at Equity. "

"Well, you know my opinion of Equity, " returned the young man. "If I didn'thave you here to free my mind to once in a while, I don't know what Ishould do. "

She was so proud to be in the secret of his discontent with the narrowworld of Equity that she tempted him to disparage it further by pretendingto identify herself with it. "I don't see why you abuse Equity to me. I Venever been anywhere else, except those two winters at school. You'd betterlook out: I might expose you, " she threatened, fondly. 

"I'm not afraid. Those two winters make a great difference. You saw girlsfrom other places, --from Augusta, and Bangor, and Bath. "

"Well, I couldn't see how they were so very different from Equity girls. "

"I dare say they couldn't, either, if they judged from you. "

She leaned forward again, and begged for more flattery from him with herhappy eyes. "Why, what _does_ make me so different from all the rest? Ishould really like to know. "

"Oh, you don't expect me to tell you to your face!"

"Yes, to my face! I don't believe it's anything complimentary. "

"No, it's nothing that you deserve any credit for. "

"Pshaw!" cried the girl. "I know you're only talking to make fun of me. Howdo I know but you make fun of me to other girls, just as you do of them tome? Everybody says you're sarcastic. "

"Have I ever been sarcastic with you?"

"You know I wouldn't stand it. "

He made no reply, but she admired the ease with which he now turned fromher, and took one book after another from the table at his elbow, sayingsome words of ridicule about each. It gave her a still deeper sense of hisintellectual command when he finally discriminated, and began to read out apoem with studied elocutionary effects. He read in a low tone, but at lastsome responsive noises came from the room overhead; he closed the book, andthrew himself into an attitude of deprecation, with his eyes cast up to theceiling. 

"Chicago, " he said, laying the book on the table and taking his kneebetween his hands, while he dazzled her by speaking from the abstractionof one who has carried on a train of thought quite different from that onwhich he seemed to be intent, --"Chicago is the place for me. I don't thinkI can stand Equity much longer. You know that chum of mine I told youabout; he's written to me to come out there and go into the law with him atonce. "

"Why don't you go?" the girl forced herself to ask. 

"Oh, I'm not ready yet. Should you write to me if I went to Chicago?"

"I don't think you'd find my letters very interesting. You wouldn't wantany news from Equity. "

"Your letters wouldn't be interesting if you gave me the Equity news; butthey would if you left it out. Then you'd have to write about yourself. "

"Oh, I don't think that would interest anybody. "

"Well, I feel almost like going out to Chicago to see. "

"But I haven't promised to write yet, " said the girl, laughing for joy inhis humor. 

"I shall have to stay in Equity till you do, then. Better promise at once. "

"Wouldn't that be too much like marrying a man to get rid of him?"

"I don't think that's always such a bad plan--for the man. " He waited forher to speak; but she had gone the length of her tether in this direction. "Byron says, --

 'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, -- 'Tis woman's whole existence. '

Do you believe that?" He dwelt upon her with his tree look, in the happyembarrassment with which she let her head droop. 

"I don't know, " she murmured. "I don't know anything about a man's life. "

"It was the woman's I was asking about. "

"I don't think I'm competent to answer. "

"Well, I'll tell you, then. I think Byron was mistaken. My experience is, that, when a man is in love, there's nothing else of him. That's the reasonI've kept out of it altogether of late years. My advice is, don't fallin love: it takes too much time. " They both laughed at this. "But aboutcorresponding, now; you haven't said whether you would write to me, or not. Will you?"

"Can't you wait and see?" she asked, slanting a look at him, which shecould not keep from being fond. 

"No, no. Unless you wrote to me I couldn't go to Chicago. "

"Perhaps I ought to promise, then, at once. "

"You mean that you wish me to go. "

"You said that you were going. You oughtn't to let anything stand in theway of your doing the best you can for yourself. "

"But you would miss me a little, wouldn't you? You would try to miss me, now and then?"

"Oh, you are here pretty often. I don't think I should have much difficultyin missing you. "

"Thanks, thanks! I can go with a light heart, now. Good by. " He made apretence of rising. 

"What! Are you going at once?"

"Yes, this very night, --or to-morrow. Or no, I can't go to-morrow. There'ssomething I was going to do to-morrow. "

"Perhaps go to church. "

"Oh, that of course. But it was in the afternoon. Stop! I have it! I wantyou to go sleigh-riding with me in the afternoon. "

"I don't know about that, " Marcia began. 

"But I do, " said the young man. "Hold on: I'll put my request in writing. "He opened her portfolio, which lay on the table. "What elegant stationery!May I use some of this elegant stationery? The letter is to a lady, --toopen a correspondence. May I?" She laughed her assent. "How ought I tobegin? Dearest Miss Marcia, or just Dear Marcia: which is better?"

"You had better not put either--"

"But I must. You're one or the other, you know. You're dear--to yourfamily, --and you're Marcia: you can't deny it. The only question is whetheryou're the dearest of all the Miss Marcias. I may be mistaken, you know. We'll err on the safe side: Dear Marcia:" He wrote it down. "That lookswell, and it reads well. It looks very natural, and it reads likepoetry, --blank verse; there's no rhyme for it that I can remember. DearMarcia: Will you go sleigh-riding with me to-morrow afternoon, at twoo'clock sharp? Yours--yours? sincerely, or cordially, or affectionately, orwhat? The 'dear Marcia' seems to call for something out of the common. I think it had better be affectionately. " He suggested it with ironicalgravity. 

"And _I_ think it had better be 'truly, '" protested the girl. 

"'Truly' it shall be, then. Your word is law, --statute in such case madeand provided. " He wrote, "With unutterable devotion, yours truly, BartleyJ. Hubbard, " and read it aloud. 

She leaned forward, and lightly caught it away from him, and made a feintof tearing it. He seized her hands. "Mr. Hubbard!" she cried, in undertone. "Let me go, please. "

"On two conditions, --promise not to tear up my letter, and promise toanswer it in writing. "

She hesitated long, letting him hold her wrists. At last she said, "Well, "and he released her wrists, on whose whiteness his clasp left red circles. She wrote a single word on the paper, and pushed it across the table tohim. He rose with it, and went around to her side. 

"This is very nice. But you haven't spelled it correctly. Anybody would saythis was No, to look at it; and you meant to write Yes. Take the pencil inyour hand, Miss Gaylord, and I will steady your trembling nerves, so thatyou can form the characters. Stop! At the slightest resistance on yourpart, I will call out and alarm the house; or I will--. " He put the pencilinto her fingers, and took her soft fist into his, and changed the word, while she submitted, helpless with her smothered laughter. "Now theaddress. Dear--"

"No, no!" she protested. 

"Yes, yes! Dear Mr. Hubbard. There, that will do. Now the signature. Yours--"

"I _won't_ write that. I won't, indeed!"

"Oh, yes, you will. You only think you won't. Yours gratefully, MarciaGaylord. That's right. The Gaylord is not very legible, on account of aslight tremor in the writer's arm, resulting from a constrained posture, perhaps. Thanks, Miss Gaylord. I will be here promptly at the hourindicated--"

The noises renewed themselves overhead, --some one seemed to be movingabout. Hubbard laid his hand on that of the girl, still resting on thetable, and grasped it in burlesque alarm; she could scarcely stifle hermirth. He released her hand, and, reaching his chair with a theatricalstride, sat there cowering till the noises ceased. Then he began to speaksoberly, in a low voice. He spoke of himself; but in application of alecture which they had lately heard, so that he seemed to be speaking ofthe lecture. It was on the formation of character, and he told of theprocesses by which he had formed his own character. They appeared verywonderful to her, and she marvelled at the ease with which he dismissed thefrivolity of his recent mood, and was now all seriousness. When he came tospeak of the influence of others upon him, she almost trembled with theintensity of her interest. "But of all the women I have known, Marcia, " hesaid, "I believe you have had the strongest influence upon me. I believeyou could make me do anything; but you have always influenced me for good;your influence upon me has been ennobling and elevating. "

She wished to refuse his praise; but her heart throbbed for bliss and pridein it; her voice dissolved on her lips. They sat in silence; and he took inhis the hand that she let hang over the side of her chair. The lamp beganto burn low, and she found words to say, "I had better get another, " butshe did not move. 

"No, don't, " he said; "I must be going, too. Look at the wick, there, Marcia; it scarcely reaches the oil. In a little while it will not reachit, and the flame will die out. That is the way the ambition to be good andgreat will die out of me, when my life no longer draws its inspiration fromyour influence. "

This figure took her imagination; it seemed to her very beautiful; and hispraise humbled her more and more. 

"Good night, " he said, in a low, sad voice. He gave her hand a lastpressure, and rose to put on his coat. Her admiration of his words, herhappiness in his flattery, filled her brain like wine. She moved dizzily asshe took up the lamp to light him to the door. "I have tired you, " he said, tenderly, and he passed his hand around her to sustain the elbow of the armwith which she held the lamp; she wished to resist, but she could not try. 

At the door he bent down his head and kissed her. "Good night, dear--friend. "

"Good night, " she panted; and after the door had closed upon him, shestooped and kissed the knob on which his hand had rested. 

As she turned, she started to see her father coming down the stairs with acandle in his hand. He had his black cravat tied around his throat, but nocollar; otherwise, he had on the rusty black clothes in which he ordinarilywent about his affairs, --the cassimere pantaloons, the satin vest, and thedress-coat which old-fashioned country lawyers still wore ten years ago, inpreference to a frock or sack. He stopped on one of the lower steps, andlooked sharply down into her uplifted face, and, as they stood confronted, their consanguinity came out in vivid resemblances and contrasts; his high, hawk-like profile was translated into the fine aquiline outline of hers;the harsh rings of black hair, now grizzled with age, which clusteredtightly over his head, except where they had retreated from his deeplyseamed and wrinkled forehead, were the crinkled flow above her smooth whitebrow; and the line of the bristly tufts that overhung his eyes was the sameas that of the low arches above hers. Her complexion was from her mother;his skin was dusky yellow; but they had the same mouth, and hers showed howsweet his mouth must have been in his youth. His eyes, deep sunk in theircavernous sockets, had rekindled their dark fires in hers; his wholevisage, softened to her sex and girlish years, looked up at him in hisdaughter's face. 

"Why, father! Did we wake you?"

"No. I hadn't been asleep at all. I was coming down to read. But it's timeyou were in bed, Marcia. "

"Yes, I'm going, now. There's a good fire in the parlor stove. "

The old man descended the remaining steps, but turned at the parlor door, and looked again at his daughter with a glance that arrested her, with herfoot on the lowest stair. 

"Marcia, " he asked, grimly, "are you engaged to Bartley Hubbard?"

The blood flashed up from her heart into her face like fire, and then, assuddenly, fell back again, and left her white. She let her head droop andturn, till her eyes were wholly averted from him, and she did not speak. Heclosed the door behind him, and she went upstairs to her own room; in hershame, she seemed to herself to crawl thither, with her father's glanceburning upon her. 

II. 

Bartley Hubbard drove his sorrel colt back to the hotel stable through themoonlight, and woke up the hostler, asleep behind the counter, on a bunkcovered with buffalo-robes. The half-grown boy did not wake easily; heconceived of the affair as a joke, and bade Bartley quit his fooling, tillthe young man took him by his collar, and stood him on his feet. Then hefumbled about the button of the lamp, turned low and smelling rankly, andlit his lantern, which contributed a rival stench to the choking air. Hekicked together the embers that smouldered on the hearth of the Franklinstove, sitting down before it for his greater convenience, and, having puta fresh pine-root on the fire, fell into a doze, with his lantern in hishand. "Look here, young man!" said Bartley, shaking him by the shoulder, "you had better go out and put that colt up, and leave this sleeping beforethe fire to me. "

"Guess the colt can wait awhile, " grumbled the boy; but he went out, all the same, and Bartley, looking through the window, saw his lanternwavering, a yellow blot in the white moonshine, toward the stable. He satdown in the hostler's chair, and, in his turn, kicked the pine-root withthe heel of his shoe, and looked about the room. He had had, as he wouldhave said, a grand good time; but it had left him hungry, and the table inthe middle of the room, with the chairs huddled around it, was suggestive, though he knew that it had been barrenly put there for the convenience ofthe landlord's friends, who came every night to play whist with him, andthat nothing to eat or drink had ever been set out on it to interrupt theaustere interest of the game. It was long since there had been anythingon the shelves behind the counter more cheerful than corn-balls and fancycrackers for the children of the summer boarders; these dainties being outof season, the jars now stood there empty. The young man waited in a hungryreverie, in which it appeared to him that he was undergoing unmeritedsuffering, till the stable-boy came back, now wide awake, and disposed tolet the house share his vigils, as he stamped over the floor in his heavyboots. 

"Andy, " said Bartley, in a pathetic tone of injury, "can't you scare me upsomething to eat?"

"There aint anything in the buttery but meat-pie, " said the boy. 

He meant mince-pie, as Hubbard knew, and not a pasty of meat; and thehungry man hesitated. "Well, fetch it, " he said, finally. "I guess we canwarm it up a little by the coals here. "

He had not been so long out of college but the idea of this irregularsupper, when he had once formed it, began to have its fascination. He tookup the broad fire-shovel, and, by the time the boy had shuffled to and fromthe pantry beyond the dining-room, Bartley had cleaned the shovel with apiece of newspaper and was already heating it by the embers which he hadraked out from under the pine-root. The boy silently transferred thehalf-pie he had brought from its plate to the shovel. He pulled up a chairand sat down to watch it. The pie began to steam and send out a savoryodor; he himself, in thawing, emitted a stronger and stronger smell ofstable. He was not without his disdain for the palate which must have itsmince-pie warm at midnight, --nor without his respect for it, either. Thisfastidious taste must be part of the splendor which showed itself in Mr. Hubbard's city-cut clothes, and in his neck-scarfs and the perfection ofhis finger-nails and mustache. The boy had felt the original impression ofthese facts deepened rather than effaced by custom; they were for everyday, and not, as he had at first conjectured, for some great occasion only. 

"You don't suppose, Andy, there is such a thing as cold tea or coffeeanywhere, that we could warm up?" asked Bartley, gazing thoughtfully at thepie. 

The boy shook his head. "Get you some milk, " he said; and, after he had letthe dispiriting suggestion sink into the other's mind, he added, "or somewater. "

"Oh, bring on the milk, " groaned Bartley, but with the relief that a choiceof evils affords. The boy stumped away for it, and when he came back theyoung man had got his pie on the plate again, and had drawn his chair up tothe table. "Thanks, " he said, with his mouth full, as the boy set down thegoblet of milk. Andy pulled his chair round so as to get an unrestrictedview of a man who ate his pie with his fork as easily as another wouldwith a knife. "That sister of yours is a smart girl, " the young man added, making deliberate progress with the pie. 

The boy made an inarticulate sound of satisfaction, and resolved in hisheart to tell her what Mr. Hubbard had said. 

"She's as smart as time, " continued Bartley. 

This was something concrete. The boy knew he should remember thatcomparison. "Bring you anything else?" he asked, admiring the young man'sskill in getting the last flakes of the crust on his fork. The pie had nowvanished. 

"Why, there isn't anything else, is there?" Bartley demanded, with theplaintive dismay of a man who fears he has flung away his hunger upon onedish when he might have had something better. 

"Cheese, " replied the boy. 

"Oh!" said Bartley. He reflected awhile. "I suppose I could toast a pieceon this fork. But there isn't any more milk. "

The boy took away the plate and goblet, and brought them again replenished. 

Bartley contrived to get the cheese on his fork and rest it against one ofthe andirons so that it would not fall into the ashes. When it was done, heate it as he had eaten the pie, without offering to share his feast withthe boy. "There'" he said. "Yes, Andy, if she keeps on as she's been doing, she won't have any trouble. She's a bright girl. " He stretched his legsbefore the fire again, and presently yawned. 

"Want your lamp, Mr. Hubbard?" asked the boy. 

"Well, yes, Andy, " the young man consented. "I suppose I may as well go tobed. "

But when the boy brought his lamp, he still remained with outstretched legsin front of the fire. Speaking of Hannah Morrison made him think of Marciaagain, and of the way in which she had spoken of the girl. He lolled hishead on one side in such comfort as a young man finds in the convictionthat a pretty girl is not only fond of him, but is instantly jealous of anyother girl whose name is mentioned. He smiled at the flame in his reverie, and the boy examined, with clandestine minuteness, the set and pattern ofhis trousers, with glances of reference and comparison to his own. 

There were many things about his relations with Marcia Gaylord which werecalculated to give Bartley satisfaction. She was, without question, theprettiest girl in the place, and she had more style than any other girlbegan to have. He liked to go into a room with Marcia Gaylord; it was somepleasure. Marcia was a lady; she had a good education; she had been awaytwo years at school; and, when she came back at the end of the secondwinter, he knew that she had fallen in love with him at sight. He believedthat he could time it to a second. He remembered how he had looked up ather as he passed, and she had reddened, and tried to turn away from thewindow as if she had not seen him. Bartley was still free as air; but if hecould once make up his mind to settle down in a hole like Equity, hecould have her by turning his hand. Of course she had her drawbacks, likeeverybody. She was proud, and she would be jealous; but, with all her prideand her distance, she had let him see that she liked him; and with not aword on his part that any one could hold him to. 

"Hollo!" he cried, with a suddenness that startled the boy, who hadfinished his meditation upon Bartley's trousers, and was now deeplydwelling on his boots. "Do you like 'em? See what sort of a shine you cangive 'em for Sunday-go-to-meeting to-morrow morning. " He put out his handand laid hold of the boy's head, passing his fingers through the thick redhair. "Sorrel-top!" he said, with a grin of agreeable reminiscence. "Theyemptied all the freckles they had left into your face, --didn't they, Andy?"

This free, joking way of Bartley's was one of the things that made himpopular; he passed the time of day, and was give and take right along, as his admirers expressed it, from the first, in a community where hissmartness had that honor which gives us more smart men to the square milethan any other country in the world. The fact of his smartness had beenaffirmed and established in the strongest manner by the authorities of thecollege at which he was graduated, in answer to the reference he made tothem when negotiating with the committee in charge for the place he nowheld as editor of the Equity Free Press. The faculty spoke of the solidityand variety of his acquirements, and the distinction with which he hadacquitted himself in every branch of study' he had undertaken. They addedthat he deserved the greater credit because his early disadvantages as anorphan, dependent on his own exertions for a livelihood, had been so greatthat he had entered college with difficulty, and with heavy conditions. This turned the scale with a committee who had all been poor boysthemselves, and justly feared the encroachments of hereditary aristocracy. They perhaps had their misgivings when the young man, in his well-blackedboots, his gray trousers neatly fitting over them, and his diagonal coatbuttoned high with one button, stood before them with his thumbs in hiswaistcoat pockets, and looked down over his mustache at the floor withsentiments concerning their wisdom which they could not explore; they musthave resented the fashionable keeping of everything about him, for Bartleywore his one suit as if it were but one of many; but when they understoodthat he had come by everything through his own unaided smartness, theycould no longer hesitate: One, indeed, still felt it a duty to callattention to the fact that the college authorities said nothing of theyoung man's moral characteristics in a letter dwelling so largely upon hisintellectual qualifications. The others referred this point by a silentlook to Squire Gaylord. 

"I don't know;" said the Squire, "as I ever heard that a great deal ofmorality was required by a newspaper editor. " The rest laughed at the joke, and the Squire continued: "But I guess if he worked his own way throughcollege, as they say, that he haint had time to be up to a great deal ofmischief. You know it's for idle hands that the Devil provides, doctor. "

"That's true, as far as it goes, " said the doctor. 

"But it isn't the whole truth. The Devil provides for some busy hands, too. "

"There's a good deal of sense in that, " the Squire admitted. "The worstscamps I ever knew were active fellows. Still, industry is in a man'sfavor. If the faculty knew anything against this young man they wouldhave given us a hint of it. I guess we had better take him; we sha'n't dobetter. Is it a vote?"

The good opinion of Bartley's smartness which Squire Gaylord had formed wasconfirmed some months later by the development of the fact that the youngman did not regard his management of the Equity Free Press as a finalvocation. The story went that he lounged into the lawyer's office oneSaturday afternoon in October, and asked him to let him take his Blackstoneinto the woods with him. He came back with it a few hours later. 

"Well, sir, " said the attorney, sardonically, "how much Blackstone have youread?"

"About forty pages, " answered the young man, dropping into one of the emptychairs, and hanging his leg over the arm. 

The lawyer smiled, and, opening the book, asked half a dozen questions atrandom. Bartley answered without changing his indifferent countenance, orthe careless posture he had fallen into. A sharper and longer examinationfollowed; the very language seemed to have been unbrokenly transferred tohis mind, and he often gave the author's words as well as his ideas. 

"Ever looked at this before?" asked the lawyer, with a keen glance at himover his spectacles. 

"No, " said Bartley, gaping as if bored, and further relieving his wearinessby stretching. He was without deference for any presence; and the oldlawyer did not dislike him for this: he had no deference himself. 

"You think of studying law?" he asked, after a pause. 

"That's what I came to ask you about, " said Bartley, swinging his leg. 

The elder recurred to his book, and put some more questions. Then he said, "Do you want to study with me?"

"That's about the size of it. "

He shut the book, and pushed it on the table toward the young man. "Goahead. You'll get along--if you don't get along too easily. "

It was in the spring after this that Marcia returned home from her lastterm at boarding-school, and first saw him. 

III. 

Bartley woke on Sunday morning with the regrets that a supper of mince-pieand toasted cheese is apt to bring. He woke from a bad dream, and foundthat he had a dull headache. A cup of coffee relieved his pain, but it lefthim listless, and with a longing for sympathy which he experienced in anymental or physical discomfort. The frankness with which he then appealedfor compassion was one of the things that made people like him; he flunghimself upon the pity of the first he met. It might be some one to whom hehad said a cutting or mortifying thing at their last encounter, but Bartleydid not mind that; what he desired was commiseration, and he confidinglyignored the past in a trust that had rarely been abused. If his sarcasmproved that he was quick and smart, his recourse to those who had sufferedfrom it proved that he did not mean anything by what he said; it showedthat he was a man of warm feelings, and that his heart was in the rightplace. 

Bartley deplored his disagreeable sensations to the other boarders atbreakfast, and affectionately excused himself to them for not going tochurch, when they turned into the office, and gathered there before theFranklin stove, sensible of the day in freshly shaven chins and newlyblacked boots. The habit of church-going was so strong and universal inEquity that even strangers stopping at the hotel found themselves theobject of a sort of hospitable competition with the members of thedifferent denominations, who took it for granted that they would wish togo somewhere, and only suffered them a choice between sects. There was nointolerance in their offer of pews, but merely a profound expectation, andone might continue to choose his place of worship Sabbath after Sabbathwithout offence. This was Bartley's custom, and it had worked to his favorrather than his disadvantage: for in the rather chaotic liberality intowhich religious sentiment had fallen in Equity, it was tacitly concededthat the editor of a paper devoted to the interests of the whole town oughtnot to be of fixed theological opinions. 

Religion there had largely ceased to be a fact of spiritual experience, and the visible church flourished on condition of providing for the socialneeds of the community. It was practically held that the salvation ofone's soul must not be made too depressing, or the young people would havenothing to do with it. Professors of the sternest creeds temporized withsinners, and did what might be done to win them to heaven by helping themto have a good time here. The church embraced and included the world. It nolonger frowned even upon social dancing, --a transgression once so heinousin its eyes; it opened its doors to popular lectures, and encouragedsecular music in its basements, where, during the winter, oyster supperswere given in aid of good objects. The Sunday school was made particularlyattractive, both to the children and the young men and girls who taughtthem. Not only at Thanksgiving, but at Christmas, and latterly even atEaster, there were special observances, which the enterprising spiritshaving the welfare of the church at heart tried to make significant andagreeable to all, and promotive of good feeling. Christenings and marriagesin the church were encouraged, and elaborately celebrated; death alone, though treated with cut-flowers in emblematic devices, refused to lenditself to the cheerful intentions of those who were struggling to renderthe idea of another and a better world less repulsive. In contrast withthe relaxation and uncertainty of their doctrinal aim, the rude and boldinfidelity of old Squire Gaylord had the greater affinity with the mood ofthe Puritanism they had outgrown. But Bartley Hubbard liked the religioussituation well enough. He took a leading part in the entertainments, anddid something to impart to them a literary cast, as in the series ofreadings from the poets which he gave, the first winter, for the benefit ofeach church in turn. At these lectures he commended himself to the soberelders, who were troubled by the levity of his behavior with young peopleon other occasions, by asking one of the ministers to open the exerciseswith prayer, and another, at the close, to invoke the Divine blessing;there was no especial relevancy in this, but it pleased. He kept himself, from the beginning, pretty constantly in the popular eye. He was a speakerat all public meetings, where his declamation was admired; and at privateparties, where the congealed particles of village society were united ina frozen mass, he was the first to break the ice, and set the angularfragments grating and grinding upon one another. 

He now went to his room, and opened his desk with some vague purposeof bringing up the arrears of his correspondence. Formerly, before hisinterest in the newspaper had lapsed at all, he used to give his Sundayleisure to making selections and writing paragraphs for it; but he nowlet the pile of exchanges lie unopened on his desk, and began to rummagethrough the letters scattered about in it. They were mostly from youngladies with whom he had corresponded, and some of them enclosed thephotographs of the writers, doing their best to look as they hoped he mightthink they looked. They were not love-letters, but were of that sortwhich the laxness of our social life invites young people, who have metpleasantly, to exchange as long as they like, without explicit intentionson either side; they commit the writers to nothing; they are commonlywithout result, except in wasting time which is hardly worth saving. Everyone who has lived the American life must have produced them in greatnumbers. While youth lasts, they afford an excitement whose charm is hardto realize afterward. 

Bartley's correspondents were young ladies of his college town, wherehe had first begun to see something of social life in days which he nowrecognized as those of his green youth. They were not so very far removedin point of time; but the experience of a larger world in the vacation hehad spent with a Boston student had relegated them to a moral remotenessthat could not readily be measured. His friend was the son of a family whohad diverted him from the natural destiny of a Boston man at Harvard, andsent him elsewhere for sectarian reasons. They were rich people, devoutin their way, and benevolent, after a fashion of their own; and their sonalways brought home with him, for the holidays and other short vacations, some fellow-student accounted worthy of their hospitality through hisreligious intentions or his intellectual promise. These guests wereindicated to the young man by one of the faculty, and he accepted theircompanionship for the time with what perfunctory civility he could muster. He and Bartley had amused themselves very well during that vacation. TheHallecks were not fashionable people, but they lived wealthily: they hada coachman and an inside man (whom Bartley at first treated with aconsideration, which it afterward mortified him to think of); their housewas richly furnished with cushioned seats, dense carpets, and heavycurtains; and they were visited by other people of their denomination, and of a like abundance. Some of these were infected with the prevailingculture of the city, and the young ladies especially dressed in a style andlet fall ideas that filled the soul of the country student with wonder andworship. He heard a great deal of talk that he did not understand; buthe eagerly treasured every impression, and pieced it out, by questionor furtive observation, into an image often shrewdly true, and oftengrotesquely untrue, to the conditions into which he had been dropped. Hecivilized himself as rapidly as his light permitted. There was a greatdeal of church-going; but he and young Halleck went also to lectures andconcerts; they even went to the opera, and Bartley, with the privity of hisfriend, went to the theatre. Halleck said that he did not think there wasmuch harm in a play; but that his people stayed away for the sake of theexample, --a reason that certainly need not hold with Bartley. 

At the end of the vacation he returned to college, leaving his measure withHalleck's tailor, and his heart with all the splendors and elegances of thetown. He found the ceilings very low and the fashions much belated in thevillage; but he reconciled himself as well as he could. The real stresscame when he left college and the question of doing something for himselfpressed upon him. He intended to study law, but he must meantime earn hisliving. It had been his fortune to be left, when very young, not only anorphan, but an extremely pretty child, with an exceptional aptness forstudy; and he had been better cared for than if his father and mother hadlived. He had been not only well housed and fed, and very well dressed, butpitied as an orphan, and petted for his beauty and talent, while he wasalways taught to think of himself as a poor boy, who was winning his ownway through the world. But when his benefactor proposed to educate him forthe ministry, with a view to his final use in missionary work, he revolted. He apprenticed himself to the printer of his village, and rapidly picked upa knowledge of the business, so that at nineteen he had laid by some money, and was able to think of going to college. There was a fund in aid ofindigent students in the institution to which he turned, and the facultyfavored him. He finished his course with great credit to himself and thecollege, and he was naturally inclined to look upon what had been done forhim earlier as an advantage taken of his youthful inexperience. He rebelledagainst the memory of that tutelage, in spite of which he had accomplishedsuch great things. If he had not squandered his time or fallen into viciouscourses in circumstances of so much discouragement, if he had come out ofit all self-reliant and independent, he knew whom he had to thank for it. The worst of the matter was that there was some truth in all this. 

The ardor of his satisfaction cooled in the two years following hisgraduation, when in intervals of teaching country schools he was actuallyreduced to work at his trade on a village newspaper. But it was as apractical printer, through the freemasonry of the craft, that Bartley heardof the wish of the Equity committee to place the Free Press in new hands, and he had to be grateful to his trade for a primary consideration fromthem which his collegiate honors would not have won him. There had notyet begun to be that talk of journalism as a profession which has sinceprevailed with our collegians, and if Bartley had thought, as othercollegians think, of devoting himself to newspaper life, he would haveturned his face toward the city where its prizes are won, --the ten andfifteen dollar reporterships for which a font years' course of the classicsis not too costly a preparation. But, to tell the truth, he had neverregarded his newspaper as anything but a make-shift, by which he was to becarried over a difficult and anxious period of his life, and enabled toattempt something worthier his powers. He had no illusions concerning it;if he had ever thought of journalism as a grand and ennobling profession, these ideas had perished, in his experience in a village printing-office. He came to his work in Equity with practical and immediate purposes whichpleased the committee better. The paper had been established some timebefore, in one of those flurries of ambition which from time to time seizedEquity, when its citizens reflected that it was the central town in thecounty, and yet not the shire-town. The question of the removal of thecounty-seat had periodically arisen before; but it had never been so hotlyagitated as now. The paper had been a happy thought of a local politician, whose conception of its management was that it might be easily edited bya committee, if a printer could be found to publish it; but a few months'experience had made the Free Press a terrible burden to its founders; itcould not be sustained, and it could not be let die without final disasterto the interests of the town; and the committee began to cast about for apublisher who could also be editor. Bartley, to whom it fell, could not besaid to have thrown his heart and soul into the work, but he threw all hisenergy, and he made it more than its friends could have hoped. Heespoused the cause of Equity in the pending question with the zeal of a_condottiere_, and did service no less faithful because of the cynicalquality latent in it. When the legislative decision against Equity put anend to its ambitious hopes for the time being, he continued in control ofthe paper, with a fair prospect of getting the property into his own handsat last, and with some growing question in his mind whether, after all, itmight not be as easy for him to go into politics from the newspaper as fromthe law. He managed the office very economically, and by having thework done by girl apprentices, with the help of one boy, he made itself-supporting. He modelled the newspaper upon the modern conception, through which the country press must cease to have any influence inpublic affairs, and each paper become little more than an open letter ofneighborhood gossip. But while he filled his sheet with minute chroniclesof the goings and comings of unimportant persons, and with all attainableparticulars of the ordinary life of the different localities, he continuedto make spicy hits at the enemies of Equity in the late struggle, and keptthe public spirit of the town alive. He had lately undertaken to make knownits advantages as a summer resort, and had published a series of encomiumsupon the beauty of its scenery and the healthfulness of its air and water, which it was believed would put it in a position of rivalry with some ofthe famous White Mountain places. He invited the enterprise of outsidecapital, and advocated a narrow-gauge road up the valley of the riverthrough the Notch, so as to develop the picturesque advantages of thatregion. In all this, the color of mockery let the wise perceive thatBartley saw the joke and enjoyed it, and it deepened the popular impressionof his smartness. 

This vein of cynicism was not characteristic, as it would have been inan older man; it might have been part of that spiritual and intellectualunruliness of youth, which people laugh at and forgive, and which onegenerally regards in after life as something almost alien to one's self. He wrote long, bragging articles about Equity, in a tone bordering onburlesque, and he had a department in his paper where he printed humoroussquibs of his own and of other people; these were sometimes copied, and inthe daily papers of the State he had been mentioned as "the funny man ofthe Equity Free Press. " He also sent letters to one of the Boston journals, which he reproduced in his own sheet, and which gave him an importance thatthe best endeavor as a country editor would never have won him with thevillagers. He would naturally, as the local printer, have ranked a littleabove the foreman of the saw-mill in the social scale, and decidedly belowthe master of the Academy; but his personal qualities elevated him over thehead even of the latter. But above all, the fact that he was studying lawwas a guaranty of his superiority that nothing else could have given; thatscience is the fountain of the highest distinction in a country town. Bartley's whole course implied that he was above editing the Free Press, but that he did it because it served his turn. That was admirable. 

He sat a long time with these girls' letters before him, and lost himselfin a pensive reverie over their photographs, and over the good times heused to have with them. He mused in that formless way in which a youngman thinks about young girls; his soul is suffused with a sense of theirsweetness and brightness, and unless he is distinctly in love there is nointention in his thoughts of them; even then there is often no intention. Bartley might very well have a good conscience about them; he had broken nohearts among them, and had only met them half-way in flirtation. What hereally regretted, as he held their letters in his hand, was that he hadnever got up a correspondence with two or three of the girls whom he hadmet in Boston. Though he had been cowed by their magnificence in thebeginning, he had never had any reverence for them; he believed that theywould have liked very well to continue his acquaintance; but he had notknown how to open a correspondence, and the point was one on which he wasashamed to consult Halleck. These college belles, compared with them, wereamusingly inferior; by a natural turn of thought, he realized that theywere inferior to Marcia Gaylord, too, in looks and style, no less thanin an impassioned preference for himself. A distaste for their somewhatveteran ways in flirtation grew upon him as he thought of her; hephilosophized against them to her advantage; he could not blame her if shedid not know how to hide her feelings for him. Yet he knew that Marciawould rather have died than let him suppose that she cared for him, if shehad known that she was doing it. The fun of it was, that she should notknow; this charmed him, it touched him, even; he did not think of itexultingly, as the night before, but sweetly, fondly, and with a finalcuriosity to see her again, and enjoy the fact in her presence. The acridlittle jets of smoke which escaped from the joints of his stove from timeto time annoyed him; he shut his portfolio at last, and went out to walk. 

IV. 

The forenoon sunshine, beating strong upon the thin snow along the edges ofthe porch floor, tattered them with a little thaw here and there; but ithad no effect upon the hard-packed levels of the street, up the middle ofwhich Bartley walked in a silence intensified by the muffled voices ofexhortation that came to him out of the churches. It was in the very heartof sermon-time, and he had the whole street to himself on his way up toSquire Gaylord's house. As he drew near, he saw smoke ascending from thechimney of the lawyer's office, --a little white building that stood apartfrom the dwelling on the left of the gate, and he knew that the old man waswithin, reading there, with his hat on and his long legs flung out towardthe stove, unshaven and unkempt, in a grim protest against the prevalentChristian superstition. He might be reading Hume or Gibbon, or he might bereading the Bible, --a book in which he was deeply versed, and from whichhe was furnished with texts for the demolition of its friends, hisadversaries. He professed himself a great admirer of its literature, and, in the heat of controversy, he often found himself a defender of itsdoctrines when he had occasion to expose the fallacy of latitudinarianinterpretations. For liberal Christianity he had nothing but contempt, andrefuted it with a scorn which spared none of the worldly tendencies of thechurch in Equity. The idea that souls were to be saved by church sociablesfilled him with inappeasable rancor; and he maintained the superiority ofthe old Puritanic discipline against them with a fervor which nothing butits re-establishment could have abated. It was said that Squire Gaylord'sinfluence had largely helped to keep in place the last of the rigidlyorthodox ministers, under whom his liberalizing congregation chafed foryears of discontent; but this was probably an exaggeration of the nativehumor. Mrs. Gaylord had belonged to this church, and had never formallywithdrawn from it, and the lawyer always contributed to pay the minister'ssalary. He also managed a little property for him so well as to make himindependent when he was at last asked to resign by his deacons. 

In another mood, Bartley might have stepped aside to look in on the Squire, before asking at the house door for Marcia. They relished each other'scompany, as people of contrary opinions and of no opinions are apt to do. Bartley loved to hear the Squire get going, as he said, and the old manfelt a fascination in the youngster. Bartley was smart; he took a point asquick as lightning; and the Squire did not mind his making friends withthe Mammon of Righteousness, as he called the visible church in Equity. Itamused him to see Bartley lending the church the zealous support of thepress, with an impartial patronage of the different creeds. There had beentimes in his own career when the silence of his opinions would have greatlyadvanced him, but he had not chosen to pay this price for success; he likedhis freedom, or he liked the bitter tang of his own tongue too well, and hehad remained a leading lawyer in Equity, when he might have ended a judge, or even a Congressman. Of late years, however, since people whom he couldhave joined in their agnosticism so heartily, up to a certain point, hadbegun to make such fools of themselves about Darwinism and the brotherhoodof all men in the monkey, he had grown much more tolerant. He still clungto his old-fashioned deistical opinions; but be thought no worse of a manfor not holding them; he did not deny that a man might be a Christian, andstill be a very good man. 

The audacious humor of his position sufficed with a people who liked ajoke rather better than anything else; in his old age, his infidelity wassomething that would hardly have been changed, if possible, by a popularvote. Even his wife, to whom it had once been a heavy cross, borne withsecret prayer and tears, had long ceased to gainsay it in any wise. Herfamily had opposed her yoking with an unbeliever when she married him, but she had some such hopes of converting him as women cherish who givethemselves to men confirmed in drunkenness. She learned, as other women do, that she could hardly change her husband in the least of his habits, andthat, in this great matter of his unbelief, her love was powerless. Itbecame easier at last for her to add self-sacrifice to self-sacrifice thanto vex him with her anxieties about his soul, and to act upon the feelingthat, if he must be lost, then she did not care to be saved. He had neverinterfered with her church-going; he had rather promoted it, for he likedto have women go; but the time came when she no longer cared to go withouthim; she lapsed from her membership, and it was now many years since shehad worshipped with the people of her faith, if, indeed, she were still ofany faith. Her life was silenced in every way, and, as often happens withaging wives in country towns, she seldom went out of her own door, andnever appeared at the social or public solemnities of the village. Herhusband and her daughter composed and bounded her world, --she always talkedof them, or of other things as related to them. She had grown an elderlywoman, without losing the color of her yellow hair; and the bloom ofgirlhood had been stayed in her cheeks as if by the young habit ofblushing, which she had kept. She was still what her neighbors called verypretty-appearing, and she must have been a beautiful girl. The silence ofher inward life subdued her manner, till now she seemed always to have comefrom some place on which a deep hush had newly fallen. 

She answered the door when Bartley turned the crank that snapped thegong-bell in its centre; and the young man, who was looking at the streetwhile waiting for some one to come, confronted her with a start. "Oh!" hesaid, "I thought it was Marcia. Good morning, Mrs. Gaylord. Isn't Marcia athome?"

"She went to church, this morning, " replied her mother. "Won't you walkin?"

"Why, yes, I guess I will, thank you, " faltered Bartley, in theirresolution of his disappointment. "I hope I sha'n't disturb you. "

"Come right into the sitting-room. She won't be gone a great while, now, "said Mrs. Gaylord, leading the way to the large square room into whicha door at the end of the narrow hall opened. A slumberous heat from asheet-iron wood-stove pervaded the place, and a clock ticked monotonouslyon a shelf in the corner. Mrs. Gaylord said, "Won't you take a chair?" andherself sank into the rocker, with a deep feather cushion in the seat, anda thinner feather cushion tied half-way up the back. After the more activeduties of her housekeeping were done, she sat every day in this chair withher knitting or sewing, and let the clock tick the long hours of her lifeaway, with no more apparent impatience of them, or sense of their dulness, than the cat on the braided rug at her feet, or the geraniums in the potsat the sunny window. "Are you pretty well to-day?" she asked. 

"Well, no, Mrs. Gaylord, I'm not, " answered Bartley. "I'm all out of sorts. I haven't felt so dyspeptic for I don't know how long. "

Mrs. Gaylord smoothed the silk dress across her lap, --the thin old blacksilk which she still instinctively put on for Sabbath observance, though itwas so long since she had worn it to church. "Mr. Gaylord used to have itwhen we were first married, though he aint been troubled with it of lateyears. He seemed to think then it was worse Sundays. "

"I don't believe Sunday has much to do with it, in my case. I ate somemince-pie and some toasted cheese last night, and I guess they didn't agreewith me very well, " said Bartley, who did not spare himself the confessionof his sins when seeking sympathy: it was this candor that went so far toconvince people of his good-heartedness. 

"I don't know as I ever heard that meat-pie was bad, " said Mrs. Gaylord, thoughtfully. "Mr. Gaylord used to eat it right along all through hisdyspepsia, and he never complained of it. And the cheese ought to have madeit digest. "

"Well, I don't know what it was, " replied Bartley, plaintively submittingto be exonerated, "but I feel perfectly used up. Oh, I suppose I shall getover it, or forget all about it, by to-morrow, " he added, with strenuouscheerfulness. "It isn't anything worth minding. "

Mrs. Gaylord seemed to differ with him on this point. "Head ache any?" sheasked. 

"It did this morning, when I first woke up, " Bartley assented. 

"I don't believe but what a cup of tea would be the best thing for you, "she said, critically. 

Bartley had instinctively practised a social art which ingratiated him withpeople at Equity as much as his demands for sympathy endeared him: he gavetrouble in little unusual ways. He now said, "Oh, I wish you would give mea cup, Mrs. Gaylord. "

"Why, yes, indeed! That's just what I was going to, " she replied. She wentto the kitchen, which lay beyond another room, and reappeared with thetea directly, proud of her promptness, but having it on her conscienceto explain it. "I 'most always keep the pot on the stove hearth, Sundaymorning, so's to have it ready if Mr. Gaylord ever wants a cup. He's amaster hand for tea, and always was. There: _I_ guess you better take itwithout milk. I put some sugar in the saucer, if you want any. " She droppednoiselessly upon her feather cushion again, and Bartley, who had risen toreceive the tea from her, remained standing while he drank it. 

"That does seem to go to the spot, " he said, as he sipped it, thoughtfullyobservant of its effect upon his disagreeable feelings. "I wish I hadyou to take care of me, Mrs. Gaylord, and keep me from making a fool ofmyself, " he added, when he had drained the cup. "No, no!" he cried, at heroffering to take it from him. "I'll set it down. I know it will fret you tohave it in here, and I'll carry it out into the kitchen. " He did so beforeshe could prevent him, and came back, touching his mustache with hishandkerchief. "I declare, Mrs. Gaylord, I should love to live in a kitchenlike that. "

"I guess you wouldn't if you had to, " said Mrs. Gaylord, flattered into asmile. "Marcia, she likes to sit out there, she says, better than anywheresin the house. But I always tell her it's because she was there so much whenshe was little. I don't see as she seems over-anxious to do anything there_but_ sit, I tell her. Not but what she knows how well enough. Mr. Gaylord, too, he's great for being round in the kitchen. If he gets up in the night, when he has his waking spells, he had rather take his lamp out there, ifthere's a fire left, and read, any time, than what he would in the parlor. Well, we used to sit there together a good deal when we were young, and hegot the habit of it. There's everything in habit, " she added, thoughtfully. "Marcia, she's got quite in the way, lately, of going to the Methodistchurch. "

"Yes, I've seen her there. You know I board round at the differentchurches, as the schoolmaster used to at the houses in the old times. "

Mi's. Gaylord looked up at the clock, and gave a little nervous laugh. "I don't know what Marcia will say to my letting her company stay in thesitting-room. She's pretty late to-day. But I guess you won't have muchlonger to wait, now. "

She spoke with that awe of her daughter and her judgments which is one ofthe pathetic idiosyncrasies of a certain class of American mothers. Theyfeel themselves to be not so well educated as their daughters, whosefancied knowledge of the world they let outweigh their own experience oflife; they are used to deferring to them, and they shrink willingly intohousehold drudges before them, and leave them to order the social affairsof the family. Mrs. Gaylord was not much afraid of Bartley for himself, butas Marcia's company he made her more and more uneasy toward the end of thequarter of an hour in which she tried to entertain him with her simpletalk, varying from Mr. Gaylord to Marcia, and from Marcia to Mr. Gaylordagain. When she recognized the girl's quick touch in the closing of thefront door, and her elastic step approached through the hall, the mothermade a little deprecating noise in her throat, and fidgeted in her chair. As soon as Marcia opened the sitting-room door, Mrs. Gaylord modestly roseand went out into the kitchen: the mother who remained in the room when herdaughter had company was an oddity almost unknown in Equity. 

Marcia's face flashed all into a light of joy at sight of Bartley, whoscarcely waited for her mother to be gone before he drew her toward himby the hand she had given. She mechanically yielded; and then, as if therecollection of some new resolution forced itself through her pleasure atsight of him, she freed her hand, and, retreating a step or two, confrontedhim. 

"Why, Marcia, " he said, "what's the matter?"

"Nothing, " she answered. 

It might have amused Bartley, if he had felt quite well, to see the girlso defiant of him, when she was really so much in love with him, but itcertainly did not amuse him now: it disappointed him in his expectation offinding her femininely soft and comforting, and he did not know just whatto do. He stood staring at her in discomfiture, while she gained in outwardcomposure, though her cheeks were of the Jacqueminot red of the ribbon ather throat. "What have I done, Marcia?" he faltered. 

"Oh, you haven't done anything. "

"Some one has been talking to you against me. "

"No one has said a word to me about you. "

"Then why are you so cold--so strange--so--so--different?"

"Different?"

"Yes, from what you were last night, " he answered, with an aggrieved air. 

"Oh, we see some things differently by daylight, " she lightly explained. "Won't you sit down?"

"No, thank you, " Bartley replied, sadly but unresentfully. "I think I hadbetter be going. I see there is something wrong--"

"I don't see why you say there is anything wrong, " she retorted. "What have_I_ done?"

"Oh, you have not _done_ anything; I take it back. It is all right. Butwhen I came here this morning--encouraged--hoping--that you had the samefeeling as myself, and you seem to forget everything but a ceremoniousacquaintanceship--why, it is all right, of course. I have no reason tocomplain; but I must say that I can't help being surprised. " He saw herlips quiver and her bosom heave. "Marcia, do you blame me for feeling hurtat your coldness when I came here to tell you--to tell you I--I love you?"With his nerves all unstrung, and his hunger for sympathy, he reallybelieved that he had come to tell her this. "Yes, " he added, bitterly, I_will_ tell you, though it seems to be the last word I shall speak to you. I'll go, now. "

"Bartley! You shall _never_ go!" she cried, throwing herself in his way. "Do you think I don't care for you, too? You may kiss me, --you may _kill_me, now!"

The passionate tears sprang to her eyes, without the sound of sobs or thecontortion of weeping, and she did not wait for his embrace. She flung herarms around his neck and held him fast, crying, "I wouldn't let you, foryour own sake, darling; and if I had died for it--I thought I shoulddie last night--I was never going to let you kiss me again till yousaid--till--till--now! Don't you see?" She caught him tighter, and hidher face in his neck, and cried and laughed for joy and shame, while hesuffered her caresses with a certain bewilderment. "I want to tell younow--I want to explain, " she said, lifting her face and letting him fromher as far as her arms, caught around his neck, would reach, and fervidlysearching his eyes, lest some ray of what he would think should escapeher. "Don't speak a word first! Father saw us at the door last night, --hehappened to be coming downstairs, because he couldn't sleep, --just whenyou--Oh, Bartley, don't!" she implored, at the little smile that made hismustache quiver. "And he asked me whether we were engaged; and when Icouldn't tell him we were, I know what he thought. I knew how he despisedme, and I determined that, if you didn't tell me that you cared for me--Andthat's the reason, Bartley, and not--not because I didn't care more for youthan I do for the whole world. And--and--you don't mind it, now, do you? Itwas for your sake, dearest. "

Whether Bartley perfectly divined or not all the feeling at which her wordshinted, it was delicious to be clung about by such a pretty girl asMarcia Gaylord, to have her now darting her face into his neck-scarf withintolerable consciousness, and now boldly confronting him with all-defyingfondness while she lightly pushed him and pulled him here and there in thevehemence of her appeal. Perhaps such a man, in those fastnesses of hisnature which psychology has not yet explored, never loses, even in thetenderest transports, the sense of prey as to the girl whose love he haswon; but if this is certain, it is also certain that he has transportswhich are tender, and Bartley now felt his soul melted with affection thatwas very novel and sweet. 

"Why, Marcia!" he said, "what a strange girl you are!" He sunk into hischair again, and, putting his arms around her waist, drew her upon hisknee, like a child. 

She held herself apart from him at her arm's length, and said, "Wait! Letme say it before it seems as if we had always been engaged, and everythingwas as right then as it is now. Did you despise me for letting you kiss mebefore we were engaged?"

"No, " he laughed again. "I liked you for it. "

"But if you thought I would let any one else, you wouldn't have liked it?"

This diverted him still more. "I shouldn't have liked that more than halfas well. "

"No, " she said thoughtfully. She dropped her face awhile on his shoulder, and seemed to be struggling with herself. Then she lifted it, and "Did youever--did you--" she gasped. 

"If you want me to say that all the other girls in the world are not wortha hair of your head, I'll say that, Marcia. Now, let's talk business!"

This made her laugh, and "I shall want a little lock of yours, " she said, as if they had hitherto been talking of nothing but each other's hair. 

"And I shall want all of yours, " he answered. 

"No. Don't be silly. " She critically explored his face. "How funny to havea mole in your eyebrow!" She put her finger on it. "I never saw it before. "

"You never looked so closely. There's a scar at the corner of your upperlip that I hadn't noticed. "

"Can you see that?" she demanded, radiantly. "Well, you _have_ got goodeyes! The cat did it when I was a little girl. "

The door opened, and Mrs. Gaylord surprised them in the celebration ofthese discoveries, --or, rather, she surprised herself, for she stoodholding the door and helpless to move, though in her heart she had anapologetic impulse to retire, and she even believed that she made somemurmurs of excuse for her intrusion. Bartley was equally abashed, butMarcia rose with the coolness of her sex in the intimate emergencies whichconfound a man. "Oh, mother, it's you! I forgot about you. Come in! Or I'llset the table, if that's what you want. " As Mrs. Gaylord continued to lookfrom her to Bartley in her daze, Marcia added, simply, "We're engaged, mother. You may as well know it first as last, and I guess you better knowit first. "

Her mother appeared not to think it safe to relax her hold upon the door, and Bartley went filially to her rescue--if it was rescue to salute herblushing defencelessness as he did. A confused sense of the extraordinarynature and possible impropriety of the proceeding may have suggested herhusband to her mind; or it may have been a feeling that some remark wasexpected of her, even in the mental destitution to which she was reduced. 

"Have you told Mr. Gaylord about it?" she asked of either, or neither, orboth, as they chose to take it. 

Bartley left the word to Marcia, who answered, "Well, no, mother. Wehaven't yet. We've only just found it out ourselves. I guess father canwait till he comes in to dinner. I intend to keep Bartley here to proveit. "

"He said, " remarked Mrs. Gaylord, whom Bartley had led to her chair andplaced on her cushion, "'t he had a headache when he first came in, " andshe appealed to him for corroboration, while she vainly endeavored togather force to grapple again with the larger fact that he and Marcia werejust engaged to be married. 

Marcia stopped down, and pulled her mother up out of her chair with a hug. "Oh, come now, mother: You mustn't let it take your breath away, " she said, with patronizing fondness. "I'm not afraid of what father will say. Youknow what he thinks of Bartley, --or Mr. Hubbard, as I presume you'll wantme to call him! Now, mother, you just run up stairs, and put on your bestcap, and leave me to set the table and get up the dinner. I guess I can getBartley to help me. Mother, mother, mother!" she cried, in happiness thatwas otherwise unutterable, and clasping her mother closer in her strongyoung arms, she kissed her with a fervor that made her blush again beforethe young man. 

"Marcia, Marcia! You hadn't ought to! It's ridiculous!" she protested. Butshe suffered herself to be thrust out of the room, grateful for exile, inwhich she could collect her scattered wits and set herself to realize thefact that had dispersed them. It was decorous, also, for her to leaveMarcia alone with Mr. Hubbard, far more so now than when he was merelycompany; she felt that, and she fumbled over the dressing she was sentabout, and once she looked out of her chamber window at the office whereMr. Gaylord sat, and wondered what Mr. Gaylord (she thought of him, andeven dreamt of him, as Mr. Gaylord, and had never, in the most familiarmoments, addressed him otherwise) _would_ say! But she left the solutionof the problem to him and Marcia; she was used to leaving them to thesettlement of their own difficulties. 

"Now, Bartley, " said Marcia, in the business-like way that women assume insuch matters, as soon as the great fact is no longer in doubt, "you musthelp me to set the table. Put up that leaf and I'll put up this. I'm goingto do more for mother than I used to, " she said, repentant in her bliss. "It's a shame how much I've left to her. " The domestic instinct was alreadyastir in her heart. 

Bartley pulled the table-cloth straight from her, and vied with her in therapidity and exactness with which he arranged the knives and forks at rightangles beside the plates. When it came to some heavier dishes, they agreedto carry them turn about; but when it was her turn, he put out his handto support her elbow: "As I did last night, and saved you from dropping alamp. "

This made her laugh, and she dropped the first dish with a crash. "Poormother!" she exclaimed. "I know she heard that, and she'll be in agony toknow which one it is. "

Mrs. Gaylord did indeed hear it, far off in her chamber, and quaked with ananxiety which became intolerable at last. 

"Marcia! Marcia!" she quavered, down the stairs, "what _have_ you broken?"

Marcia opened the door long enough to call back, "Oh, only the oldblue-edged platter, mother!" and then she flew at Bartley, crying, "Forshame! For shame!" and pressing her hand over his mouth to stifle hislaughter. "She'll hear you, Bartley, and think you're laughing at her. " Butshe laughed herself at his struggles, and ended by taking him by the handand pulling him out into, the kitchen, where neither of them could beheard. She abandoned herself to the ecstasy of her soul, and he thought shehad never been so charming as in this wild gayety. 

"Why, Marsh! I never saw you carry on so before!"

"You never saw me engaged before! That's the way all girls act--if they getthe chance. Don't you like me to be so?" she asked, with quick anxiety. 

"Rather!" he replied. 

"Oh, Bartley!" she exclaimed, "I feel like a child. I surprise myself asmuch as I do you; for I thought I had got very old, and I didn't suppose Ishould ever let myself go in this way. But there is something about thisthat lets me be as silly as I like. It's somehow as if I were a great dealmore alone when I'm with you than when I'm by myself! How does it make youfeel?"

"Good!" he answered, and that satisfied her better than if he had enteredinto those subtleties which she had tried to express: it was more like aman. He had his arm about her again, and she put down her hand on his topress it closer against her heart. 

"Of course, " she explained, recurring to his surprise at her frolic mood, "I don't expect you to be silly because I am. "

"No, " he assented; "but how can I help it?"

"Oh, I don't mean for the time being; I mean generally speaking. I meanthat I care for you because I know you know a great deal more than Ido, and because I respect you. I know that everybody expects you to besomething great, and I do, too. "

Bartley did not deny the justness of her opinions concerning himself, orthe reasonableness of the general expectation, though he probably couldnot see the relation of these cold abstractions to the pleasure of sittingthere with a pretty girl in that way. But he said nothing. 

"Do you know, " she went on, turning her face prettily around toward him, but holding it a little way off, to secure attention as impersonal as mightbe under the circumstances, "what pleased me more than anything else youever said to me?"

"No, " answered Bartley. "Something you got out of me when you were tryingto make me tell you the difference between you and the other Equity girls?"

She laughed, in glad defiance of her own consciousness. "Well, I _was_trying to make you compliment me; I'm not going to deny it. But I must sayI got my come-uppance: you didn't say a thing I cared for. But you didafterward. Don't you remember?"

"No. When?"

She hesitated a moment. "When you told me that my influence had--had--madeyou better, you know--"

"Oh!" said Bartley. "That! Well, " he added, carelessly, "it's every wordtrue. Didn't you believe it?"

"I was just as glad as if I did; and it made me resolve never to do or saya thing that could lower your opinion of me; and then, you know, there atthe door--it all seemed part of our trying to make each other better. Butwhen father looked at me in that way, and asked me if we were engaged, Iwent down into the dust with shame. And it seemed to me that you had justbeen laughing at me, and amusing yourself with me, and I was so furious Ididn't know what to do. Do you know what I wanted to do? I wanted to rundownstairs to father, and tell him what you had said, and ask him if hebelieved you had ever liked any other girl. " She paused a little, but hedid not answer, and she continued. "But now I'm glad I didn't. And I shallnever ask you that, and I shall not care for anything that you--that'shappened before to-day. It's all right. And you _do_ think I shall always_try_ to make you good and happy, don't you?"

"I don't think you can make me much happier than I am at present, and Idon't believe anybody could make me feel better, " answered Bartley. 

She gave a little laugh at his refusal to be serious, and let her head, forfondness, fall upon his shoulder, while he turned round and round a ring hefound on her finger. 

"Ah, ha!" he said, after a while. "Who gave you this ring, Miss Gaylord?"

"Father, Christmas before last, " she promptly answered, without moving. "I'm glad you asked, " she murmured, in a lower voice, full of pride in themaiden love she could give him. "There's never been any one but you, or thethought of any one. " She suddenly started away. 

"Now, let's play we're getting dinner. " It was quite time; in the nextmoment the coffee boiled up, and if she had not caught the lid off andstirred it down with her spoon, it would have been spoiled. The steamascended to the ceiling, and filled the kitchen with the fragrant smell ofthe berry. 

"I'm glad we're going to have coffee, " she said. "You'll have to put upwith a cold dinner, except potatoes. But the coffee will make up, and Ishall need a cup to keep me awake. I don't believe I slept last night tillnearly morning. Do you like coffee?"

"I'd have given all I ever expect to be worth for a cup of it, last night, "he said. "I was awfully hungry when I got back to the hotel, and I couldn'tfind anything but a piece of mince-pie and some old cheese, and I had to becontent with cold milk. I felt as if I had lost all my friends this morningwhen I woke up. "

A sense of remembered grievance trembled in his voice, and made her dropher head on his arm, in pity and derision of him. "Poor Bartley!" shecried. "And you came up here for a little petting from me, didn't you? I'venoticed that in you! Well, you didn't get it, did you?"

"Well, not at first, " he said. 

"Yes, you can't complain of any want of petting at last, " she returned, delighted at his indirect recognition of the difference. Then the daring, the archness, and caprice that make coquetry in some women, and lurk adivine possibility in all, came out in her; the sweetness, kept back by thewhole strength of her pride, overflowed that broken barrier now, and sheseemed to lavish this revelation of herself upon him with a sort of tenderjoy in his bewilderment. She was not hurt when he crudely expressed theelusive sense which has been in other men's minds at such times: theycannot believe that this fascination is inspired, and not practised. 

"Well, " he said, "I'm glad you told me that I was the first. I should havethought you'd had a good deal of experience in flirtation. "

"You wouldn't have thought so if you hadn't been a great flirt yourself, "she answered, audaciously. "Perhaps I have been engaged before!"

Their talk was for the most part frivolous, and their thoughts ephemeral;but again they were, with her at least, suddenly and deeply serious. Tillthen all things seemed to have been held in arrest, and impressions, ideas, feelings, fears, desires, released themselves simultaneously, and soughtexpression with a rush that defied coherence. "Oh, why do we try to talk?"she asked, at last. "The more we say, the more we leave unsaid. Let us keepstill awhile!" But she could not. "Bartley! When did you first think youcared about me?"

"I don't know, " said Bartley, "I guess it must have been the first time Isaw you. "

"Yes, that is when I first knew that I cared for you. But it seems to methat I must have always cared for you, and that I only found it out when Isaw you going by the house that day. " She mused a little time before sheasked again, "Bartley!"

"Well?"

"Did you ever use to be afraid--Or, no! Wait! I'll _tell_ you first, andthen I'll _ask_ you. I'm not ashamed of it now, though once I thought Icouldn't bear to have any one find it out. I used to be awfully afraid youdidn't care for me! I would try to make out, from things you did and said, whether you did or not; but I never could be certain. I believe I used tofind the most comfort in discouraging myself. I used to say to myself, 'Why, of course he doesn't! How can he? He's been everywhere, and he's seenso many girls. He corresponds with lots of them. Altogether likely he'sengaged to some of the young ladies he's met in Boston; and he just goeswith me here for a blind. ' And then when you would praise me, sometimes, I would just say, 'Oh, he's complimented plenty of girls. I know he'sthinking this instant of the young lady he's engaged to in Boston. ' And itwould almost kill me; and when you did some little thing to show that youliked me, I would think, 'He doesn't like me! He hates, he despises me. Hedoes, he does, he does!' And I would go on that way, with my teeth shut, and my breath held, I don't know _how_ long. " Bartley broke out into abroad laugh at this image of desperation, but she added, tenderly, "I hopeI never made you suffer in that way?"

"What way?" he asked. 

"That's what I wanted you to tell me. Did you ever--did you use to beafraid sometimes that I--that you--did you put off telling me that youcared for me so long because you thought, you dreaded--Oh, I don't see whatI can ever do to make it up to you if you did! Were you afraid I didn'tcare for you?"

"No!" shouted Bartley. She had risen and stood before him in the fervorof her entreaty, and he seized her arms, pinioning them to her side, andholding her helpless, while he laughed, and laughed again. "I knew you weredead in love with me from the first moment. "

"Bartley! Bartley Hubbard!" she exclaimed; "let me go, --let me go, thisinstant! I never heard of such a shameless thing!"

But she really made no effort to escape. 

V. 

The house seemed too little for Marcia's happiness, and after dinner shedid not let Bartley forget his last night's engagement. She sent him off toget his horse at the hotel, and ran up to her room to put on her wraps forthe drive. Her mother cleared away the dinner things; she pushed the tableto the side of the room, and then sat down in her feather-cushioned chairand waited her husband's pleasure to speak. He ordinarily rose from theSunday dinner and went back to his office; to-day he had taken a chairbefore the stove. But he had mechanically put his hat on, and he wore itpushed off his forehead as he tilted his chair back on its hind legs, andbraced himself against the hearth of the stove with his feet. 

A man is master in his own house generally through the exercise of acertain degree of brutality, but Squire Gaylord maintained his predominanceby an enlightened absenteeism. No man living always at home was ever solittle under his own roof. While he was in more active business life, hehad kept an office in the heart of the village, where he spent all hisdays, and a great part of every night; but after he had become rich enoughto risk whatever loss of business the change might involve, he bought thislarge old square house on the border of the village, and thenceforth madehis home in the little detached office. 

If Mrs. Gaylord had dimly imagined that she should see something more ofhim, having him so near at hand, she really saw less: there was no weather, by day or night, in which he could not go to his office, now. He went nomore than his wife into the village society; she might have been glad nowand then of a little glimpse of the world, but she never said so, and hersocial life had ceased, like her religious life. Their house was richlyfurnished according to the local taste of the time; the parlor had aBrussels carpet, and heavy chairs of mahogany and hair-cloth; Marcia had apiano there, and since she had come home from school they had made company, as Mrs. Gaylord called it, two or three times for her; but they had heldaloof from the festivity, the Squire in his office, and Mrs. Gaylord in thefamily room where they now sat in unwonted companionship. 

"Well, Mr. Gaylord, " said his wife, "I don't know as you can say but what_Marcia_'s suited well enough. "

This was the first allusion they had made to the subject, but she let ittake the argumentative form of her cogitations. 

"M-yes, " sighed the Squire, in long, nasal assent, "most too well, ifanything. " He rasped first one unshaven cheek and then the other, with histhin, quivering hand. 

"He's smart enough, " said Mrs. Gaylord, as before. 

"M-yes, most too smart, " replied her husband, a little more quickly thanbefore. "He's smart enough, even if she wasn't, to see from the start thatshe was crazy to have him, and that isn't the best way to begin life for amarried couple, if I'm a judge. "

"It would killed her if she hadn't got him. I could see 't was wearin' onher every day, more and more. She used to fairly jump, every knock she'dhear at the door; and I know sometimes, when she was afraid he wa' n'tcoming, she used to go out, in hopes 't she sh'd meet him: I don't supposeshe allowed to herself that she did it for that--Marcia's proud. "

"M-yes, " said the Squire, "she's proud. And when a proud girl makes a foolof herself about a fellow, it's a matter of life and death with her. Shecan't help herself. She lets go everything. "

"I declare, " Mrs. Gaylord went on, "it worked me up considerable to haveher come in some those times, and see by her face 't she'd seen him withsome the other girls. She used to _look_ so! And then I'd hear her up inher room, cryin' and cryin'. I shouldn't cared so much, if Marcia'd beenlike any other girl, kind of flirty, like, about it. But she wa' n't. Shewas just bowed down before her idol. "

A final assent came from the Squire, as if wrung out of his heart, and herose from his chair, and then sat down again. Marcia was his child, and heloved her with his whole soul. "M-well!" he deeply sighed, "all that part'sover, anyway, " but he tingled in an anguish of sympathy with what she hadsuffered. "You see, Miranda, how she looked at me when she first came inwith him, --so proud and independent, poor girl! and yet as if she wasafraid I _mightn't_ like it?"

"Yes, I see it. "

He pulled his hat far down over his cavernous eyes, and worked his thin, rusty old jaws. 

"I hope 't she'll be able to school herself, so 's t' not show out herfeelings so much, " said Mrs. Gaylord. 

"I wish she could school herself so as to not have 'em so much; but I guessshe'll have 'em, and I guess she'll show 'em out. " They were both silent;after a while he added, throwing at the stove a minute fragment of the canehe had pulled off the seat of his chair: "Miranda, I've expected somethingof this sort a good while, and I've thought over what Bartley had betterdo. "

Mrs. Gaylord stooped forward and picked up the bit of wood which herhusband had thrown down; her vigilance was rewarded by finding a thread onthe oil-cloth near where it lay; she whipped this round her finger, and herhusband continued: "He'd better give up his paper and go into the law. He's done well in the paper, and he's a smart writer; but editing a newspaperaint any work for a _man_. It's all well enough as long as he's single, but when he's got a wife to look after, he'd better get down to _work_. Mybusiness is in just such a shape now that I could hand it over to him in alump; but come to wait a year or two longer, and this young man and thatone 'll eat into it, and it won't be the same thing at all. I shall wantBartley to push right along, and get admitted at once. He can do it, fastenough. He's bright enough, " added the old man, with a certain grimness. "M-well!" he broke out, with a quick sigh, after a moment of musing; "ithasn't happened at any very bad time. I was just thinking, this morning, that I should like to have my whole time, pretty soon, to look after myproperty. I sha'n't want Bartley to do _that_ for me. I'll give him a goodstart in money and in business; but I'll look after my property myself. I'll speak to him, the first chance I get. "

A light step sounded on the stairs, and Marcia burst into the room, ready for her drive. "I wanted to get a good warm before I started, " sheexplained, stooping before the stove, and supporting herself with one handon her father's knee. There had been no formal congratulations upon herengagement from either of her parents; but this was not requisite, andwould have been a little affected; they were perhaps now ashamed to mentionit outright before her alone. The Squire, however, went so far as to puthis hand over the hand she had laid upon his knee, and to smooth it twiceor thrice. 

"You going to ride after that sorrel colt of Bartley's?" he asked. 

"Of course!" she answered, with playful pertness. "I guess Bartley canmanage the sorrel colt! He's never had any trouble yet. "

"He's always been able to give his whole mind to him before, " said theSquire. He gave Marcia's hand a significant squeeze, and let it go. 

She would not confess her consciousness of his meaning at once. She lookedup at the clock, and then turned and pulled her father's watch out of hiswaistcoat pocket, and compared the time. "Why, you're both fast!"

"Perhaps Bartley's slow, " said the Squire; and having gone as far as heintended in this direction, he permitted himself a low chuckle. 

The sleigh-bells jingled without, and she sprang lightly to her feet. "Iguess you don't think Bartley's slow, " she exclaimed, and hung over herfather long enough to rub her lips against his bristly cheek. "By, mother, "she said, over her shoulder, and went out of the room. She let her muffhang as far down in front of her as her arms would reach, in a stylish way, and moved with a little rhythmical tilt, as if to some inner music. Even inher furs she was elegantly slender in shape. 

The old people remained silent and motionless till the clash of the bellsdied away. Then the Squire rose, and went to the wood-shed beyond thekitchen, whence he reappeared with an armful of wood. His wife started atthe sight. "Mr. Gaylord, what _be_ you doin'?"

"Oh, I'm going to make 'em up a little fire in the parlor stove. I guessthey won't want us round a great deal, when they come back. "

Mrs. Gaylord said, "Well, I never did!" When her husband returned from theparlor, she added, "I suppose some folks'd say it was rather of a strangeway of spendin' the Sabbath. "

"It's a very good way of spending the Sabbath. You don't suppose thatany of the people in church are half as happy, do you? Why, old JonathanEdwards himself used to allow 'all proper opportunity' for the youngfellows that come to see his girls, 'and a room and fire, if needed. ' His'Life' says so. "

"I guess he didn't allow it on the Sabbath, " retorted Mrs. Gaylord. 

"Well, the 'Life' don't say, " chuckled the Squire. "Why, Miranda, I do itfor Marcia! There's never but one first day to an engagement. You know thatas well as I do. " In saying this, Squire Gaylord gave way to his repressedemotion in an extravagance. He suddenly stooped over and kissed his wife;but he spared her confusion by going out to his office at once, where hestayed the whole afternoon. 

Bartley and Marcia took the "Long Drive, " as it was called, at Equity. Theroad plunged into the darkly wooded gulch beyond the house, and thenstruck away eastward, crossing loop after loop of the river on the coveredbridges, where the neighbors, who had broken it out with their ox-teams inthe open, had thickly bedded it in snow. In the valleys and sheltered spotsit remained free, and so wide that encountering teams could easily passeach other; but where it climbed a hill, or crossed a treeless level, itwas narrowed to a single track, with turn-outs at established points, wherethe drivers of the sleighs waited to be sure that the stretch beyond wasclear before going forward. In the country, the winter which held thevillage in such close siege was an occupation under which Nature seemedto cower helpless, and men made a desperate and ineffectual struggle. Thehouses, banked up with snow almost to the sills of the windows that lookedout, blind with frost, upon the lifeless world, were dwarfed in the drifts, and seemed to founder in a white sea blotched with strange bluish shadowsunder the slanting sun. Where they fronted close upon the road, it wasevident that the fight with the snow was kept up unrelentingly; spaces wereshovelled out, and paths were kept open to the middle of the highway, andto the barn; but where they were somewhat removed, there was no visibletrace of the conflict, and no sign of life except the faint, wreathed linesof smoke wavering upward from the chimneys. 

In the hollows through which the road passed, the lower boughs of thepines and hemlocks were weighed down with the snow-fall till they lay halfsubmerged in the drifts; but wherever the wind could strike them, theyswung free of this load and met in low, flat arches above the track. Theriver betrayed itself only when the swift current of a ripple broke throughthe white surface in long, irregular, grayish blurs. It was all wild andlonesome, but to the girl alone in it with her lover, the solitude wassweet, and she did not wish to speak even to him. His hands were both busywith the reins, but it was agreed between them that she might lock hersthrough his arm. Cowering close to him under the robes, she laid her headon his shoulder and looked out over the flying landscape in measurelesscontent, and smiled, with filling eyes, when he bent over, and warmed hiscold, red cheek on the top of her fur cap. 

The moments of bliss that silence a woman rouse a man to make sure of hisrapture. "How do you like it, Marsh?" he asked, trying at one of thesetimes to peer round into her face. "Are you afraid?"

"No, --only of getting back too soon. "

He made the shivering echoes answer with his delight in this, and chirrupedto the colt, who pushed forward at a wilder speed, flinging his hoofs outbefore him with the straight thrust of the horn trotter, and seeming toovertake them as they flew. "I should like this ride to last forever!"

"Forever!" she repeated. "That would do for a beginning. "

"Marsh! What a girl you are! I never supposed you would be so free to let afellow know how much you cared for him. "

"Neither did I, " she answered dreamily. "But now--now the only trouble isthat I don't know _how_ to let him know. " She gave his arm to which sheclung a little convulsive clutch, and pressed her head harder upon hisshoulder. 

"Well, that's pretty much my complaint, too, " said Bartley, "though Icouldn't have expressed it so well. "

"Oh, _you_ express!" she murmured, with the pride in him which impliedthat there were no thoughts worth expressing to which he could not give amonumental utterance. Her adoration flattered his self-love to the samepassionate intensity, and to something like the generous complexion of herworship. 

"Marcia, " he answered, "I am going to try to be all you expect of me. And Ihope I shall never do anything unworthy of your ideal. "

She could only press his arm again in speechless joy, but she said toherself that she should always remember these words. 

The wind had been rising ever since they started but they had not noticedit till now, when the woods began to thin away on either side, and hestopped before striking out over one of the naked stretches of theplain, --a white waste swept by the blasts that sucked down through a gorgeof the mountain, and flattened the snow-drifts as the tornado flattens thewaves. Across this expanse ran the road, its stiff lines obliterated hereand there, in the slight depressions, and showing dark along the rest ofthe track. 

It was a good half-mile to the next body of woods, and midway there was oneof those sidings where a sleigh approaching from the other quarter mustturn out and yield the right of way. Bartley stopped his colt, and scannedthe road. 

"Anybody coming?" asked Marcia. 

"No, I don't see any one. But if there's any one in the woods yonder, they'd better wait till I get across. No horse in Equity can beat this coltto the turn-out. "

"Oh, well, look carefully, Bartley. If we met any one beyond the turn-out, I don't know what I should do, " pleaded the girl. 

"I don't know what _they_ would do, " said Bartley. "But it's their lookoutnow, if they come. Wrap your face up well, or put your head under the robe. I've got to hold my breath the next half-mile. " He loosed the reins, andsped the colt out of the shelter where he had halted. The wind struck themlike an edge of steel, and, catching the powdery snow that their horse'shoofs beat up, sent it spinning and swirling far along the glisteninglevels on their lee. They felt the thrill of the go as if they were in somelight boat leaping over a swift current. Marcia disdained to cover herface, if he must confront the wind, but after a few gasps she was glad tobend forward, and bury it in the long hair of the bearskin robe. When shelifted it, they were already past the siding, and she saw a cutter dashingtoward them from the cover of the woods. "Bartley!" she screamed, "thesleigh!"

"Yes, " he shouted. "Some fool! There's going to be trouble here, " headded, checking his horse as he could. "They don't seem to know how tomanage--It's a couple of women! Hold on! hold on!" he called. "Don't try toturn out! I'll turn out!"

The women pulled their horse's head this way and that, in apparentconfusion, and then began to turn out into the trackless snow at theroadside, in spite of Bartley's frantic efforts to arrest them. They sankdeeper and deeper into the drift; their horse plunged and struggled, andthen their cutter went over, amidst their shrieks and cries for help. 

Bartley drove up abreast of the wreck, and, saying, "Still, Jerry! Don't beafraid, Marcia, "--he put the reins into her hands, and sprang out to therescue. 

One of the women had been flung out free of the sleigh, and had alreadygathered herself up, and stood crying and wringing her hands; "Oh, Mr. Hubbard, Mr. Hubbard! Help Hannah! she's under there!"

"All right! Keep quiet, Mrs. Morrison! Take hold of your horse's head!"Bartley had first of all seized him by the bit, and pulled him to his feet;he was old and experienced in obedience, and he now stood waiting orders, patiently enough. Bartley seized the cutter and by an effort of all hisstrength righted it. The colt started and trembled, but Marcia called tohim in Bartley's tone, "Still, Jerry!" and he obeyed her. 

The girl, who had been caught under the overturned cutter, escaped likea wild thing out of a trap, when it was lifted, and, plunging some pacesaway, faced round upon her rescuer with the hood pulled straight and setcomely to her face again, almost before he could ask, "Any bones broken, Hannah?"

"_No_!" she shouted. "Mother! mother! stop crying! Don't you see I'm notdead?" She leaped about, catching up this wrap and that, shaking the drysnow out of them, and flinging them back into the cutter, while she laughedin the wild tumult of her spirits. Bartley helped her pick up the fragmentsof the wreck, and joined her in making fun of the adventure. The windhustled them, but they were warm in defiance of it with their jollity andtheir bustle. 

"Why didn't you let me turn out?" demanded Bartley, as he and the girlstood on opposite sides of the cutter, rearranging the robes in it. 

"Oh, I thought I could turn out well enough. You had a right to the road. "

"Well, the next time you see any one past the turn-out, you better notstart from the woods. "

"Why, there's no more room in the woods to get past than there is here, "cried the girl. 

"There's more shelter. "

"Oh, I'm not cold!" She flashed a look at him from her brilliant face, warmwith all the glow of her young health, and laughed, and before she droppedher eyes, she included Marcia in her glance. They had already looked ateach other without any sign of recognition. "Come, mother! All right, now!"

Her mother left the horse's head, and, heavily ploughing back to thecutter, tumbled herself in. The girl, from her side, began to climb in, buther weight made the sleigh careen, and she dropped down with a gay shriek. 

Bartley came round and lifted her in; the girl called to her horse, anddrove up into the road and away. 

Bartley looked after her a moment, and continued to glance in thatdirection when he stood stamping the snow off his feet, and brushing itfrom his legs and arms, before he remounted to Marcia's side. He wasexcited, and talked rapidly and loudly, as he took the reins from Marcia'spassive hold, and let the colt out. "That girl is the pluckiest fool, yet!Wouldn't let me turn out because I had the right of way! And she wasn'tgoing to let anybody else have a hand in getting that old ark of theirsafloat again. Good their horse wasn't anything like Jerry! How well Jerrybehaved! Were you frightened, Marsh?" He bent over to see her face, but shehad not her head on his shoulder, and she did not sit close to him, now. "Did you freeze?"

"Oh, no! I got along very well, " she answered, dryly, and edged away as faras the width of the seat would permit. "It would have been better foryou to lead their horse up into the road, and then she could have got inwithout your help. Her mother got in alone. "

He took the reins into his left hand, and, passing his strong right aroundher, pulled her up to his side. She resisted, with diminishing force; atlast she ceased to resist, and her head fell passively to its former placeon his shoulder. He did not try to speak any word of comfort; he only heldher close to him; when she looked up, as they entered the village, sheconfronted him with a brilliant smile that ignored her tears. 

But that night, when she followed him to the door, she looked himsearchingly in the eyes. "I wonder if you really do despise me, Bartley?"she asked. 

"Certainly, " he answered, with a jesting smile. "What for?"

"For showing out my feelings so. For not even trying to pretend not to careeverything for you. "

"It wouldn't be any use your trying: I should know that you did, anyway. "

"Oh, don't laugh, Bartley, don't laugh! I don't believe that I ought to. I've heard that it makes people sick of you. But I can't help it, --I can'thelp it! And if--if you think I'm always going to be so, --and that I'mgoing to keep on getting worse and worse, and making you so unhappy, why, you'd better break your engagement now--while you have a chance. "

"What have you been making me unhappy about, I should like to know? Ithought I'd been having a very good time. "

She hid her face against his breast. "It almost _killed_ me to see youthere with her. I was so cold, --my hands were half frozen, holding thereins, --and I was so afraid of the colt I didn't know what to do; and I hadbeen keeping up my courage on your account; and you seemed so long aboutit all; and she could have got in perfectly well--as well as her motherdid--without your help--" Her voice broke in a miserable sob, and sheclutched herself tighter to him. 

He smoothed down her hair with his hand. "Why, Marsh! Did you think thatmade me unhappy? _I_ didn't mind it a bit. I knew what the trouble was, atthe time; but I wasn't going to say anything. I knew you would be all rightas soon as you could think it over. You don't suppose I care anything forthat girl?"

"No, " answered a rueful sob. "But I _wish_ you didn't have anything to dowith her. I know she'll make trouble for you, somehow. "

"Well, " said Bartley, "I can't very well turn her off as long as she doesher work. But you needn't be worried about making me unhappy. If anything, I rather liked it. It showed how much you _did_ care for me. " He benttoward her, with a look of bright raillery, for the parting kiss. "Nowthen: once, twice, three times, --and good night it is!"

VI. 

The spectacle of a love affair in which the woman gives more of her heartthan the man gives of his is so pitiable that we are apt to attribute akind of merit to her, as if it were a voluntary self-sacrifice for her tolove more than her share. Not only other men, but other women, look on withthis canonizing compassion; for women have a lively power of imaginingthemselves in the place of any sister who suffers in matters of sentiment, and are eager to espouse the common cause in commiserating her. Each ofthem pictures herself similarly wronged or slighted by the man she likesbest, and feels how cruel it would be if he were to care less for her thanshe for him; and for the time being, in order to realize the situation, sheloads him with all the sins of omission proper to the culprit in the aliencase. But possibly there is a compensation in merely loving, even where thelove given is out of all proportion to the love received. 

If Bartley Hubbard's sensations and impressions of the day had been at allreasoned, that night as he lay thinking it over, he could unquestionablyhave seen many advantages for Marcia in the affair, --perhaps more than forhimself. But to do him justice he did not formulate these now, or in anywise explicitly recognize the favors he was bestowing. At twenty-six onedoes not naturally compute them in musing upon the girl to whom one is justbetrothed; and Bartley's mind was a confusion of pleasure. He liked so wellto think how fond of him Marcia was, that it did not occur to him then toquestion whether he were as fond of her. It is possible that as he drowsed, at last, there floated airily through the consciousness which was meltingand dispersing itself before the approach of sleep, an intimation fromsomewhere to some one that perhaps the affair need not be considered tooseriously. But in that mysterious limbo one cannot be sure of what isthought and what is dreamed; and Bartley always acquitted himself, andprobably with justice, of any want of seriousness. 

What he did make sure of when he woke was that he was still out of sorts, and that he had again that dull headache; and his instant longing forsympathy did more than anything else to convince him that he really lovedMarcia, and had never, in his obscurest or remotest feeling, swerved inhis fealty to her. In the atmosphere of her devotion yesterday, he had sowholly forgotten his sufferings that he had imagined himself well; but nowhe found that he was not well, and he began to believe that he was going tohave what the country people call a fit of sickness. He felt that he oughtto be taken care, of, that he was unfit to work; and in his vexation atnot being able to go to Marcia for comfort-it really amounted to nothingless--he entered upon the day's affairs with fretful impatience. 

The Free Press was published on Tuesdays, and Monday was always a busy timeof preparation. The hands were apt also to feel the demoralization thatfollows a holiday, even when it has been a holy day. The girls who set thetype of the Free Press had by no means foregone the rights and privilegesof their sex in espousing their art, and they had their beaux on Sundaynight like other young ladies. It resulted that on Monday morning they werenervous and impatient, alternating between fits of giggling delight in theinterchange of fond reminiscences, and the crossness which is pretty sureto disfigure human behavior from want of sleep. But ordinarily Bartley goton very well with them. In spite of the assumption of equality between allclasses in Equity, they stood in secret awe of his personal splendor, andthe tradition of his achievements at college and in the great world; anda flattering joke or a sharp sarcasm from him went a great way with them. Besides, he had an efficient lieutenant in Henry Bird, the young printerwho had picked up his trade in the office, and who acted as Bartley'sforeman, so far as the establishment had an organization. Bird had industryand discipline which were contagious, and that love of his work which issaid to be growing rare among artisans in the modern subdivision of trades. This boy--for he was only nineteen--worked at his craft early and late outof pleasure in it. He seemed one of those simple, subordinate natures whichare happy in looking up to whatever assumes to be above them. He exulted toserve in a world where most people prefer to be served, and it is uncertainwhether he liked his work better for its own sake, or Bartley's, for whomhe did it. He was slight and rather delicate in health, and it came naturalfor Bartley to patronize him. He took him on the long walks of which he wasfond, and made him in some sort his humble confidant, talking to him ofhimself and his plans with large and braggart vagueness. He depended uponBird in a great many things, and Bird never failed him; for he had abasis of constancy that was immovable. "No, " said a philosopher from aneighboring logging-camp, who used to hang about the printing-office a longtime after he had got his paper, "there aint a great deal of natural git upand howl about Henry; but he stays put. " In the confidences which Bartleyused to make Bird, he promised that, when he left the newspaper for thelaw, he would see that no one else succeeded him. The young fellow did notneed this promise to make him Bartley's fast friend, but it colored hisaffection with ambitious enthusiasm; to edit and publish a newspaper, --hisdreams did not go beyond that: to devote it to Bartley's interest in thepolitical life on which Bartley often hinted he might enter, --that would bethe sweetest privilege of realized success. Bird already wrote paragraphsfor the Free Press, and Bartley let him make up a column of news from thecity exchanges, which was partly written and partly selected. 

Bartley came to the office rather late on Monday morning, bringing with himthe papers from Saturday night's mail, which had lain unopened overSunday, and went directly into his own room, without looking into theprinting-office. He felt feverish and irritable, and he resolved to fill upwith selections and let his editorial paragraphing go, or get Bird to doit. He was tired of the work, and sick of Equity; Marcia's face seemed tolook sadly in upon his angry discontent, and he no longer wished to go toher for sympathy. His door opened, and, without glancing from the newspaperwhich he held up before him, he asked, "What is it, Bird? Do you wantcopy?"

"Well, no, Mr. Hubbard, " answered Bird, "we have copy enough for the forcewe've got this morning. "

"Why, what's up?" demanded Bartley, dropping his paper. 

"Lizzie Sawyer has sent word that she is sick, and we haven't heard or seenanything of Hannah Morrison. "

"Confound the girls!" said Bartley, "there's always something the matterwith them. " He rubbed his hand over his forehead, as if to rub out the dullpain there. "Well, " he said, "I must go to work myself, then. " He rose, and took hold of the lapels of his coat, to pull it off; but something inBird's look arrested him. "What is it?" he asked. 

"Old Morrison was here, just before you came in, and said he wanted to seeyou. I think he was drunk, " said Bird, anxiously. "He said he was comingback again. "

"All right; let him come, " replied Bartley. "This is a freecountry, --especially in Equity. I suppose he wants Hannah's wages raised, as usual. How much are we behind on the paper, Henry?"

"We're not a great deal behind, Mr. Hubbard, if we were not soweak-handed. "

"Perhaps we can get Hannah back, during the forenoon. At any rate, we canask her honored parent when he comes. "

Where Morrison got his liquor was a question that agitated Equity from timeto time, and baffled the officer of the law empowered to see that no strongdrink came into the town. Under conditions which made it impossible even inthe logging-camps, and rendered the sale of spirits too precarious for theapothecary, who might be supposed to deal in them medicinally, Morrisonnever failed of his spree when the mysterious mechanism of his appetiteenforced it. Probably it was some form of bedevilled cider that suppliedthe material of his debauch; but even cider was not easily to be had. 

Morrison's spree was a movable feast, and recurred at irregular intervalsof two, or three, or even six weeks; but it recurred often enough to keephim poor, and his family in a social outlawry against which the kindlyinstincts of their neighbors struggled in vain. Mrs. Morrison was thatpariah who, in a village like Equity, cuts herself off from hope by takingin washing; and it was a decided rise in the world for Hannah, a wild girlat school, to get a place in the printing-office. Her father had appliedfor it humbly enough at the tremulous and penitent close of one of his longsprees, and was grateful to Bartley for taking the special interest in herwhich she reported at home. 

But the independence of a drunken shoemaker is proverbial, and Morrison'smeek spirit soared into lordly arrogance with his earliest cups. Thefirst warning which the community had of his change of attitude wasthe conspicuous and even defiant closure of his shop, and the scornfulrejection of custom, however urgent or necessitous. All Equity might go inbroken shoes, for any patching or half-soling the people got from him. Hewent about collecting his small dues, and paying up his debts as long asthe money lasted, in token of his resolution not to take any favors fromany man thereafter. Then he retired to his house on one of the by streets, and by degrees drank himself past active offence. It was of course in hisdefiant humor that he came to visit Bartley, who had learned to expecthim whenever Hannah failed to appear promptly at her work. The affair wasalways easily arranged. Bartley instantly assented, with whatever irony heliked, to Morrison's demands; he refused with overwhelming politeness evento permit him to give himself the trouble to support them by argument; hecomplimented Hannah inordinately as one of the most gifted and accomplishedladies of his acquaintance, and inquired affectionately after the healthof each member of the Morrison family. When Morrison rose to go he alwayssaid, in shaking hands, "Well, sir, if there was more like you in Equitya poor man could get along. You're a gentleman, sir. " After getting somepaces away from the street door, he stumbled back up the stairs to repeat, "You're a gentleman!" Hannah came during the day, and the wages remainedthe same: neither of the contracting parties regarded the increase soelaborately agreed upon, and Morrison, on becoming sober, gratefullyignored the whole transaction, though, by a curious juggle of his brain, herecurred to it in his next spree, and advanced in his new demand from thelast rise: his daughter was now nominally in receipt of an income of fortydollars a week, but actually accepted four. 

Bartley, on his part, enjoyed the business as an agreeable excitement anda welcome relief from the monotony of his official life. He never hurriedMorrison's visits, but amused himself by treating him with the mostflattering distinction, and baffling his arrogance by immediate concession. But this morning, when Morrison came back with a front of uncommonfierceness, he merely looked up from his newspapers, to which he hadrecurred, and said coolly. "Oh, Mr. Morrison! Good morning. I suppose it'sthat little advance that you wish to see me about. Take a chair. What isthe increase you ask this time? Of course I agree to anything. "

He leaned forward, pencil in hand, to make a note of the figure Morrisonshould name, when the drunkard approached and struck the table in front ofhim with his fist, and blazed upon Bartley's face, suddenly uplifted, withhis blue crazy eyes:

"No, sir! I won't take a seat, and I don't come on no such business! No, sir!" He struck the table again, and the violence of his blow upset theinkstand. 

Bartley saved himself by suddenly springing away. "Hollo here!" he shouted. "What do you mean by this infernal nonsense?"

"What do _you_ mean, " retorted the drunkard, "by makin' up to my girl?"

"You're a fool, " cried Bartley, "and drunk!"

"I'll show you whether I'm a fool, and I'll show you whether I'm drunk, "said Morrison. He opened the door and beckoned to Bird, with an air ofmysterious authority. "Young man! Come here!"

Bird was used to the indulgence with which Bartley treated Morrison's tipsyfreaks, and supposed that he had been called by his consent to witnessanother agreement to a rise in Hannah's wages. He came quickly, to helpget Morrison out of the way the sooner, and he was astonished to be met byBartley with "I don't want you, Bird. "

"All right, " answered the boy, and he turned to go out of the door. 

But Morrison had planted himself against it, and waved Bird austerelyback. "_I_ want you, " he said, with drunken impressiveness, "for awitness--wick--witness--while I ask Mr. Hubbard what he means by--"

"Hold your tongue!" cried Bartley. "Get out of this!" He advanced a pace ortwo toward Morrison who stood his ground without swerving. 

"Now you--you keep quiet, Mr. Hubbard, " said Morrison, with a swift drunkenchange of mood, by which he passed from arrogant denunciation to a smooth, patronizing mastery of the situation. "_I_ wish this thing all settledamic--ic--amelcabilly. "

Bartley broke into a helpless laugh at Morrison's final failure on a worddifficult to sober tongues, and the latter went on: "No 'casion for badfeeling on either side. All I want know is what you mean. "

"Well, go on!" cried Bartley, good-naturedly, and he sat down in his chair, which he tilted back, and, clasping his hands behind his head, looked upinto Morrison's face. "What do I mean by what?"

Probably Morrison had not expected to be categorical, or to bring anythinglike a bill of particulars against Bartley, and this demand gave him pause. "What you mean, " he said, at last, "by always praising her up so?"

"What I said. She's a very good girl, and a very bright one. You don't denythat?"

"No--no matter what I deny. What--what you lend her all them books for?"

"To improve her mind. You don't object to that? I thought you once thankedme for taking an interest in her. "

"Don't you mind what I object to, and what I thank you for, " said Morrison, with dignity. "I know what I'm about. "

"I begin to doubt. But get on. I'm in a great hurry this morning, " saidBartley. 

Morrison seemed to be making a mental examination of his stock of charges, while the strain of keeping his upright position began to tell upon him, and he swayed to and fro against the door. "What's that word you sent herby my boy, Sat'day night?"

"That she was a smart girl, and would be sure to get on if she was good--orwords to that effect. I trust there was no offence in that, Mr. Morrison?"

Morrison surrendered, himself to another season of cogitation, in which heprobably found his vagueness growing upon him. He ended by fumbling in allhis pockets, and bringing up from the last a crumpled scrap of paper. "Whatyou--what you say that?"

Bartley took the extended scrap with an easy air. "Miss Morrison'shandwriting, I think. " He held it up before him and read aloud, "'I love mylove with an H because he is Handsome. ' This appears to be a confidence ofMiss Morrison to her Muse. Whom do you think she refers to, Mr. Morrison?"

"What's--what's the first letter your name?" demanded Morrison, with aneffort to collect his dispersing severity. 

"B, " promptly replied Bartley. "Perhaps this concerns you, Henry. Your namebegins with an H. " He passed the paper up over his head to Bird, who tookit silently. "You see, " he continued, addressing Bird, but looking atMorrison as he spoke, "Mr. Morrison wishes to convict me of an attempt uponMiss Hannah's affections. Have you anything else to urge, Mr. Morrison?"

Morrison slid at last from his difficult position into a convenient chair, and struggled to keep himself from doubling forward. "I want know what youmean, " he said, with dogged iteration. 

"I'll show you what I mean, " said Bartley with an ugly quiet, while hismustache began to twitch. He sprang to his feet and seized Morrison bythe collar, pulling him up out of the chair till he held him clear of thefloor, and opened the door with his other hand. "Don't show your face hereagain, --you or your girl either!" Still holding the man by the collar, hepushed him before him through the office, and gave him a final thust out ofthe outer door. 

Bartley returned to his room in a white heat: "Miserable tipsy rascal!" hepanted; "I wonder who has set him on to this thing. "

Bird stood pale and silent, still, nolding the crumpled scrap of paper inhis hand. 

"I shouldn't be surprised if that impudent little witch herself had put himup to it. She's capable of it, " said Bartley, fumbling aimlessly about onhis table, in his wrath, without looking at Bird. 

"It's a lie!" said Bird. 

Bartley started as if the other had struck him, and as he glared at Birdthe anger went out of his face for pure amazement. "Are you out of yourmind, Henry?" he asked calmly. "Perhaps you're drunk too, this morning. TheDevil seems to have got into pretty much everybody. "

"It's a lie!" repeated the boy, while the tears sprang to his eyes. "She'sas good a girl as Marcia Gaylord is, any day!"

"Better go away, Henry, " said Bartley, with a deadly sort of gentleness. 

"I'm going away, " answered the boy, his face twisted with weeping. "I'vedone my last day's work for _you_. " He pulled down his shirt-sleeves, and buttoned them at the wrists, while the tears ran out over hisface, --helpless tears, the sign of his womanish tenderness, his womanishweakness. 

Bartley continued to glare at him. "Why, I do believe you're in love withher yourself, you little fool!"

"Oh, I've _been_ a fool!" cried Bird. "A fool to think as much of you asI always have, --a fool to believe that you were a gentleman, and wouldn'ttake a mean advantage. I was a fool to suppose you wanted to do her anygood, when you came praising and flattering her, and turning her head!"

"Well, then, " said Bartley with harsh insolence, "don't be a fool anylonger. If you're in love with her, you haven't any quarrel with me, myboy. She flies at higher game than humble newspaper editors. The head ofWillett's lumbering gang is your man; and so you may go and tell that oldsot, her father. Why, Henry! You don't mean to say you care anything forthat girl?"

"And do you mean to say you haven't done everything you could to turn herhead since she's been in this office? She used to like me well enough atschool. " All men are blind and jealous children alike, when it comes toquestion of a woman between them, and this poor boy's passion was turninghim into a tiger. "Don't come to _me_ with your lies, any more!" Here hisrage culminated, and with a blind cry of "Ay!" he struck the paper which hehad kept in his hand into Bartley's face. 

The demons, whatever they were, of anger, remorse, pride, shame, were atwork in Bartley's heart too, and he returned the blow as instantly as ifBird's touch had set the mechanism of his arm in motion. In contempt ofthe other's weakness he struck with the flat of his hand; but the blow wasenough. Bird fell headlong, and the concussion of his head upon the floordid the rest. He lay senseless. 

VII. 

Bartley hung over the boy with such a terror in his soul as he had neverhad before. He believed that he had killed him, and in this conviction camewith the simultaneity of events in dreams the sense of all his blame, ofwhich the blow given for a blow seemed the least part. He was not so wrongin that as he was wrong in what led to it. He did not abhor in himself somuch the wretch who had struck his brother down as the light and empty foolwho had trifled with that silly hoyden. The follies that seemed so amusingand resultless in their time had ripened to this bitter effect, and he knewthat he, and not she, was mainly culpable. Her self-betrayal, however itcame about, was proof that they were more serious with her than with him, and he could not plead to himself even the poor excuse that his fancyhad been caught. Amidst the anguish of his self-condemnation the need toconceal what he had done occurred to him. He had been holding Bird's headin his arms, and imploring him, "Henry! Henry! wake up!" in a low, huskyvoice; but now he turned to the door and locked it, and the lie by which heshould escape sprang to his tongue. "He died in a fit. " He almost believedit as it murmured itself from his lips. There was no mark, no bruise, nothing to show that he had touched the boy. Suddenly he felt the lie chokehim. He pulled down the window to let in the fresh air, and this purebreath of heaven blew into his darkened spirit and lifted there a littlethe vapors which were thickening in it. The horror of having to tell thatlie, even if he should escape by it, all his life long, till he was a grayold man, and to keep the truth forever from his lips, presented itself tohim as intolerable slavery. "Oh, my God!" he spoke aloud, "how can I bearthat?" And it was in self-pity that he revolted from it. Few men love thetruth for its own sake, and Bartley was not one of these; but he practisedit because his experience had been that lies were difficult to manage, andthat they were a burden on the mind. He was not candid; he did not shunconcealments and evasions; but positive lies he had kept from, and now hecould not trust one to save his life. He unlocked the door and ran out tofind help; he must do that at last; he must do it at any risk; no matterwhat he said afterward. When our deeds and motives come to be balanced atthe last day, let us hope that mercy, and not justice, may prevail. 

It must have been mercy that sent the doctor at that moment to theapothecary's, on the other side of the street, and enabled Bartley to gethim up into his office, without publicity or explanation other than thatHenry Bird seemed to be in a fit. The doctor lifted the boy's head, andexplored his bosom with his hand. 

"Is he--is he dead?" gasped Bartley, and the words came so mechanicallyfrom his tongue that he began to believe he had not spoken them, when thedoctor answered. 

"No! How did this happen? Tell me exactly. "

"We had a quarrel. He struck me. I knocked him down. " Bartley delivered upthe truth, as a prisoner of war--or a captive brigand, perhaps--parts withhis weapons one by one. 

"Very well, " said the doctor. "Get some water. "

Bartley poured some out of the pitcher on his table, and the doctor, wetting his handkerchief, drew it again and again over Bird's forehead. 

"I never meant to hurt him, " said Bartley. "I didn't even intend to strikehim when he hit me. "

"Intentions have very little to do with physical effects, " replied thedoctor sharply. "Henry!"

The boy opened his eyes, and, muttering feebly, "My head!" closed themagain. 

"There's a concussion here, " said the doctor. "We had better get him home. Drive my sleigh over, will you, from Smith's. "

Bartley went out into the glare of the sun, which beat upon him like theeye of the world. But the street was really empty, as it often was in themiddle of the forenoon at Equity. The apothecary, who saw him untying thedoctor's horse, came to his door, and said jocosely, "Hello, Doc! who'ssick?"

"I am, " said Bartley, solemnly, and the apothecary laughed at hisreadiness. Bartley drove round to the back of the printing-office, wherethe farmers delivered his wood. "I thought we could get him out betterthat way, " he explained, and the doctor, who had to befriend a great manyconcealments in his practice, silently spared Bartley's disingenuousness. 

The rush of the cold air, as they drove rapidly down the street, with thatlimp shape between them, revived the boy, and he opened his eyes, and madean effort to hold himself erect, but he could not; and when they got himinto the warm room at home, he fainted again. His mother had met them atthe door of her poor little house, without any demonstration of grief orterror; she was far too well acquainted in her widowhood--bereft of all herchildren but this son--with sickness and death, to show even surprise, ifshe felt it. When Bartley broke out into his lamentable confession, "Oh, Mrs. Bird! this is _my_ work!" she only wrung her hands and answered, "_Your_ work! Oh, Mr. Hubbard, he thought the world of _you_!" and did notask him how or why he had done it. After they had got Henry on the bed, Bartley was no longer of use there; but they let him remain in the cornerinto which he had shrunk, and from which he watched all that went on, witha dry mouth and faltering breath. It began to appear to him that he wasvery young to be involved in a misfortune like this; he did not understandwhy it should have happened to him; but he promised himself that, if Henrylived, he would try to be a better man in every way. 

After he had lost all hope, the time seemed so long, the boy on the bedopened his eyes once more, and looked round, while Bartley still sat withhis face in his hands. "Where--where is Mr. Hubbard?" he faintly asked, with a bewildered look at his mother and the doctor. 

Bartley heard the weak voice, and staggered forward, and fell on hisknees beside the bed. "Here, here! Here I am, Henry! Oh, Henry, I didn'tintend--" He stopped at the word, and hid his face in the coverlet. 

The boy lay as if trying to make out what had happened, and the doctor toldhim that he had fainted. After a time, he put out his hand and laid it onBartley's head. "Yes; but I don't understand what makes him cry. "

They looked at Bartley, who had lifted his head, and he went over the wholeaffair, except so far as it related to Hannah Morrison; he did not sparehimself; he had often found that strenuous self-condemnation moved othersto compassion; and besides, it was his nature to seek the relief of fullconfession. But Henry heard him through with a blank countenance. "Don'tyou remember?" Bartley implored at last. 

"No, I don't remember. I only remember that there seemed to be somethingthe matter with my head this morning. "

"That was the trouble with me, too, " said Bartley. "I must have beencrazy--I must have been insane--when I struck you. I can't account for it. "

"I don't remember it, " answered the boy. 

"That's all right, " said the doctor. "Don't try. I guess you better let himalone, now, " he added to Bartley, with such a significant look that theyoung man retired from the bedside, and stood awkwardly apart. "He'll getalong. You needn't be anxious about leaving him. He'll be better alone. "

There was no mistaking this hint. "Well, well!" said Bartley, humbly, "I'llgo. But I'd rather stay and watch with him, --I sha'n't eat or sleep tillhe's on foot again. And I can't leave till you tell me that you forgive me, Mrs. Bird. I never dreamed--I didn't intend--" He could not go on. 

"I don't suppose you meant to hurt Henry, " said the mother. "You alwayspretended to be so fond of him, and he thought the world of you. But Idon't see how you could do it. I presume it was all right. "

"No, it was all wrong, --or so nearly all wrong that I must ask yourforgiveness on that ground. I loved him, --I thought the world of him, too. I'd ten thousand times rather have hurt myself, " pleaded Bartley. "Don'tlet me go till you say that you forgive me. "

"I'll see how Henry gets along, " said Mrs. Bird. "I don't know as Icould rightly say I forgive you just yet. " Doubtless she was dealingconscientiously with herself and with him. "I like to be sure of a thingwhen I say it, " she added. 

The doctor followed him into the hall, and Bartley could not help turningto him for consolation. "I think Mrs. Bird is very unjust, Doctor. I'vedone everything I could, and said everything to explain the matter; andI've blamed myself where I can't feel that I was to blame; and yet you seehow she holds out against me. "

"I dare say, " answered the doctor dryly, "she'll feel differently, as shesays, if the boy gets along. "

Bartley dropped his hat to the floor. "Get along! Why--why you think he'llget well _now_, don't you, Doctor?"

"Oh, yes; I was merely using her words. He'll get well. "

"And--and it wont affect his mind, will it? I thought it was very strange, his not remembering anything about it--"

"That's a very common phenomenon, " said the doctor. "The patient usuallyforgets everything that occurred for some little time before the accident, in cases of concussion of the brain. " Bartley shuddered at the phrase, buthe could not ask anything further. "What I wanted to say to you, " continuedthe doctor, "was that this may be a long thing, and there may have to bean inquiry into it. You're lawyer enough to understand what that means. Ishould have to testify to what I know, and I only know what you told me. "

"Why, you don't doubt--"

"No, sir; I've no reason to suppose you haven't told me the truth, as faras it goes. If you have thought it advisable to keep anything back from me, you may wish to tell the whole story to an attorney. "

"I haven't kept anything back, Doctor Wills, " said Bartley. "I've toldyou everything--everything that concerned the quarrel. That drunken oldscoundrel of a Morrison got us into it. He accused me of making love to hisdaughter; and Henry was jealous--I never knew he cared anything for her. Ihated to tell you this before his mother. But this is the whole truth, sohelp me God. "

"I supposed it was something of the kind, " replied the doctor. "I'm sorryfor you. You can't keep it from having an ugly look if it gets out; and itmay have to be made public. I advise you to go and see Squire Gaylord; he'salways stood your friend. "

"I--I was just going there, " said Bartley; and this was true. 

Through all, he had felt the need of some sort of retrieval, --ofre-establishing himself in his own esteem by some signal stroke; and hecould think of but one thing. It was not his fault if he believed thatthis must combine self-sacrifice with safety, and the greatest degree ofhumiliation with the largest sum of consolation. He was none the lessresolved not to spare himself at all in offering to release Marcia from herengagement. The fact that he must now also see her father upon the legalaspect of his case certainly complicated the affair, and detracted fromits heroic quality. He could not tell which to see first, for he naturallywished his action to look as well as possible; and if he went first toMarcia, and she condemned him, he did not know in what figure he shouldapproach her father. If, on the other hand, he went first to SquireGaylord, the old lawyer might insist that the engagement was already at anend by Bartley's violent act, and might well refuse to let a man in hisposition even see his daughter. He lagged heavy-heartedly up the middle ofthe street, and left the question to solve itself at the last moment. Butwhen he reached Squire Gaylord's gate, it seemed to him that it would beeasier to face the father first; and this would be the right way too. 

He turned aside to the little office, and opened the door without knocking, and as he stood with the knob in his hand, trying to habituate his eyes, full of the snow-glare, to the dimmer light within, he heard a rapturouscry of "Why Bartley!" and he felt Marcia's arms flung around his neck. Hisburdened heart yearned upon her with a tenderness he had not known before;he realized the preciousness of an embrace that might be the last; but hedared not put down his lips to hers. She pushed back her head in a littlewonder, and saw the haggardness of his face, while he discovered her fatherlooking at them. How strong and pure the fire in her must be when herfather's presence could not abash her from this betrayal of her love!Bartley sickened, and he felt her arms slip from his neck. "Why--why--whatis the matter?"

In spite of some vaguely magnanimous intention to begin at the beginning, and tell the whole affair just as it happened, Bartley found himselfwishing to put the best face on it at first, and trust to chances to makeit all appear well. He did not speak at once, and Marcia pressed him intoa chair, and then, like an eager child, who will not let its friend escapetill it has been told what it wishes to know, she set herself on his knee, and put her hand on his shoulder. He looked at her father, not at her, while he spoke hoarsely: "I have had trouble with Henry Bird, SquireGaylord, and I've come to tell you about it. "

The old squire did not speak, but Marcia repeated in amazement, "With HenryBird?"

"He struck me--"

"Henry Bird _struck_ you!" cried the girl. "I should like to know whyHenry Bird struck _you_, when you've made so much of him, and he's alwayspretended to be so grateful--"

Bartley still looked at her father. "And I struck him back. "

"You did perfectly right, Bartley, " exclaimed Marcia, "and I should havedespised you if you had let any one run over you. Struck you! I declare--"

He did not heed her, but continued to look at her father. "I didn't intendto hurt him, --I hit him with my open hand, --but he fell and struck his headon the floor. I'm afraid it hurt him pretty badly. " He felt the pang thatthrilled through the girl at his words, and her hand trembled on hisshoulder; but she did not take it away. 

The old man came forward from the pile of books which he and Marcia hadbeen dusting, and sat down in a chair on the other side of the stove. Hepushed back his hat from his forehead, and asked drily, "What commencedit?"

Bartley hesitated. It was this part of the affair which he would ratherhave imparted to Marcia after seeing it with her father's eyes, orpossibly, if her father viewed it favorably, have had him tell her. The oldman noticed his reluctance. "Hadn't you better go into the house, Marsh?"

She merely gave him a look of utter astonishment for answer, and did notmove. He laughed noiselessly, and said to Bartley, "Go on. "

"It was that drunken old scoundrel of a Morrison who began it!" criedBartley, in angry desperation. Marcia dropped her hand from his shoulder, while her father worked his jaws upon the bit of stick he had picked upfrom the pile of wood, and put between his teeth. "You know that wheneverhe gets on a spree he comes to the office and wants Hannah's wages raised. "

Marcia sprang to her feet. "Oh, I knew it! I knew it! I told you she wouldget you into trouble! I told you so!" She stood clinching her hands, and her father bent his keen scrutiny first upon her, and then upon thefrowning face with which Bartley regarded her. 

"Did he come to have her wages raised to-day?"

"No. "

"What did he come for?" He involuntarily assumed the attitude of a lawyercrossquestioning a slippery witness. 

"He came for--He came--He accused me of--He said I had--made love to hisconfounded girl. "

Marcia gasped. 

"What made him think you had?"

"It wasn't necessary for him to have any reason. He was drunk. I had beenkind to the girl, and favored her all I could, because she seemed to beanxious to do her work well; and I praised her for trying. "

"Um-umph, " commented the Squire. "And that made Henry Bird jealous?"

"It seems that he was fond of her. I never dreamed of such a thing, andwhen I put old Morrison out of the office, and came back, he called me aliar, and struck me in the face. " He did not lift his eyes to the level ofMarcia's, who in her gray dress stood there like a gray shadow, and did notstir or speak. 

"And you never had made up to the girl at all?"

"No. "

"Kissed her, I suppose, now and then?" suggested the Squire. 

Bartley did not reply. 

"Flattered her up, and told how much you thought of her, occasionally?"

"I don't see what that has to do with it, " said Bartley with a sulkydefiance. 

"No, I suppose it's what you'd do with most any pretty girl, " returned theSquire. He was silent awhile. "And so you knocked Henry down. What happenedthen?"

"I tried to bring him to, and then I went for the doctor. He revived, andwe got him home to his mother's. The doctor says he will get well; but headvised me to come and see you. "

"Any witnesses of the assault?"

"No; we were alone in my own room. "

"Told any one else about it?"

"I told the doctor and Mrs. Bird. Henry couldn't remember it at all. "

"Couldn't remember about Morrison, or what made him mad at you?"

"Nothing. "

"And that's all about it?"

"Yes. "

The two men had talked across the stove at each other, practically ignoringthe girl, who stood apart from them, gray in the face as her dress, andsuppressing a passion which had turned her as rigid as stone. 

"Now, Marcia, " said her father, kindly, "better go into the house. That'sall there is of it. "

"No, that isn't all, " she answered. "Give me my ring, Bartley. Here'syours. " She slipped it off her finger, and put it into his mechanicallyextended hand. 

"Marcia!" he implored, confronting her. 

"Give me my ring, please. "

He obeyed, and put it into her hand. She slipped it back on the finger fromwhich she had so fondly suffered him to take it yesterday, and replace itwith his own. 

"I'll go into the house now, father. Good by, Bartley. " Her eyes wereperfectly clear and dry, and her voice controlled; and as he stood passivebefore her, she took him round the neck, and pressed against his face, once, and twice, and thrice, her own gray face, in which all love, andunrelenting, and despair, were painted. Once and again she held him, andlooked him in the eyes, as if to be sure it was he. Then, with a lastpressure of her face to his, she released him, and passed out of the door. 

"She's been talking about you, here, all the morning, " said the Squire, with a sort of quiet absence, as if nothing in particular had happened, andhe were commenting on a little fact that might possibly interest Bartley. He ruminated upon the fragment of wood in his mouth awhile before he added:"I guess she won't want to talk about you any more. I drew you out a littleon that Hannah Morrison business, because I wanted her to understand justwhat kind of fellow you were. You see it isn't the trouble you've got intowith Henry Bird that's killed her; it's the cause of the trouble. I guessif it had been anything else, she'd have stood by you. But you see that'sthe one thing she couldn't bear, and I'm glad it's happened now instead ofafterwards: I guess you're one of that _kind_, Mr. Hubbard. "

"Squire Gaylord!" cried Bartley, "upon my sacred word of honor, there isn'tany more of this thing than I've told you. And I think it's pretty hard tobe thrown over for--for--"

"Fooling with a pretty girl, when you get a chance, and the girl seems tolike it? Yes, it _is_ rather hard. And I suppose you haven't even seen hersince you were engaged to Marcia?"

"Of course not! That is--"

"It's a kind of retroactive legislation on Marcia's part, " said the Squire, rubbing his chin, "and that's against one of the first principles of law. But women don't seem to be able to grasp that idea. They're queer aboutsome things. They appear to think they marry a man's whole life, --his pastas well as his future, --and that makes 'em particular. And they distinguishbetween different kinds of men. You'll find 'em pinning their faith to afellow who's been through pretty much everything, and swearing by him fromthe word go; and another chap, who's never _done_ anything very bad, theywon't trust half a minute out of their sight. Well, I guess Marcia _is_ ofrather a jealous disposition, " he concluded, as if Bartley had urged thispoint. 

"She's very unjust to me, " Bartley began. 

"Oh, yes, --she's _unjust_, " said her father. "I don't deny that. But itwouldn't be any use talking to her. She'd probably turn round with someexcuse about what she had suffered, and that would be the end of it. Shewould say that she couldn't go through it again. Well, it ought to be acomfort to you to think you don't care a great deal about it. "

"But I _do_ care!" exclaimed Bartley. "I care all the world for it. I--"

"Since when?" interrupted the Squire. "Do you mean to say that you didn'tknow till you asked her yesterday that Marcia was in love with you?"

Bartley was silent. 

"I guess you knew it as much as a year ago, didn't you? Everybody else did. But you'd just as soon it had been Hannah Morrison, or any other prettygirl. _You_ didn't care! But Marcia did, you see. She wasn't one of thekind that let any good-looking fellow make love to them. It was becauseit was _you_; and you knew it. We're plain men, Mr. Hubbard; and I guessyou'll get over this, in time. I shouldn't wonder if you began to mend, right away. "

Bartley found himself helpless in the face of this passionless sarcasm. Hecould have met stormy indignation or any sort of invective in kind; butthe contemptuous irony with which his pretensions were treated, the coldscrutiny with which his motives were searched, was something he could notmeet. He tried to pull himself together for some sort of protest, buthe ended by hanging his head in silence. He always believed that SquireGaylord had liked him, and here he was treating him like his bitterestenemy, and seeming to enjoy his misery. He could not understand it; hethought it extremely unjust, and past all the measure of his offence. Thiswas true, perhaps: but it is doubtful if Bartley would have acceptedany suffering, no matter how nicely proportioned, in punishment of hiswrong-doing. He sat hanging his head, and taking his pain in rebellioussilence, with a gathering hate in his heart for the old man. 

"M-well!" said the Squire, at last, rising from his chair, "I guess I mustbe going. "

Bartley sprang to his feet aghast. "You're not going to leave me in thelurch, are you? You're not--"

"Oh, I shall take care of you, young man, --don't be afraid. I've stood yourfriend too long, and your name's been mixed up too much with my girl's, forme to let you come to shame openly, if I can help it. I'm going to see Dr. Wills about you, and I'm going to see Mrs. Bird, and try to patch it upsomehow. "

"And--and--where shall I go?" gasped Bartley. 

"You might go to the Devil, for all I cared for you, " said the old man, with the contempt which he no longer cared to make ironical. "But I guessyou better go back to your office, and go to work as if nothing hadhappened--till something does happen. I shall close the paper out as soonas I can. I was thinking of doing that just before you came in. I wasthinking of taking you into the law business with me. Marcia and I weretalking about it here. But I guess you wouldn't like the idea now. "

He seemed to get a bitter satisfaction out of these mockeries, from which, indeed, he must have suffered quite as much as Bartley. But he ended, sadlyand almost compassionately, with, "Come, come! You must start some time. "And Bartley dragged his leaden weight out of the door. The Squire closed itafter him; but he did not accompany him down the street. It was plain thathe did not wish to be any longer alone with Bartley, and the young mansuspected, with a sting of shame, that he scorned to be seen with him. 

VIII. 

The more Bartley dwelt upon his hard case, during the week that followed, the more it appeared to him that he was punished out of all proportion tohis offence. He was in no mood to consider such mercies as that he had beenspared from seriously hurting Bird; and that Squire Gaylord and DoctorWills had united with Henry's mother in saving him from open disgrace. Thephysician, indeed, had perhaps indulged a professional passion for hushingthe matter up, rather than any pity for Bartley. He probably had thescientific way of looking at such questions; and saw much physical causefor moral effects. He refrained, with the physician's reticence, frominquiring into the affair; but he would not have thought Bartley withoutexcuse under the circumstances. In regard to the relative culpability inmatters of the kind, his knowledge of women enabled him to take much theview of the woman's share that other women take. 

But Bartley was ignorant of the doctor's leniency, and associated him withSquire Gaylord in the feeling that made his last week in Equity a period ofsocial outlawry. There were moments in which he could not himself escapethe same point of view. He could rebel against the severity of thecondemnation he had fallen under in the eyes of Marcia and her father; hecould, in the light of example and usage, laugh at the notion of harm inhis behavior to Hannah Morrison; yet he found himself looking at it as atreachery to Marcia. Certainly, she had no right to question his conductbefore his engagement. Yet, if he knew that Marcia loved him, and waswaiting with life-and-death anxiety for some word of love from him, it wascruelly false to play with another at the passion which was such a tragedyto her. This was the point that, put aside however often, still presenteditself, and its recurrence, if he could have known it, was mercy andreprieve from the only source out of which these could come. 

Hannah Morrison did not return to the printing-office, and Bird was stillsick, though it was now only a question of time when he should be outagain. Bartley visited him some hours every day, and sat and suffered underthe quiet condemnation of his mother's eyes. She had kept Bartley's secretwith the same hardness with which she had refused him her forgiveness, andthe village had settled down into an ostensible acceptance of the theory ofa faint as the beginning of Bird's sickness, with such other conjecturesas the doctor freely permitted each to form. Bartley found his chiefconsolation in the work which kept him out of the way of a great deal ofquestion. He worked far into the night, as he must, to make up for theforce that was withdrawn from the office. At the same time he wrote morethan ever in the paper, and he discovered in himself that dual life ofwhich every one who sins or sorrows is sooner or later aware: that strangeseparation of the intellectual activity from the suffering of the soul, bywhich the mind toils on in a sort of ironical indifference to the pangsthat wring the heart; the realization that, in some ways, his brain can geton perfectly well without his conscience. 

There was a great deal of sympathy felt for Bartley at this time, and hispopularity in Equity was never greater than now when his life there wasdrawing to a close. The spectacle of his diligence was so impressive thatwhen, on the following Sunday, the young minister who had succeeded to thepulpit of the orthodox church preached a sermon on the beauty of industryfrom the text "Consider the lilies, " there were many who said that theythought of Bartley the whole while, and one--a lady--asked Mr. Savin ifhe did not have Mr. Hubbard in mind in the picture he drew of the HeroicWorker. They wished that Bartley could have heard that sermon. 

Marcia had gone away early in the week to visit in the town where she usedto go to school, and Bartley took her going away as a sign that she wishedto put herself wholly beyond his reach, or any danger of relenting at sightof him. He talked with no one about her; and going and coming irregularlyto his meals, and keeping himself shut up in his room when he was notat work, he left people very little chance to talk with him. But theyconjectured that he and Marcia had an understanding; and some of the ladiesused such scant opportunity as he gave them to make sly allusions to herabsence and his desolate condition. They were confirmed in their surmise bythe fact, known from actual observation, that Bartley had not spoken a wordto any other young lady since Marcia went away. 

"Look here, my friend, " said the philosopher from, the logging-camp, whenhe came in for his paper on the Tuesday afternoon following, "seems to mefrom what I hear tell around here, you're tryin' to kill yourself on thisnewspaper. Now, it won't do; I tell you it won't do. "

Bartley was addressing for the mail the papers which one of the girlswas folding. "What are you going to do about it?" he demanded of hissympathizer with whimsical sullenness, not troubling himself to look up athim. 

"Well, I haint exactly settled yet, " replied the philosopher, who was ofa tall, lank figure, and of a mighty brown beard. "But I've been aroundpretty much everywhere, and I find that about the poorest use you can put aman to is to kill him. "

"It depends a good deal on the man, " said Bartley. "But that's stale, Kinney. It's the old formula of the anti-capital-punishment fellows. Trysomething else. They're not talking of hanging me yet. " He kept on writing, and the philosopher stood over him with a humorous twinkle of enjoyment atBartley's readiness. 

"Well, I'll allow it's old, " he admitted. "So's Homer. "

"Yes; but you don't pretend that you wrote Homer. "

Kinney laughed mightily; then he leaned forward, and slapped Bartley on theshoulder with his newspaper. "Look here!" he exclaimed, "I _like_ you!"

"Oh, try some other tack! Lots of fellows like me. " Bartley kept onwriting. "I gave you your paper, didn't I, Kinney?"

"You mean that you want me to get out?"

"Far be it from me to say so. "

This delighted Kinney as much as the last refinement of hospitality wouldhave pleased another man. "Look here!" he said, "I want you should come outand see our camp. I can't fool away any more time on you here; but I wantyou should come out and see us. Give you something to write about. Hey?"

"The invitation comes at a time when circumstances over which I have nocontrol oblige me to decline it. I admire your prudence, Kinney. "

"No, honest Injian, now, " protested Kinney. "Take a day off, and fill upwith dead advertisements. That's the way they used to do out in Alkali Citywhen they got short of help on the Eagle, and we liked it just as well. "

"Now you are talking sense, " said Bartley, looking up at him. "How far isit to your settlement?"

"Two miles, if you're goin'; three and a half, if you aint. "

"When are you coming in?"

"I'm in, now. "

"I can't go with you to-day. "

"Well, how'll to-morrow morning suit?"

"To-morrow morning will suit, " said Bartley. 

"All right. If anybody comes to see the editor to-morrow morning, Marilla, "said Kinney to the girl, "you tell 'em he's sick, and gone a-loggin', andwon't be back till Saturday. Say, " he added, laying his hand on Bartley'sshoulder, "you aint foolin'?"

"If I am, " replied Bartley, "just mention it. "

"Good!" said Kinney. "To-morrow it is, then. "

Bartley finished addressing the newspapers, and then he put them up inwrappers and packages for the mail. "You can go, now, Marilla, " he said tothe girl. "I'll leave some copy for you and Kitty; you'll find it on mytable in the morning. "

"All right, " answered the girl. 

Bartley went to his supper, which he ate with more relish than he hadfelt for his meals since his troubles began, and he took part in thesupper-table talk with something of his old audacity. The change interestedthe lady boarders, and they agreed that he must have had a letter. Hereturned to his office, and worked till nine o'clock, writing and selectingmatter out of his exchanges. He spent most of the time in preparing thefunny column, which was a favorite feature in the Free Press. Then he putthe copy where the girls would find it in the morning, and, leaving thedoor unlocked, took his way up the street toward Squire Gaylord's. 

He knew that he should find the lawyer in his office, and he opened theoffice door without knocking, and went in. He had not met Squire Gaylordsince the morning of his dismissal, and the old man had left him for thepast eight days without any sign as to what he expected of Bartley, or ofwhat he intended to do in his affair. 

They looked at each other, but exchanged no sort of greeting, as Bartley, unbidden, took a chair on the opposite side of the stove; the Squire didnot put down the book he had been reading. 

"I've come to see what you're going to do about the Free Press, " saidBartley. 

The old man rubbed his bristling jaw, that seemed even lanker than whenBartley saw it last. He waited almost a minute before he replied, "I don'tknow as I've got any call to tell you. "

"Then I'll tell you what _I'm_ going to do about it, " retorted Bartley. "I'm going to leave it. I've done my last day's work on that paper. Do youthink, " he cried, angrily, "that I'm going to keep on in the dark, and letyou consult your pleasure as to my future? No, sir! You don't know your manquite, Mr. Gaylord!"

"You've got over your scare, " said the lawyer. 

"I've got over my scare, " Bartley retorted. 

"And you think, because you're not afraid any longer, that you're out ofdanger. I know my man as well as you do, I guess. "

"If you think I care for the danger, I don't. You may do what you please. Whatever you do, I shall know it isn't out of kindness for me. I didn'tbelieve from the first that the law could touch me, and I wasn't uneasy onthat account. But I didn't want to involve myself in a public scandal, forMiss Gaylord's sake. Miss Gaylord has released me from any obligations toher; and now you may go ahead and do what you like. " Each of the men knewhow much truth there was in this; but for the moment in his anger, Bartleybelieved himself sincere, and there is no question but his defiance wasso. Squire Gaylord made him no answer, and after a minute of expectationBartley added, "At any rate, I've done with the Free Press. I advise you tostop the paper, and hand the office over to Henry Bird, when he gets about. I'm going out to Willett's logging-camp tomorrow, and I'm coming back toEquity on Saturday. You'll know where to find me till then, and after thatyou may look me up if you want me. "

He rose to go, but stopped with his hand on the door-knob, at a sound, preliminary to speaking, which the old man made in his throat. Bartleystopped, hoping for a further pretext of quarrel, but the lawyer merelyasked, "Where's the key?"

"It's in the office door. "

The old man now looked at him as if he no longer saw him, and Bartley wentout, balked of his purpose in part, and in that degree so much the moreembittered. 

Squire Gaylord remained an hour longer; then he blew out his lamp, and leftthe little office for the night. A light was burning in the kitchen, and hemade his way round to the back door of the house, and let himself in. Hiswife was there, sitting before the stove, in those last delicious momentsbefore going to bed, when all the house is mellowed to such a warmth thatit seems hard to leave it to the cold and dark. In this poor lady, whohad so long denied herself spiritual comfort, there was a certain obscureluxury: she liked little dainties of the table; she liked soft warmth, aneasy cushion. It was doubtless in the disintegration of the finer qualitiesof her nature, that, as they grew older together, she threw more and morethe burden of acute feeling upon her husband, to whose doctrine of life shehad submitted, but had never been reconciled. Marriage is, with all itsdisparities, a much more equal thing than appears, and the meek littlewife, who has all the advantage of public sympathy, knows her power overher oppressor, and at some tender spot in his affections or his nerves caninflict an anguish that will avenge her for years of coarser aggression. Thrown in upon herself in so vital a matter as her religion, Mrs. Gaylordhad involuntarily come to live largely for herself, though her talk wasalways of her husband. She gave up for him, as she believed, her soul'ssalvation, but she held him to account for the uttermost farthing ofthe price. She padded herself round at every point where she could havesuffered through her sensibilities, and lived soft and snug in the shelterof his iron will and indomitable courage. It was not apathy that shehad felt when their children died one after another, but an obscure andformless exultation that Mr. Gaylord would suffer enough for both. 

Marcia was the youngest, and her mother left her training almost whollyto her father; she sometimes said that she never supposed the child wouldlive. She did not actually urge this in excuse, but she had the appearanceof doing so; and she held aloof from them both in their mutual relations, with mildly critical reserves. They spoiled each other, as father anddaughter are apt to do when left to themselves. What was good in the childcertainly received no harm from his indulgence; and what was naughty wasafter all not so very naughty. She was passionate, but she was generous;and if she showed a jealous temperament that must hereafter make herunhappy, for the time being it charmed and flattered her father to have herso fond of him that she could not endure any rivalry in his affection. 

Her education proceeded fitfully. He would not let her be forced tohousehold tasks that she disliked; and as a little girl she went to schoolchiefly because she liked to go, and not because she would have beenobliged to it if she had not chosen. When she grew older, she wished to goaway to school, and her father allowed her; he had no great respect forboarding-schools, but if Marcia wanted to try it, he was willing to humorthe joke. 

What resulted was a great proficiency in the things that pleased her, andignorance of the other things. Her father bought her a piano, on which shedid not play much, and he bought her whatever dresses she fancied. He nevercame home from a journey without bringing her something; and he liked totake her with him when he went away to other places. She had been severaltimes at Portland, and once at Montreal; he was very proud of her; he couldnot see that any one was better-looking, or dressed any better than hisgirl. 

He came into the kitchen, and sat down with his hat on, and, taking hischin between his fingers, moved uneasily about on his chair. 

"What's brought you in so early?" asked his wife. 

"Well, I got through, " he briefly explained. After a while he said, "Bartley Hubbard's been out there. "

"You don't mean 't he knew she--"

"No, he didn't know anything about that. He came to tell me he was goingaway. "

"Well, I don't know what you're going to do, Mr. Gaylord, " said his wife, shifting the responsibility wholly upon him. "'D he seem to want to make itup?"

"M-no!" said the Squire, "he was on his high horse. He knows he aint in anydanger now. "

"Aint you afraid she'll carry on dreadfully, when she finds out 't he'sgone for good?" asked Mrs. Gaylord, with a sort of implied satisfactionthat the carrying on was not to affect her. 

"M-yes, " said the Squire, "I suppose she'll carry on. But I don't know whatto do about it. Sometimes I almost wish I'd tried to make it up between 'emthat day; but I thought she'd better see, once for all, what sort of manshe was going in for, if she married him. It's too late now to do anything. The fellow came in to-night for a quarrel, and nothing else; I could seethat; and I didn't give him any chance. "

"You feel sure, " asked Mrs. Gaylord, impartially, "that Marcia wa'n't tooparticular?"

"No, Miranda, I don't feel sure of anything, except that it's past yourbed-time. You better go. I'll sit up awhile yet. I came in because Icouldn't settle my mind to anything out there. "

He took off his hat in token of his intending to spend the rest of theevening at home, and put it on the table at his elbow. 

His wife sewed at the mending in her lap, without offering to act upon hissuggestion. "It's plain to be seen that she can't get along without him. "

"She'll have to, now, " replied the Squire. 

"I'm afraid, " said Mrs. Gaylord, softly, "that she'll be down sick. Shedon't look as if she'd slept any great deal since she's been gone. I d'know as I like very much to see her looking the way she does. I guessyou've got to take her off somewheres. "

"Why, she's just been off, and couldn't stay!"

"That's because she thought he was here yet. But if he's gone, it won't bethe same thing. "

"Well, we've got to fight it out, some way, " said the Squire. "It wouldn'tdo to give in to it now. It always _was_ too much of a one-sided thing, at the best; and if we tried now to mend it up, it would be ridiculous. Idon't believe he would come back at all, now, and if he did, he wouldn'tcome back on any equal terms. He'd want to have everything his own way. M-no!" said the Squire, as if confirming himself in a conclusion oftenreached already in his own mind, "I saw by the way he began to-night thatthere wasn't anything to be done with him. It was fight from the word go. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Gaylord, with gentle, sceptical interest in the outcome, "if you've made up your mind to that, I hope you'll be able to carry itthrough. "

"That's what I've made up my mind to, " said her husband. 

Mrs. Gaylord rolled up the sewing in her work-basket, and packed it awayagainst the side, bracing it with several pairs of newly darned socks andstockings neatly folded one into the other. She took her time for this, and when she rose at last to go out, with her basket in her hand, the dooropened in her face, and Marcia entered. Mrs. Gaylord shrank back, and thenslipped round behind her daughter and vanished. The girl took no notice ofher mother, but went and sat down on her father's knee, throwing her armsround his neck, and dropping her haggard face on his shoulder. She hadarrived at home a few hours earlier, having driven over from a station tenmiles distant, on a road that did not pass near Equity. After giving asmuch of a shock to her mother's mild nature as it was capable of receivingby her unexpected return, she had gone to her own room, and remained eversince without seeing her father. He put up his thin old hand and passed itover her hair, but it was long before either of them spoke. 

At last Marcia lifted her head, and looked her father in the face with asmile so pitiful that he could not bear to meet it. "Well, father?" shesaid. 

"Well, Marsh, " he answered huskily. "What do you think of me now?"

"I'm glad to have you back again, " he replied. 

"You know why I came?"

"Yes, I guess I know. "

She put down her head again, and moaned and cried, "Father! Father!" withdry sobs. When she looked up, confronting him with her tearless eyes, "Whatshall I do? What shall I do?" she demanded desolately. 

He tried to clear his throat to speak, but it required more than one effortto bring the words. "I guess you better go along with me up to Boston. I'mgoing up the first of the week. "

"No, " she said quietly. 

"The change would do you good. It's a long while since you've been awayfrom home, " her father urged. 

She looked at him in sad reproach of his uncandor. "You know there'snothing the matter with me, father. You know what the trouble is. " Hewas silent. He could not face the trouble. "I've heard people talk of aheartache, " she went on. "I never believed there was really such a thing. But I know there is, now. There's a pain here. " She pressed her handagainst her breast. "It's sore with aching. What shall I do? I shall haveto live through it somehow. "

"If you don't feel exactly well, " said her father "I guess you better seethe doctor. "

"What shall I tell him is the matter with me? That I want Bartley Hubbard?"He winced at the words, but she did not. "He knows that already. Everybodyin town does. It's never been any secret. I couldn't hide it, from thefirst day I saw him. I'd just as lief as not they should say I was dyingfor him. I shall not care what they say when I'm dead. "

"You'd oughtn't, --you'd oughtn't to talk that way, Marcia, " said herfather, gently. 

"What difference?" she demanded, scornfully. There was truly no difference, so far as concerned any creed of his, and he was too honest to make furtherpretence. "What shall I do?" she went on again. "I've thought of praying;but what would be the use?"

"I've never denied that there was a God, Marcia, " said her father. 

"Oh, I know. _That_ kind of God! Well, well! I know that I talk like acrazy person! Do you suppose it was providential, my being with you in theoffice that morning when Bartley came in?"

"No, " said her father, "I don't. I think it was an accident. "

"Mother said it was providential, my finding him out before it was toolate. "

"I think it was a good thing. The fellow has the making of a first-classscoundrel in him. "

"Do you think he's a scoundrel now?" she asked quietly. 

"He hasn't had any great opportunity yet, " said the old man, conscientiously sparing him. 

"Well, then, I'm sorry I found him out. Yes! If I hadn't, I might havemarried him, and perhaps if I had died soon I might never have found himout. He could have been good to me a year or two, and then, if I died, Ishould have been safe. Yes, I wish he could have deceived me till after wewere married. Then I _couldn't_ have borne to give him up, may be. "

"You _would_ have given him up, even then. And that's the only thing thatreconciles me to it now. I'm sorry for you, my girl; but you'd have made mesorrier then. Sooner or later he'd have broken your heart. "

"He's broken it now, " said the girl, calmly. 

"Oh, no, he hasn't, " replied her father, with a false cheerfulness that didnot deceive her. "You're young and you'll get over it. I mean to take youaway from here for a while. I mean to take you up to Boston, and on toNew York. I shouldn't care if we went as far as Washington. I guess, whenyou've seen a little more of the world, you won't think Bartley Hubbard'sthe only one in it. "

She looked at him so intently that he thought she must be pleased at hisproposal. "Do you think I could get him back?" she asked. 

Her father lost his patience; it was a relief to be angry. "No, I don'tthink so. I know you couldn't. And you ought to be ashamed of mentioningsuch a thing!"

"Oh, ashamed! No, I've got past that. I have no shame any more where he'sconcerned. Oh, I'd give the world if I could call him back, --if I couldonly undo what I did! I was wild; I wasn't reasonable; I wouldn't listen tohim. I drove him away without giving him a chance to say a word! Of course, he must hate me now. What makes you think he wouldn't come back?" sheasked. 

"I know he wouldn't, " answered her father, with a sort of groan. "He'sgoing to leave Equity for one thing, and--"

"Going to leave Equity, " she repeated, absently Then he felt her tremble. "How do you know he's going?" She turned upon her father, and fixed himsternly with her eyes. 

"Do you suppose he would stay, after what's happened, any longer than hecould help?"

"How do you know he's going?" she repeated. 

"He told me. "

She stood up. "He told you? When?"

"To-night. "

"Why, where--where did you see him?" she whispered. 

"In the office. "

"Since--since--I came? Bartley been here! And you didn't tell me, --youdidn't let me know?" They looked at each other in silence. At last, "Whenis he going?" she asked. 

"To-morrow morning. "

She sat down in the chair which her mother had left, and clutched the backof another, on which her fingers opened and closed convulsively, while shecaught her breath in irregular gasps. She broke into a low moaning, atlast, the expression of abject defeat in the struggle she had waged withherself. Her father watched her with dumb compassion. "Better go to bed, Marcia, " he said, with the same dry calm as if he had been sending her awayafter some pleasant evening which she had suffered to run too far into thenight. 

"Don't you think--don't you think--he'll have to see you again before hegoes?" she made out to ask. 

"No; he's finished up with me, " said the old man. 

"Well, then, " she cried, desperately, "you'll have to go to him, father, and get him to come! I can't help it! I can't give him up! You've got to goto him, now, father, --yes, yes, you have! You've got to go and tell him. Goand get him to come, for _mercy's_ sake! Tell him that I'm sorry, --that Ibeg his pardon, --that I didn't think--I didn't understand, --that I knew hedidn't do anything wrong--" She rose, and, placing her hand on her father'sshoulder, accented each entreaty with a little push. 

He looked up into her face with a haggard smile of sympathy. "You're crazy, Marcia, " he said, gently. 

"Don't laugh!" she cried. "I'm not crazy now. But I was, then, --yes, stark, staring crazy. Look here, father! I want to tell you, --I want to explain toyou!" She dropped upon his knee again, and tremblingly passed her arm roundhis neck. "You see, I had just told him the day before that I shouldn'tcare for anything that happened before we were engaged, and then at thevery first thing I went and threw him off! And I had no right to do it. Heknows that, and that's what makes him so hard towards me. But if you go andtell him that I see now I was all wrong, and that I beg his pardon, andthen ask him to give me _one_ more trial, just one _more_--You can do asmuch as that for me, can't you?"

"Oh, you poor, crazy girl!" groaned her father. "Don't you see that thetrouble is in what the fellow _is_, and not in any particular thing thathe's done? He's a scamp, through and through; and he's all the more a scampwhen he doesn't know it. He hasn't got the first idea of anything butselfishness. "

"No, no! Now, I'll tell you, --now, I'll prove it to you. That very Sundaywhen we were out riding together; and we met her and her mother, and theirsleigh upset, and he had to lift her back; and it made me wild to see him, and I wouldn't hardly touch him or speak to him afterwards, he didn't sayone angry word to me. He just pulled me up to him, and wouldn't let me bemad; and he said that night he didn't mind it a bit because it showed howmuch I liked him. Now, doesn't that prove he's good, --a good deal betterthan I am, and that he'll forgive me, if you'll go and ask him? I know heisn't in bed yet; he always sits up late, --he told me so; and you'll findhim there in his room. Go straight to his room, father; don't let anybodysee you down in the office; I couldn't bear it; and slip out with him asquietly as you can. But, oh, do hurry now! Don't lose another minute!"

The wild joy sprang into her face, as her father rose; a joy that it wasterrible to him to see die out of it as he spoke: "I tell you it's no use, Marcia! He wouldn't come if I went to him--"

"Oh, yes, --yes, he would! I know he would! If--"

"He wouldn't! You're mistaken! I should have to get down in the dust fornothing. He's a bad fellow, I tell you; and you've got to give him up. "

"You hate me!" cried the girl. The old man walked to and fro, clutching hishands. Their lives had always been in such intimate sympathy, his life hadso long had her happiness for its sole pleasure, that the pang in her heartracked his with as sharp an agony. "Well, I shall die; and then I hope youwill be satisfied. "

"Marcia, Marcia!" pleaded her father. "You don't know what you're saying. "

"You're letting him go away from me, --you're letting me lose him, --you'rekilling me!"

"He wouldn't come, my girl. It would be perfectly useless to go to him. You _must_--you _must_ try to control yourself, Marcia. There's no otherway, --there's no other hope. You're disgraceful. You ought to be ashamed. You ought to have some pride about you. I don't know what's come over yousince you've been with that fellow. You seem to be out of your senses. Buttry, --try, my girl, to get over it. If you'll fight it, you'll conquer yet. You've got a spirit for anything. And I'll help you, Marcia. I'll take youanywhere. I'll do anything for you--"

"You wouldn't go to him, and ask him to come here, if it would save hislife!"

"No, " said the old man, with a desperate quiet, "I wouldn't. "

She stood looking at him, and then she sank suddenly and straight down, asif she were sinking through the floor. When he lifted her, he saw that shewas in a dead faint, and while the swoon lasted would be out of her misery. The sight of this had wrung him so that he had a kind of relief in lookingat her lifeless face; and he was slow in laying her down again, like onethat fears to wake a sleeping child. Then he went to the foot of thestairs, and softly called to his wife: "Miranda! Miranda!"

IX. 

Kinney came into town the next morning bright and early, as he phrased it;but he did not stop at the hotel for Bartley till nine o'clock. "ThoughtI'd give you time for breakfast, " he exclaimed, "and so I didn't hurry upany about gettin' in my supplies. "

It was a beautiful morning, so blindingly sunny that Bartley winked as theydrove up through the glistening street, and was glad to dip into the gloomof the first woods; it was not cold; the snow felt the warmth, and packedmoistly under their runners. The air was perfectly still; at a distance onthe mountain-sides it sparkled as if full of diamond dust. Far overheadsome crows called. 

"The sun's getting high, " said Bartley, with the light sigh of one to whomthe thought of spring brings no hope. 

"Well, I shouldn't begin to plough for corn just yet, " replied Kinney. "It's curious, " he went on, "to see how anxious we are to have a thingover, it don't much matter what it is, whether it's summer or winter. Isuppose we'd feel different if we wa'n't sure there was going to be anotherof 'em. I guess that's one reason why the Lord concluded not to keep usclearly posted on the question of another life. If it wa'n't for theuncertainty of the thing, there are a lot of fellows like you thatwouldn't stand it here a minute. Why, if we had a dead sure thing ofover-the-river, --good climate, plenty to eat and wear, and not much todo, --I don't believe any of us would keep Darling Minnie waiting, --well, a _great_ while. But you see, the thing's all on paper, and that makes uscautious, and willing to hang on here awhile longer. Looks splendid on themap: streets regularly laid out; public squares; band-stands; churches;solid blocks of houses, with all the modern improvements; but you can'ttell whether there's any town there till you're on the ground; and then, ifyou don't like it, there's no way of gettin' back to the States. " He turnedround upon Bartley and opened his mouth wide, to imply that this waspleasantry. 

"Do you throw your philosophy in, all under the same price, Kinney?" askedthe young fellow. 

"Well, yes; I never charge anything over, " said Kinney. "You see, I havea good deal of time to think when I'm around by myself all day, and thephilosophy don't cost me anything, and the fellows like it. Roughing it theway they do, they can stand 'most anything. Hey?" He now not only openedhis mouth upon Bartley, but thrust him in the side with his elbow, and thenlaughed noisily. 

Kinney was the cook. He had been over pretty nearly the whole uninhabitableglobe, starting as a gaunt and awkward boy from the Maine woods, andkeeping until he came back to them in late middle-life the same gross andridiculous optimism. He had been at sea, and shipwrecked on several islandsin the Pacific; he had passed a rainy season at Panama, and a yellow-feverseason at Vera Cruz, and had been carried far into the interior of Peru bya tidal wave during an earthquake season; he was in the Border Ruffian Warof Kansas, and he clung to California till prosperity deserted her afterthe completion of the Pacific road. Wherever he went, he carried or foundadversity; but, with a heart fed on the metaphysics of Horace Greeley, andbuoyed up by a few wildly interpreted maxims of Emerson, he had alwaysbelieved in other men, and their fitness for the terrestrial millennium, which was never more than ten days or ten miles off. It is not necessary tosay that he had continued as poor as he began, and that he was never ableto contribute to those railroads, mills, elevators, towns, and cities whichwere sure to be built, sir, sure to be built, wherever he went. When hecame home at last to the woods, some hundreds of miles north of Equity, hefound that some one had realized his early dream of a summer hotel on theshore of the beautiful lake there; and he unenviously settled down toadmire the landlord's thrift, and to act as guide and cook for parties ofyoung ladies and gentlemen who started from the hotel to camp in the woods. This brought him into the society of cultivated people, for which he had areal passion. He had always had a few thoughts rattling round in his skull, and he liked to make sure of them in talk with those who had enjoyedgreater advantages than himself. He never begrudged them their luck;he simply and sweetly admired them; he made studies of their severalcharacters, and was never tired of analyzing them to their advantage to thenext summer's parties. Late in the fall, he went in, as it is called, witha camp of loggers, among whom he rarely failed to find some remarkable men. But he confessed that he did not enjoy the steady three or four months inthe winter woods with no coming out at all till spring; and he had beenglad of this chance in a logging camp near Equity, in which he had beenoffered the cook's place by the owner who had tested his fare in theNorthern woods the summer before. Its proximity to the village allowed himto loaf in upon civilization at least once a week, and he spent the greaterpart of his time at the Free Press office on publication day. He had alwayssought the society of newspaper men, and, wherever he could, he had giventhem his. He was not long in discovering that Bartley was smart as a steeltrap; and by an early and natural transition from calling the young ladycompositors by their pet names, and patting them on their shoulders, he hadarrived at a like affectionate intimacy with Bartley. 

As they worked deep into the woods on their way to the camp, the roaddwindled to a well-worn track between the stumps and bushes. The ground wasrough, and they constantly plunged down the slopes of little hills, andclimbed the sides of the little valleys, and from time to time they hadto turn out for teams drawing logs to the mills in Equity, each with itsequipage of four or five wild young fellows, who saluted Kinney with anironical cheer or jovial taunt in passing. 

"They're all just so, " he explained, with pride, when the last party hadpassed. "They're gentlemen, every one of 'em, --perfect gentlemen. "

They came at last to a wider clearing than any they had yet passed through, and here on a level of the hillside stretched the camp, a long, lowstructure of logs, with the roof broken at one point by a stovepipe, andthe walls irregularly pierced by small windows; around it crouched andburrowed in the drift the sheds that served as stables and storehouses. 

The sun shone, and shone with dazzling brightness, upon the opening; thesound of distant shouts and the rhythmical stroke of axes came to it out ofthe forest; but the camp was deserted, and in the stillness Kinney's voiceseemed strange and alien. "Walk in, walk in!" he said, hospitably. "I'vegot to look after my horse. "

But Bartley remained at the door, blinking in the sunshine, and harking tothe near silence that sang in his ears. A curious feeling possessed him;sickness of himself as of some one else; a longing, consciously helpless, to be something different; a sense of captivity to habits and thoughts andhopes that centred in himself, and served him alone. 

"Terribly peaceful around here, " said Kinney, coming back to him, andjoining him in a survey of the landscape, with his hands on his hips, and astem of timothy projecting from his lips. 

"Yes, terribly, " assented Bartley. 

"But it _aint_ a bad way for a man to live, as long as he's young; or haintgot anybody that wants his company more than his room. --Be the place foryou. "

"On which ground?" Bartley asked, drily, without taking his eyes from adistant peak that showed through the notch in the forest. 

Kinney laughed in as unselfish enjoyment as if he had made the turnhimself. "Well, that aint exactly what I meant to say: what I meant wasthat any man engaged in intellectual pursuits wants to come out and communewith nature, every little while. "

"You call the Equity Free Press intellectual pursuits?" demanded Bartley, with scorn. "I suppose it is, " he added. "Well, here I am, --right on thecommune. But nature's such a big thing, I think it takes two to communewith her. "

"Well, a girl's a help, " assented Kinney. 

"I wasn't thinking of a girl, exactly, " said Bartley, with a littlesadness. "I mean that, if you're not in first-rate spiritual condition, you're apt to get floored if you undertake to commune with nature. "

"I guess that's about so. If a man's got anything, on his mind, a bigrailroad depot's the place for _him_. But you're run down. You ought tocome out here, and take a hand, and be a man amongst men. " Kinney talkedpartly for quantity, and partly for pure, indefinite good feeling. 

Bartley turned toward the door. "What have you got inside, here?"

Kinney flung the door open, and followed his guest within. The firsttwo-thirds of the cabin was used as a dormitory, and the sides werefurnished with rough bunks, from the ground to the roof. The round, unhewnlogs showed their form everywhere; the crevices were calked with moss; andthe walls were warm and tight. It was dark between the bunks, but beyond itwas lighter, and Bartley could see at the farther end a vast cooking-stove, and three long tables with benches at their sides. A huge coffee-pot stoodon the top of the stove, and various pots and kettles surrounded it. 

"Come into the dining-room and sit down in the parlor, " said Kinney, drawing off his coat as he walked forward. "Take the sofa, " he added, indicating a movable bench. He hung his coat on a peg and rolled up hisshirt-sleeves, and began to whistle cheerily, like a man who enjoys hiswork, as he threw open the stove door and poked in some sticks of fuel. Abrooding warmth filled the place, and the wood made a pleasant crackling asit took fire. 

"Here's my desk, " said Kinney, pointing to a barrel that supported a broad, smooth board-top. "This is where I compose my favorite works. " He turnedround, and cut out of a mighty mass of dough in a tin trough a portion, which he threw down on his table and attacked with a rolling-pin. "Thatmeans pie, Mr. Hubbard, " he explained, "and pie means meat-pie, --orsquash-pie, at a pinch. Today's pie-baking day. But you needn't be troubledon that account. So's to-morrow, and so was yesterday. Pie twenty-one timesa week is the word, and don't you forget it. They say old Agassiz, " Kinneywent on, in that easy, familiar fondness with which our people like tospeak of greatness that impresses their imagination, --"they say old Agassizrecommended fish as the best food for the brain. Well, I don't suppose butwhat it is. But I don't know but what pie is more stimulating to the fancy. I _never_ saw anything like meat-pie to make ye dream. "

"Yes, " said Bartley, nodding gloomily, "I've tried it. "

Kinney laughed. "Well, I guess folks of sedentary pursuits, like you andme, don't need it; but these fellows that stamp round in the snow all day, they want something to keep their imagination goin'. And I guess pie doesit. Anyway, they can't seem to get enough of it. Ever try apples when youwas at work? They say old Greeley kep' his desk full of 'em; kep' munchin'away all the while when he was writin' his editorials. And one of themGerman poets--I don't know but what it was old Gutty himself--kept _rotten_ones in _his_ drawer; liked the smell of 'em. Well, there's a good deal ofapple in meat-pie. May be it's the apple that does it. _I_ don't know. But I guess if your pursuits are sedentary, you better take the appleseparate. "

Bartley did not say anything; but he kept a lazily interested eye on Kinneyas he rolled out his piecrust, fitted it into his tins, filled these froma jar of mince-meat, covered them with a sheet of dough pierced inherring-bone pattern, and marshalled them at one side ready for the oven. 

"If fish _is_ any better for the brain, " Kinney proceeded, "they can'tcomplain of any want of it, at least in the salted form. They getfish-balls three times a week for breakfast, as reg'lar as Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday comes round. And Fridays I make up a sort of chowder for theKanucks; they're Catholics, you know, and I don't believe in interferin'with _any_ man's religion, it don't matter what it is. "

"You ought to be a deacon in the First Church at Equity, " said Bartley. 

"Is that so? Why?" asked Kinney. 

"Oh, they don't believe in interfering with any man's religion, either. "

"Well, " said Kinney, thoughtfully, pausing with the rolling-pin in hishand, "there 'a such a thing as being _too_ liberal, I suppose. "

"The world's tried the other thing a good while, " said Bartley, withcynical amusement at Kinney's arrest. 

It seemed to chill the flow of the good fellow's optimism, so that heassented with but lukewarm satisfaction. 

"Well, that's so, too, " and he made up the rest of his pies in silence. 

"Well, " he exclaimed at last, as if shaking himself out of an unpleasantreverie, "I guess we shall get along, somehow. Do you like pork and beans?"

"Yes, I do, " said Bartley. 

"We're goin' to have 'em for dinner. You can hit beans any meal you drop inon us; beans twenty-one times a week, just like pie. Set 'em in to warm, "he said, taking up a capacious earthen pot, near the stove, and putting itinto the oven. "I been pretty much everywheres, and I don't know as Ifound anything for a stand-by that come up to beans. I'm goin' to give 'empotatoes and cabbage to-day, --kind of a boiled-dinner day, --but you'llsee there aint one in ten 'll touch 'em to what there will these oldresidenters. Potatoes and cabbage'll do for a kind of a delicacy, --sort ofa side-dish, --on-_tree_, you know; but give 'em beans for a steady diet. Why, off there in Chili, even, the people regularly live on beans, --notexactly like ours, --broad and flat, --but they're beans. Wa'n't there somethose ancients--old Horace, or Virgil, may be--rung in something aboutbeans in some their poems?"

"I don't remember anything of the kind, " said Bartley, languidly. 

"Well, I don't know as _I_ can. I just have a dim recollection of languagethrown out at the object, --as old Matthew Arnold says. But it might havebeen something in Emerson. "

Bartley laughed "I didn't suppose you were such a reader, Kinney. "

"Oh, I nibble round wherever I can get a chance. Mostly in the newspapers, you know. I don't get any time for books, as a general rule. But there'spretty much everything in the papers. I should call beans a brain food. "

"I guess you call anything a brain food that you happen to like, don't you, Kinney?"

"No, sir, " said Kinney, soberly; "but I like to see the philosophy ofa thing when I get a chance. Now, there's tea, for example, " he said, pointing to the great tin pot on the stove. 

"Coffee, you mean, " said Bartley. 

"No, sir, I mean tea. That's tea; and I give it to 'em three times a day, good and strong, --molasses in it, and no milk. That's a brain food, if everthere was one. Sets 'em up, right on end, every time. Clears their headsand keeps the cold out. "

"I should think you were running a seminary for young ladies, instead of alogging-camp, " said Bartley. 

"No, but look at it: I'm in earnest about tea. You look at the tea drinkersand the coffee-drinkers all the world over! Look at 'em in our own country!All the Northern people and all the go-ahead people drink tea. ThePennsylvanians and the Southerners drink coffee. Why our New England folksdon't even know how to _make_ coffee so it's fit to drink! And it's justso all over Europe. The Russians drink tea, and they'd e't up thosecoffee-drinkin' Turks long ago, if the tea-drinkin' English hadn't kept 'emfrom it. Go anywheres you like in the North, and you find 'em drinkin' tea. The Swedes and Norwegians in Aroostook County drink it; and they drink itat home. "

"Well, what do you think of the French and Germans? They drink coffee, andthey're pretty smart, active people, too. "

"French and Germans drink coffee?"

"Yes. "

Kinney stopped short in his heated career of generalization, and scratchedhis shaggy head. "Well, " he said, finally, "I guess they're a kind ofa missing link, as old Darwin says. " He joined Bartley in his laughcordially, and looked up at the round clock nailed to a log. "It's abouttime I set my tables, anyway. Well, " he asked, apparently to keep theconversation from flagging, while he went about this work, "how is the goodold Free Press getting along?"

"It's going to get along without me from this out, " said Bartley. "This ismy last week in Equity. "

"No!" retorted Kinney, in tremendous astonishment. 

"Yes; I'm off at the end of the week. Squire Gaylord takes the paper backfor the committee, and I suppose Henry Bird will run it for a while; orperhaps they'll stop it altogether. It's been a losing business for thecommittee. "

"Why, I thought you'd bought it of 'em. "

"Well, that's what I expected to do; but the office hasn't made any money. All that I've saved is in my colt and cutter. "

"That sorrel?"

Bartley nodded. "I'm going away about as poor as I came. I couldn't go muchpoorer. "

"Well!" said Kinney, in the exhaustion of adequate language. He wenton laying the plates and knives and forks in silence. These were ofundisguised steel; the dishes and the drinking mugs were of that dense andheavy make which the keepers of cheap restaurants use to protect themselvesagainst breakage, and which their servants chip to the quick at every edge. Kinney laid bread and crackers by each plate, and on each he placed a vastslab of cold corned beef. Then he lifted the lid of the pot in which thecabbage and potatoes were boiling together, and pricked them with a fork. He dished up the beans in a succession of deep tins, and set them atintervals along the tables, and began to talk again. "Well, now, I'm sorry. I'd just begun to feel real well acquainted with you. Tell you the truth, Ididn't take much of a fancy to you, first off. "

"Is that so?" asked Bartley, not much disturbed by the confession. 

"Yes, sir. Well, come to boil it down, " said Kinney, with the frankness ofthe analytical mind that disdains to spare itself in the pursuit of truth, "I didn't like your good clothes. I don't suppose I ever had a suit ofclothes to fit me. Feel kind of ashamed, you know, when I go into thestore, and take the first thing the Jew wants to put off on to me. Now, Isuppose you go to Macullar and Parker's in Boston, and you get what _you_want. "

"No; I have my measure at a tailor's, " said Bartley, with ill-concealedpride in the fact. 

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Kinney. "Well!" he said, as if he might aswell swallow this pill, too, while he was about it. "Well, what's the use?I never was the figure for clothes, anyway. Long, gangling boy to startwith, and a lean, stoop-shouldered man. I found out some time ago that afellow wa'n't necessarily a bad fellow because he had money, or a goodfellow because he hadn't. But I hadn't quite got over hating a man becausehe had style. Well, I suppose it was a kind of a _survival_, as old Tylorcalls it. But I tell you, I sniffed round you a good while before I made upmy mind to swallow you. And that turnout of yours, it kind of staggered me, after I got over the clothes. Why, it wa'n't so much the colt, --any manlikes to ride after a sorrel colt; and it wa'n't so much the cutter: it wasthe red linin' with pinked edges that you had to your robe; and it was thered ribbon that you had tied round the waist of your whip. When I see thatribbon on that whip, damn you, I wanted to kill you. " Bartley broke outinto a laugh, but Kinney went on soberly. "But, thinks I to myself: 'Here!Now you stop right here! You wait! You give the fellow a chance for hislife. Let him have a chance to show whether that whip-ribbon goes allthrough him, first. If it does, kill him cheerfully; but give him a chance_first_. ' Well, sir, I gave you the chance, and you showed that youdeserved it. I guess you taught me a lesson. When I see you at work, pegging away hard at something or other, every time I went into youroffice, up and coming with everybody, and just as ready to pass the time ofday with me as the biggest bug in town, thinks I: 'You'd have made a greatmistake to kill that fellow, Kinney!' And I just made up my mind to likeyou. "

"Thanks, " said Bartley, with ironical gratitude. 

Kinney did not speak at once. He whistled thoughtfully through his teeth, and then he said: "I'll tell you what: if you're going away _very_ poor, Iknow a wealthy chap you can raise a loan out of. "

Bartley thought seriously for a silent moment. "If your friend offers metwenty dollars, I'm not too well dressed to take it. "

"All right, " said Kinney. He now dished up the cabbage and potatoes, andthrowing a fresh handful of tea into the pot, and filling it up with water, he took down a tin horn, with which he went to the door and sounded a long, stertorous note. 

X. 

"Guess it was the clothes again, " said Kinney, as he began to wash his tinsand dishes after the dinner was over, and the men had gone back to theirwork. "I could see 'em eyin' you over when they first came in, and I couldsee that they didn't exactly like the looks of 'em. It would wear off intime, but it _takes_ time for it to wear off; and it had to go pretty rustyfor a start-off. Well, I don't know as it makes much difference to you, does it?"

"Oh, I thought we got along very well, " said Bartley, with a careless yawn. "There wasn't much chance to get acquainted. " Some of the loggers were ashandsome and well-made as he, and were of as good origin and traditions, though he had some advantages of training. But his two-button cutaway, hiswell-fitting trousers, his scarf with a pin in it, had been too much forthese young fellows in their long 'stoga boots and flannel shirts. Theylooked at him askance, and despatched their meal with more than theirwonted swiftness, and were off again into the woods without anydemonstrations of satisfaction in Bartley's presence. 

He had perceived their grudge, for he had felt it in his time. But it didnot displease him; he had none of the pain with which Kinney, who had solong bragged of him to the loggers, saw that his guest was a failure. 

"I guess they'll come out all right in the end, " he said. In this warmatmosphere, after the gross and heavy dinner he had eaten, he yawned againand again. He folded his overcoat into a pillow for his bench and lay down, and lazily watched Kinney about his work. Presently he saw Kinney seated ona block of wood beside the stove, with his elbow propped in one hand, andholding a magazine, out of which he was reading; he wore spectacles, whichgave him a fresh and interesting touch of grotesqueness. Bartley found thatan empty barrel had been placed on each side of him, evidently to keep himfrom rolling off his bench. 

"Hello!" he said. "Much obliged to you, Kinney. I haven't been taken suchgood care of since I can remember. Been asleep, haven't I?"

"About an hour, " said Kinney, with a glance at the clock, and ignoring hisagency in Bartley's comfort. 

"Food for the brain!" said Bartley, sitting up. "I should think so. I'vedreamt a perfect New American Cyclopaedia, and a pronouncing gazetteerthrown in. "

"Is that so?" said Kinney, as if pleased with the suggestive character ofhis cookery, now established by eminent experiment. 

Bartley yawned a yawn of satisfied sleepiness, and rubbed his hand overhis face. "I suppose, " he said, "if I'm going to write anything about CampKinney, I had better see all there is to see. "

"Well, yes, I presume you had, " said Kinney. "We'll go over to wherethey're cuttin', pretty soon, and you can see all there is in an hour. ButI presume you'll want to see it so as to ring in some description, hey?Well, that's all right. But what you going to do with it, when you've doneit, now you're out of the Free Press?"

"Oh, I shouldn't have printed it in the Free Press, anyway Coals toNewcastle, you know. I'll tell you what I think I'll do, Kinney: I'll getmy outlines, and then you post me with a lot of facts, --queer characters, accidents, romantic incidents, snowings-up, threatened starvation, adventures with wild animals, --and I can make something worth while; getout two or three columns, so they can print it in their Sunday edition. Andthen I'll take it up to Boston with me, and seek my fortune with it. "

"Well, sir, I'll do it, " said Kinney, fired with the poetry of the idea. "I'll post you! Dumn 'f I don't wish _I_ could write! Well, I _did_ use toscribble once for an agricultural paper; but I don't call that writin'. I've set down, well, I guess as much as sixty times, to try to write outwhat I know about loggin'--"

"Hold on!" cried Bartley, whipping out his notebook. "That's first-rate. That'll do for the first line in the head, --_What I Know AboutLogging_, --large caps. Well!"

Kinney shut his magazine, and took his knee between his hands, closing oneof his eyes in order to sharpen his recollection. He poured forth a streamof reminiscence, mingled observation, and personal experience. Bartleyfollowed him with his pencil, jotting down points, striking in sub-headlines, and now and then interrupting him with cries of "Good!" "Capital!""It's a perfect mine, --it's a mint! By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I'll make_six_ columns of this! I'll offer it to one of the magazines, and it'llcome out illustrated! Go on, Kinney. "

"Hark!" said Kinney, craning his neck forward to listen. "I thought I heardsleigh-bells. But I guess it wa'n't. Well, sir, as I was sayin', theyfetched that fellow into camp with both feet frozen to the knees--Dumn 'fit _wa'n't_ bells!"

He unlimbered himself, and hurried to the door at the other end of thecabin, which he opened, letting in a clear block of the afternoon sunshine, and a gush of sleigh-bell music, shot with men's voices, and the cries andlaughter of women. 

"Well, sir, " said Kinney, coming back and making haste to roll down hissleeves and put on his coat. "_Here's_ a nuisance! A whole party offolks--two sleigh-loads--right _on_ us. I don't know who they _be_, orwhere they're from. But I know where I wish they _was_. Well, of course, it's natural they should want to see a loggin'-camp, " added Kinney, takinghimself to task for his inhospitable mind, "and there ain't any harm in it. But I wish they'd give a fellow a _little_ notice!"

The voices and bells drew nearer, but Kinney seemed resolved to observe thedecorum of not going to the door till some one knocked. 

"Kinney! Kinney! Hello, Kinney!" shouted a man's voice, as the bells hushedbefore the door, and broke into a musical clash when one of the horsestossed his head. 

"Well, sir, " said Kinney, rising, "I guess it's old Willett himself. He'sthe owner; lives up to Portland, and been threatening to come down here allwinter, with a party of friends. You just stay still, " he added; and hepaid himself the deference which every true American owes himself in hisdealings with his employer: he went to the door very deliberately, and madeno haste on account of the repeated cries of "Kinney! Kinney!" in whichothers of the party outside now joined. 

When he opened the door again, the first voice saluted him with a roar oflaughter. "Why, Kinney, I began to think you were dead!"

"No, sir, " Bartley heard Kinney reply, "it takes more to kill me than yousuppose. " But now he stepped outside, and the talk became unintelligible. 

Finally Bartley heard what was imaginably Mr. Willett's voice saying, "Well, let's go in and have a look at it now"; and with much outcry andlaughter the ladies were invisibly helped to dismount, and presently thewhole party came stamping and rustling in. 

Bartley's blood tingled. He liked this, and he stood quite self-possessed, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and his elbows dropped, while Mr. Willett advanced in a friendly way. 

"Ah, Mr. Hubbard! Kinney told us you were in here, and asked me tointroduce myself while he looked after the horses. My name's Willett. Theseare my daughters; this is Mrs. Macallister, of Montreal; Mrs. Witherby, ofBoston; Miss Witherby, and Mr. Witherby. _You_ ought to know each other;Mr. Hubbard is the editor of the Equity Free Press. Mr. Witherby, of TheBoston Events, Mr. Hubbard. Oh, and _Mr. _ Macallister. "

Bartley bowed to the Willett and Witherby ladies, and shook hands with Mr. Witherby, a large, solemn man, with a purse-mouth and tight rings of whitehair, who treated him with the pomp inevitable to the owner of a citynewspaper in meeting a country editor. 

At the mention of his name, Mr. Macallister, a slight little straight man, in a long ulster and a sealskin cap, tiddled farcically forward on histoes, and, giving Bartley his hand, said, "Ah, haow d'e-do, _haow_ d'e-do!"

Mrs. Macallister fixed upon him the eye of the flirt who knows her man. Shewas of the dark-eyed English type; her eyes were very large and full, andher smooth black hair was drawn flatly backward, and fastened in a knotjust under her dashing fur cap. She wore a fur sack, and she was equippedagainst the cold as exquisitely as her Southern sisters defend themselvesfrom the summer. Bits of warm color, in ribbon and scarf, flashed out hereand there; when she flung open her sack, she showed herself much morelavishly buttoned and bugled and bangled than the Americans. She sat clownon the movable bench which Bartley had vacated, and crossed her feet, verysmall and saucy, even in their arctics, on a stick of fire-wood, and castup her neat profile, and rapidly made eyes at every part of the interior. "Why, it's delicious, you know. I never saw anything so comfortable. I wantto spend the rest of me life here, you know. " She spoke very far down inher throat, and with a rising inflection in each sentence. "I'm going tohave a quarrel with you, Mr. Willett, for not telling me what a delightfulsurprise you had for us here. Oh, but I'd no idea of it, I assure you!"

"Well, I'm glad you like it, Mrs. Macallister, " said Mr. Willett, with theclumsiness of American middle-age when summoned to say something gallant. "If I'd told you what a surprise I had for you, it wouldn't have been one. "

"Oh, it's no good your trying to get out of it _that_ way, " retorted thebeauty. "There he comes now! I'm really in love with him, you know, " shesaid, as Kinney opened the door and came hulking forward. 

Nobody said anything at once, but Bartley laughed finally, and ventured, "Well, I'll propose for you to Kinney. "

"Oh, I dare say!" cried the beauty, with a lively effort of wit. "Mr. Kinney, I have fallen in love with your camp, d' ye know?" she added, asKinney drew near, "and I'm beggin' Mr. Willett to let me come and live hereamong you. "

"Well, ma'am, " said Kinney, a little abashed at this proposition, "youcouldn't do a better thing for your health, I _guess_. "

The proprietor of The Boston Events turned about, and began to lookover the arrangements of the interior; the other ladies went with him, conversing, in low tones. "These must be the places where the men sleep, "they said, gazing at the bunks. 

"We must get Kinney to explain things to us, " said Mr. Willett a littlerestlessly. 

Mrs. Macallister jumped briskly to her feet. "Oh, yes, do, Mr. Willett, make him explain everything! I've been tryin' to coax it out of him, buthe's _such_ a tease!"

Kinney looked very sheepish in this character, and Mrs. Macallister hookedBartley to her side for the tour of the interior. "I can't let you awayfrom me, Mr. Hubbard; your friend's so satirical, I'm afraid of him. Onlyfancy, Mr. Willett! He's been talkin' to _me_ about brain foods! I knowhe's makin' fun of me; and it isn't kind, is it, Mr. Hubbard?"

She did not give the least notice to the things that the others looked at, or to Kinney's modest lecture upon the manners and customs of the loggers. She kept a little apart with Bartley, and plied him with bravadoes, withpouts, with little cries of suspense. In the midst of this he heard Mr. Willett saying, "You ought to get some one to come and write about this foryour paper, Witherby. " But Mrs. Macallister was also saying something, with a significant turn of her floating eyes, and the thing that concernedBartley, if he were to make his way among the newspapers in Boston, slippedfrom his grasp like the idea which we try to seize in a dream. She madesure of him for the drive to the place which they visited to see the menfelling the trees, by inviting him to a seat at her side in the sleigh;this crowded the others, but she insisted, and they all gave way, as peoplemust, to the caprices of a pretty woman. Her coquetries united Britishwilfulness to American nonchalance, and seemed to have been graduatedto the appreciation of garrison and St. Lawrence River steamboat andwatering-place society. The Willett ladies had already found it necessaryto explain to the Witherby ladies that they had met her the summer beforeat the sea-side, and that she had stopped at Portland on her way toEngland; they did not know her very well, but some friends of theirs did;and their father had asked her to come with them to the camp. They addedthat the Canadian ladies seemed to expect the gentlemen to be a great dealmore attentive than ours were. They had known as little what to do with Mr. Macallister's small-talk and compliments as his wife's audacities, but theydid not view Bartley's responsiveness with pleasure. If Mrs. Macallister'sarts were not subtle, as Bartley even in the intoxication of her preferencecould not keep from seeing, still, in his mood, it was consoling tobe singled out by her; it meant that even in a logging-camp he wasrecognizable by any person of fashion as a good-looking, well-dressed manof the world. It embittered him the more against Marcia, while, in somesort, it vindicated him to himself. 

The early winter sunset was beginning to tinge the snow with crimson, whenthe party started back to camp, where Kinney was to give them supper; hehad it greatly on his conscience that they should have a good time, and hepromoted it as far as hot mince-pie and newly fried doughnuts would go. Healso opened a few canned goods, as he called some very exclusive sardinesand peaches, and he made an entirely fresh pot of tea, and a pan ofsoda-biscuit. Mrs. Macallister made remarks across her plate which werefor Bartley alone; and Kinney, who was seriously waiting upon his guests, refused to respond to Bartley's joking reference to himself of somequestions and comments of hers. 

After supper, when the loggers had withdrawn to the other end of the longhut, she called out to Kinney, "Oh, _do_ tell them to smoke: we shall notmind it at all, I assure you. Can't some of them do something? Sing ordance?"

Kinney unbent a little at this. "There's a first-class clog-dancer amongthem; but he's a little stuck up, and I don't know as you could get him todance, " he said in a low tone. 

"What a bloated aristocrat!" cried the lady. "Then the only thing is for usto dance first. Can they play?"

"One of 'em can whistle like a bird, --he can whistle like a whole band, "answered Kinney, warming. "And of course the Kanucks can fiddle. "

"And what are Kanucks? Is _that_ what you call us Canadians?"

"Well, ma'am, it aint quite the thing to do, " said Kinney, penitently. 

"It isn't at _all_ the thing to do! Which are the Kanucks?"

She rose, and went forward with Kinney, in her spoiled way, and addresseda swarthy, gleaming-eyed young logger in French. He answered with a smilethat showed all his white teeth, and turned to one of his comrades; thenthe two rose, and got violins out of the bunks, and came forward. Others oftheir race joined them, but the Yankees hung gloomily back; they clearlydid not like these liberties, this patronage. 

"I shall have your clog-dancer on his feet yet, Mr. Kinney, " said Mrs. Macallister, as she came back to her place. 

The Canadians began to play and sing those gay, gay airs of old Francewhich they have kept unsaddened through all the dark events that havechanged the popular mood of the mother country; they have matched wordsto them in celebration of their life on the great rivers and in the vastforests of the North, and in these blithe barcaroles and hunting-songsbreathes the joyous spirit of a France that knows neither doubt norcare, --France untouched by Revolution or Napoleonic wars; some of the airsstill keep the very words that came over seas with them two hundred yearsago. The transition to the dance was quick and inevitable; a dozen slimyoung fellows were gliding about behind the players, pounding the hardearthen floor, and singing in time. 

"Oh, come, come!" cried the beauty, rising and stamping impatiently withher little foot, "suppose we dance, too. "

She pulled Bartley forward by the hand; her husband followed with thetaller Miss Willett; two of the Canadians, at the instance of Mrs. Macallister, came forward and politely asked the honor of the other youngladies' hands in the dance; their temper was infectious, and the cotillonwas in full life before their partners had time to wonder at their consent. Mrs. Macallister could sing some of the Canadian songs; her voice, clearand fresh, rang through those of the men, while in at the window, thrownopen for air, came the wild cries of the forest, --the wail of a catamount, and the solemn hooting of a distant owl. 

"Isn't it jolly good fun?" she demanded, when the figure was finished; andnow Kinney went up to the first-class clog-dancer, and prevailed with himto show his skill. He seemed to comply on condition that the whistlershould furnish the music; he came forward with a bashful hauteur, bridlingstiffly like a girl, and struck into the laborious and monotonous jig whichis, perhaps, our national dance. He was exquisitely shaped, and as hedanced he suppled more and more, while the whistler warbled a wilder andswifter strain, and kept time with his hands. There was something thatstirred the blood in the fury of the strain and dance. When it was done, Mrs. Macallister caught off her cap and ran round among the spectatorsto make them pay; she excused no one, and she gave the money to Kinney, telling him to get his loggers something to keep the cold out. 

"I should say whiskey, if I were in the Canadian bush, " she suggested. 

"Well, _I_ guess we sha'n't say anything of that sort in _this_ camp, " saidKinney. 

She turned upon Bartley, "I know Mr. Hubbard is dying to do something. Do something, Mr. Hubbard!" Bartley looked up in surprise at thisinterpretation of his tacit wish to distinguish himself before her. "Come, sing us some of your student songs. "

Bartley's vanity had confided the fact of his college training to her, and he was really thinking just then that he would like to give them aserio-comic song, for which he had been famous with his class. He borrowedthe violin of a Kanuck, and, sitting down, strummed upon it banjo-wise. Thesong was one of those which is partly spoken and acted; he really did itvery well; but the Willett and Witherby ladies did not seem to understandit quite; and the gentlemen looked as if they thought this very undignifiedbusiness for an educated American. 

Mrs. Macallister feigned a yawn, and put up her hand to hide it. "_Oh_, what a styupid song!" she said. She sprang to her feet, and began to puton her wraps. The others were glad of this signal to go, and followed herexample. "Good by!" she cried, giving her hand to Kinney. "_I_ don't thinkyour ideas are ridiculous. I think there's no end of good sense in them, Iassure you. I hope you won't leave off that regard for the brain in yourcooking. Good by!" She waved her hand to the Americans, and then to theKanucks, as she passed out between their respectfully parted ranks. "Adieu, messieurs!" She merely nodded to Bartley; the others parted from himcoldly, as he fancied, and it seemed to him that he had been maderesponsible for that woman's coquetries, when he was conscious, all thetime, of having forborne even to meet them half-way. But this was notso much to his credit as he imagined. The flirt can only practise heraudacities safely by grace of those upon whom she uses them, and if menreally met them half-way there could be no such tiling as flirting. 

XI. 

The loggers pulled off their boots and got into their bunks, where some ofthem lay and smoked, while others fell asleep directly. 

Bartley made some indirect approaches to Kinney for sympathy in thesnub which he had received, and which rankled in his mind with unabatedkeenness. 

But Kinney did not respond. "Your bed's ready, " he said. "You can turn inwhenever you like. "

"What's the matter?" asked Bartley. 

"Nothing's the matter, if you say so, " answered Kinney, going about somepreparations for the morning's breakfast. 

Bartley looked at his resentful back. He saw that he was hurt, and hesurmised that Kinney suspected him of making fun of his eccentricities toMrs. Macallister. He _had_ laughed at Kinney, and tried to amuse her withhim; but he could not have made this appear as harmless as it was. He rosefrom the bench on which he had been sitting, and shut with a click thepenknife with which he had been cutting a pattern on its edge. 

"I shall have to say good night to you, I believe, " he said, going to thepeg on which Kinney had hung his hat and overcoat. He had them on, and wasbuttoning the coat in an angry tremor before Kinney looked up and realizedwhat his guest was about. 

"Why, what--why, where--you goin'?" he faltered in dismay. 

"To Equity, " said Bartley, feeling in his coat pockets for his gloves, anddrawing them on, without looking at Kinney, whose great hands were in a panof dough. 

"Why--why--no, you aint!" he protested, with a revulsion of feeling thatswept away all his resentment, and left him nothing but remorse for hisinhospitality. 

"No?" said Bartley, putting up the collar of the first ulster worn by anative in that region. 

"Why, look here!" cried Kinney, pulling his hands out of the dough, andmaking a fruitless effort to cleanse them upon each other. "I don't wantyou to go, this way. "

"Don't you? I'm sorry to disoblige you; but I'm going, " said Bartley. 

Kinney tried to laugh. "Why, Hubbard, --why, Bartley, --why, Bart!" heexclaimed. "What's the matter with you? I aint mad!"

"You have an unfortunate manner, then. Good night. " He strode out betweenthe bunks, full of snoring loggers. 

Kinney hurried after him, imploring and protesting in a low voice, tryingto get before him, and longing to lay his floury paws upon him and detainhim by main force, but even in his distress respecting Bartley's overcoattoo much to touch it. He followed him out into the freezing air in hisshirt-sleeves, and besought him not to be such a fool. "It makes me feellike the devil!" he exclaimed, pitifully. "You come back, now, half aminute, and I'll make it all right with you. I know I can; you're agentleman, and you'll understand. _Do_ come back! I shall never get over itif you don't!"

"I'm sorry, " said Bartley, "but I'm not going back. Good night. "

"Oh, good Lordy!" lamented Kinney. "What am I goin' to do? Why, man! It's agood three mile and more to Equity, and the woods is full of catamounts. Itell ye 't aint safe for ye. " He kept following Bartley down the path tothe road. 

"I'll risk it, " said Bartley. 

Kinney had left the door of the camp open, and the yells and curses of theawakened sleepers recalled him to himself. "Well, well! If you will _go_"he groaned in despair, "here's that money. " He plunged his doughy hand intohis pocket, and pulled out a roll of bills. "Here it is. I haint time tocount it; but it'll be all right, anyhow. "

Bartley did not even turn his head to look round at him. "Keep your money!"he said, as he plunged forward through the snow. "I wouldn't touch a centof it to save your life. "

"All right, " said Kinney, in hapless contrition, and he returned to shuthimself in with the reproaches of the loggers and the upbraiding of his ownheart. 

Bartley dashed along the road in a fury that kept him unconscious of theintense cold; and he passed half the night, when he was once more in hisown room, packing his effects against his departure next day. When all wasdone, he went to bed, half wishing that he might never rise from it again. It was not that he cared for Kinney; that fool's sulking was only theclimax of a long series of injuries of which he was the victim at the handsof a hypercritical omnipotence. 

Despite his conviction that it was useless to struggle longer against suchinjustice, he lived through the night, and came down late to breakfast, which he found stale, and without the compensating advantage of findinghimself alone at the table. Some ladies had lingered there to clear up onthe best authority the distracting rumors concerning him which they hadheard the day before. Was it true that he had intended to spend the rest ofthe winter in logging? and _was_ it true that he was going to give up theFree Press? and was it _true_ that Henry Bird was going to be the editor?Bartley gave a sarcastic confirmation to all these reports, and went out tothe printing-office to gather up some things of his. He found Henry Birdthere, looking pale and sick, but at work, and seemingly in authority. Thiswas what Bartley had always intended when he should go out, but he did notlike it, and he resented some small changes that had already been made inthe editor's room, in tacit recognition of his purpose not to occupy itagain. 

Bird greeted him stiffly; the printer girls briefly nodded to him, suppressing some little hysterical titters, and tacitly let him feel thathe was no longer master there. While he was in the composing-room HannahMorrison came in, apparently from some errand outside, and, catching sightof him, stared, and pertly passed him in silence. On his inkstand he founda letter from Squire Gaylord, briefly auditing his last account, andenclosing the balance due him. From this the old lawyer, with the carefulsmallness of a village business man, had deducted various little sums forthings which Bartley had never expected to pay for. With a like thriftinessthe landlord, when Bartley asked for his bill, had charged certain itemsthat had not appeared in the bills before. Bartley felt that the chargeswere trumped up; but he was powerless to dispute them; besides, he hopedto sell the landlord his colt and cutter, and he did not care to prejudicethat matter. Some bills from storekeepers, which he thought he had paid, were handed to him by the landlord, and each of the churches had sent ina little account for pew-rent for the past eighteen months: he had alwaysbelieved himself dead-headed at church. He outlawed the latter by tearingthem to pieces in the landlord's presence, and dropping the fragments intoa spittoon. It seemed to him that every soul in Equity was making a clutchat the rapidly diminishing sum of money which Squire Gaylord had enclosedto him, and which was all he had in the world. On the other hand, hispopularity in the village seemed to have vanished over night. He hadsometimes fancied a general and rebellious grief when it should becomeknown that he was going away; but instead there was an acquiescenceamounting to airiness. 

He wondered if anything about his affairs with Henry Bird and HannahMorrison had leaked out. But he did not care. He only wished to shake thesnow of Equity off his feet as soon as possible. 

After dinner, when the boarders had gone out, and the loafers had not yetgathered in, he offered the landlord his colt and cutter. Bartley knew thatthe landlord wanted the colt; but now the latter said, "I don't know as Icare to buy any horses, right in the winter, this way. "

"All right, " answered Bartley. "Just have the colt put into the cutter. "

Andy Morrison brought it round. The boy looked at Bartley's set face witha sort of awe-stricken affection; his adoration for the young man survivedall that he had heard said against him at home during the series of familyquarrels that had ensued upon his father's interview with him; he longed totestify, somehow, his unabated loyalty, but he could not think of anythingto do, much less to say. 

Bartley pitched his valise into the cutter, and then, as Andy left thehorse's head to give him a hand with his trunk, offered him a dollar. "Idon't want anything, " said the boy, shyly refusing the money out of pureaffection. 

But Bartley mistook his motive, and thought it sulky resentment. "Oh, verywell, " he said. "Take hold. "

The landlord came out. "Hold on a minute, " he said. "Where you goin' totake the cars?"

"At the Junction, " answered Bartley. "I know a man there that will buy thecolt. What is it you want?"

The landlord stepped back a few paces, and surveyed the establishment. "Ishould like to ride after that hoss, " he said, "if you aint in any great ofa hurry. "

"Get in, " said Bartley, and the landlord took the reins. 

From time to time, as he drove, he rose up and looked over the dashboard tostudy the gait of the horse. "I've noticed he strikes some, when he firstcomes out in the spring. "

"Yes, " Bartley assented. 

"Pulls consid'able. "

"He pulls. "

The landlord rose again and scrutinized the horse's legs. "I don't know asI ever noticed 't he'd capped his hock before. "

"Didn't you?"

"Done it kickin' nights, I guess. "

"I guess so. "

The landlord drew the whip lightly across the colt's rear; he shranktogether, and made a little spring forward, but behaved perfectly well. 

"I don't know as I should always be sure he wouldn't kick in the daytime. "

"No, " said Bartley, "you never can be sure of anything. "

They drove along in silence. At last the landlord said, "Well, he aint sofast as I _supposed_. "

"He's not so fast a horse as some, " answered Bartley. 

The landlord leaned over sidewise for an inspection of the colt's actionforward. "Haint never thought he had a splint on that forward off leg?"

"A splint? Perhaps he has a splint. "

They returned to the hotel and both alighted. 

"Skittish devil, " remarked the landlord, as the colt quivered under thehand he laid upon him. 

"He's skittish, " said Bartley. 

The landlord retired as far back as the door, and regarded the coltcritically. "Well, I s'pose you've always used him too well ever to windedhim, but dumn 'f he don't _blow_ like it. "

"Look here, Simpson, " said Bartley, very quietly. "You know this horse aswell as I do, and you know there isn't an out about him. You want to buyhim because you always have. Now make me an offer. "

"Well, " groaned the landlord, "what'll you take for the whole rig, just asit stands, --colt, cutter, leathers, and robe?"

"Two hundred dollars, " promptly replied Bartley. 

"I'll give ye seventy-five, " returned the landlord with equal promptness. 

"Andy, take hold of the end of that trunk, will you?"

The landlord allowed them to put the trunk into the cutter. Bartley got intoo, and, shifting the baggage to one side, folded the robe around him fromhis middle down and took his seat. "This colt can road you right along allday inside of five minutes, and he can trot inside of two-thirty everytime; and you know it as well as I do. "

"Well, " said the landlord, "make it an even hundred. "

Bartley leaned forward and gathered up the reins, "Let go his head, Andy, "he quietly commanded. 

"Make it one and a quarter, " cried the landlord, not seeing that his chancewas past. "What do you say?"

What Bartley said, as he touched the colt with the whip, the landlord neverknew. He stood watching the cutter's swift disappearance up the road, in asort of stupid expectation of its return. When he realized that Bartley'sdeparture was final, he said under his breath, "Sold, ye dumned old fool, and serve ye right, " and went in-doors with a feeling of admiration! forcolt and man that bordered on reverence. 

XII. 

This last drop of the local meanness filled Bartley's bitter cup. As hepassed the house at the end of the street he seemed to drain it all. Heknew that the old lawyer was there sitting by the office stove, drawing hishand across his chin, and Bartley hoped that he was still as miserable ashe had looked when he last saw him; but he did not know that by the windowin the house, which he would not even look at, Marcia sat self-prisoned inher room, with her eyes upon the road, famishing for the thousandth part ofa chance to see him pass. She saw him now for the instant of his coming andgoing. With eyes trained to take in every point, she saw the preparationwhich seemed like final departure, and with a gasp of "Bartley!" as if shewere trying to call after him, she sank back into her chair and shut hereyes. 

He drove on, plunging into the deep hollow beyond the house, and keepingfor several miles the road they had taken on that Sunday together; but hedid not make the turn that brought them back to the village again. The palesunset was slanting over the snow when he reached the Junction, for hehad slackened his colt's pace after he had put ten miles behind him, notchoosing to reach a prospective purchaser with his horse all blown andbathed with sweat. He wished to be able to say, "Look at him! He's comefifteen miles since three o'clock, and he's as keen as when he started. "

This was true, when, having left his baggage at the Junction, he droveanother mile into the country to see the farmer of the gentleman who hadhis summer-house here, and who had once bantered Bartley to sell him hiscolt. The farmer was away, and would not be at home till the up-train fromBoston was in. Bartley looked at his watch, and saw that to wait wouldlose him the six o'clock down-train. There would be no other till eleveno'clock. But it was worth while: the gentleman had said, "When you want themoney for that colt, bring him over any time; my farmer will have it readyfor you. " He waited for the up-train; but when the farmer arrived, he wasfull of all sorts of scruples and reluctances. He said he should not liketo buy it till he had heard from Mr. Farnham; he ended by offering Bartleyeighty dollars for the colt on his own account; he did not want the cutter. 

"You write to Mr. Farnham, " said Bartley, "that you tried that plan withme, and it wouldn't work, he's lost the colt. "

He made this brave show of indifference, but he was disheartened, and, having carried the farmer home from the Junction for the convenience oftalking over the trade with him, he drove back again through the earlynight-fall in sullen desperation. 

The weather had softened and was threatening rain or snow; the dark wasclosing in spiritlessly; the colt, shortening from a trot into a short, springy jolt, dropped into a walk at last as if he were tired, and gaveBartley time enough on his way back to the Junction for reflection upon thedisaster into which his life had fallen. These passages of utter despairare commoner to the young than they are to those whom years haveexperienced in the impermanence of any fate, good, bad, or indifferent, unless, perhaps, the last may seem rather constant. Taken in reference toall that had been ten days ago, the present ruin was incredible, and hadnothing reasonable in proof of its existence. Then he was prosperouslyplaced, and in the way to better himself indefinitely. Now, he was here inthe dark, with fifteen dollars in his pocket, and an unsalable horse on hishands; outcast, deserted, homeless, hopeless: and by whose fault? He ownedeven then that he had committed some follies; but in his sense of Marcia'sall-giving love he had risen for once in his life to a conception ofself-devotion, and in taking herself from him as she did, she had takenfrom him the highest incentive he had ever known, and had checked him inhis first feeble impulse to do and be all in all for another. It was shewho had ruined him. 

As he jumped out of the cutter at the Junction the station-master stoppedwith a cluster of party-colored signal-lanterns in his hand and cast theirlight over the sorrel. 

"Nice colt you got there. "

"Yes, " said Bartley, blanketing the horse, "do you know anybody who wantsto buy?"

"Whose is he?" asked the man. 

"He's mine!" shouted Bartley. "Do you think I stole him?"

"I don't know where you got him, " said the man, walking off, and making asoft play of red and green lights on the snow beyond the narrow platform. 

Bartley went into the great ugly barn of a station, trembling, and sat downin one of the gouged and whittled arm-chairs near the stove. A pomp oftimetables and luminous advertisements of Western railroads and theirland-grants decorated the wooden walls of the gentlemen's waiting-room, which had been sanded to keep the gentlemen from writing and sketching uponthem. This was the more judicious because the ladies' room, in the absenceof tourist travel, was locked in winter, and they were obliged to share thegentlemen's. In summer, the Junction was a busy place, but after the snowfell, and until the snow thawed, it was a desolation relieved only by thearrival of the sparsely peopled through-trains from the north and east, andby such local travellers as wished to take trains not stopping at their ownstations. These broke in upon the solitude of the joint station-master andbaggage-man and switch-tender with just sufficient frequency to keep himin a state of uncharitable irritation and unrest. To-night Bartley was thesole intruder, and he sat by the stove wrapped in a cloud of rebelliousmemories, when one side of a colloquy without made itself heard. 

"What?"

Some question was repeated. 

"No; it went down half an hour ago. "

An inaudible question followed. 

"Next down-train at eleven. "

There was now a faintly audible lament or appeal. 

"Guess you'll have to come earlier next time. Most folks doos that wants totake it. "

Bartley now heard the despairing moan of a woman: he had already divinedthe sex of the futile questioner whom the station-master was bullying; buthe had divined it without compassion, and if he had not himself been asufferer from the man's insolence he might even have felt a ferocioussatisfaction in it. In a word, he was at his lowest and worst when thedoor opened and the woman came in, with a movement at once bewildered anddaring, which gave him the impression of a despair as complete and final ashis own. He doggedly kept his place; she did not seem to care for him, butin the uncertain light of the lamp above them she drew near the stove, and, putting one hand to her pocket as if to find her handkerchief, she flungaside her veil with her other, and showed her tear stained face. 

He was on his feet somehow. "Marcia!"

"Oh! Bartley--"

He had seized her by the arm to make sure that she was there in verity offlesh and blood, and not by some trick of his own senses, as a cold chillrunning over him had made him afraid. At the touch their passion ignoredall that they had made each other suffer; her head was on his breast, hisembrace was round her; it was a moment of delirious bliss that intervenedbetween the sorrows that had been and the reasons that must come. 

"What--what are you doing here, Marcia?" he asked at last. 

They sank on the benching that ran round the wall; he held her hands fastin one of his, and kept his other arm about her as they sat side by side. 

"I don't know--I--" She seemed to rouse herself by an effort from herrapture. "I was going to see Nettie Spaulding. And I saw you driving pastour house; and I thought you were coming here; and I couldn't bear--Icouldn't bear to let you go away without telling you that I was wrong; andasking--asking you to forgive me. I thought you would do it, --I thought youwould know that I had behaved that way because I--I--cared so much for you. I thought--I was afraid you had gone on the other train--" She trembled andsank back in his embrace, from which she had lifted herself a little. 

"How did you get here?" asked Bartley, as if willing to give himself allthe proofs he could of the every-day reality of her presence. 

"Andy Morrison brought me. Father sent him from the hotel. I didn't carewhat you would say to me, I wanted to tell you that I was wrong, and notlet you go away feeling that--that--you were all to blame. I thought whenI had done that you might drive me away, --or laugh at me, or anything youpleased, if only you would let me take back--"

"Yes, " he answered dreamily. All that wicked hardness was breaking upwithin him; he felt it melting drop by drop in his heart. This poorlove-tossed soul, this frantic, unguided, reckless girl, was an angel ofmercy to him, and in her folly and error a messenger of heavenly peace andhope. "I am a bad fellow, Marcia, " he faltered. "You ought to know" that. You did right to give me up. I made love to Hannah Morrison; I neverpromised to marry her, but I made her think that I was fond of her. "

"I don't care for that, " replied the girl. "I told you when we were firstengaged that I would never think of anything that had gone before that;and then when I would not listen to a word from you, that day, I broke mypromise. "

"When I struck Henry Bird because he was jealous of me, I was as guilty asif I had killed him. "

"If you had killed him, I was bound to you by my word. Your striking himwas part of the same thing, --part of what I had promised I never wouldcare for. " A gush of tears came into his eyes, and she saw them. "Oh, poorBartley! Poor Bartley!"

She took his head between her hands and pressed it hard against her heart, and then wrapped her arms tight about him, and softly bemoaned him. 

They drew a little apart when the man came in with his lantern, and set itdown to mend the fire. But as a railroad employee he was far too familiarwith the love that vaunts itself on all railroad trains to feel that he wasan intruder. He scarcely looked at them, and went out when he had mendedthe fire, and left it purring. 

"Where is Andy Morrison?" asked Bartley. "Has he gone back?"

"No; he is at the hotel over there. I told him to wait till I found outwhen the train went north. "

"So you inquired when it went to Boston, " said Bartley, with a touch of hisold raillery. "Come, " he added, taking her hand under his arm. He led herout of the room, to where his cutter stood outside. She was astonished tofind the colt there. 

"I wonder I didn't see it. But if I had, I should have thought that you hadsold it and gone away; Andy told me you were coming here to sell the colt. When the man told me the express was gone, I knew you were on it. "

They found the boy stolidly waiting for Marcia on the veranda of the hotel, stamping first upon one foot and then the other, and hugging himself in hisgreat-coat as the coming snow-fall blew its first flakes in his face. 

"Is that you, Andy?" asked Bartley. 

"Yes, sir, " answered the boy, without surprise at finding him with Marcia. 

"Well, here! Just take hold of the colt's head a minute. "

As the boy obeyed, Bartley threw the reins on the dashboard, and leaped outof the cutter, and went within. He returned after a brief absence, followedby the landlord. 

"Well, it ain't more 'n a mile 'n a half, if it's that. You just keepstraight along this street, and take your first turn to the left, andyou're right at the house; it's the first house on the left-hand side. "

"Thanks, " returned Bartley. "Andy, you tell the Squire that you left Marciawith me, and I said I would see about her getting back. You needn't hurry. "

"All right, " said the boy, and he disappeared round the corner of the houseto get his horse from the barn. 

"Well, I'll be all ready by the time you're here, " said the landlord, stillholding the hall-door ajar, "Luck _to_ you!" he shouted, shutting it. 

Marcia locked both her hands through Bartley's arm, and leaned her head onhis shoulder. Neither spoke for some minutes; then he asked, "Marcia, doyou know where you are?"

"With you, " she answered, in a voice of utter peace. 

"Do you know where we are going?" he asked, leaning over to kiss her cold, pure cheek. 

"No, " she answered in as perfect content as before. 

"We are going to get married. "

He felt her grow tense in her clasp upon his arm, and hold there rigidlyfor a moment, while the swift thoughts whirled through her mind. Then, asif the struggle had ended, she silently relaxed, and leaned more heavilyagainst him. 

"There's still time to go back, Marcia, " he said, "if you wish. That turnto the right, yonder, will take us to Equity, and you can be at home in twohours. " She quivered. "I'm a poor man, --I suppose you know that; I've onlygot fifteen dollars in the world, and the colt here. I know I can get on;I'm not afraid for myself; but if you would rather wait, --if you're notperfectly certain of yourself, --remember, it's going to be a struggle;we're going to have some hard times--"

"You forgive me?" she huskily asked, for all answer, without moving herhead from where it lay. 

"Yes, Marcia. "

"Then--hurry. "

The minister was an old man, and he seemed quite dazed at the suddennessof their demand for his services. But he gathered himself together, and contrived to make them man and wife, and to give them his marriagecertificate. 

"It seems as if there were something else, " he said, absently, as he handedthe paper to Bartley. 

"Perhaps it's this, " said Bartley, giving him a five-dollar note in return. 

"Ah, perhaps, " he replied, in unabated perplexity. He bade them serve God, and let them out into the snowy night, through which they drove back to thehotel. 

The landlord had kindled a fire on the hearth of the Franklin stove in hisparlor, and the blazing hickory snapped in electrical sympathy with thestorm when they shut themselves into the bright room, and Bartley tookMarcia fondly into his arms. 

"Wife!"

"Husband!"

They sat down before the fire, hand in hand, and talked of the light thingsthat swim to the top, and eddy round and round on the surface of ourdeepest moods. They made merry over the old minister's perturbation, whichBartley found endlessly amusing. Then he noticed that the dress Marcia hadon was the one she had worn to the sociable in Lower Equity, and she said, yes, she had put it on because he once said he liked it. He asked her when, and she said, oh, she knew; but if he could not remember, she was not goingto tell him. Then she wanted to know if he recognized her by the dressbefore she lifted her veil in the station. 

"No, " he said, with a teasing laugh. "I wasn't thinking of you. "

"Oh, Bartley!" she joyfully reproached him. "You must have been!"

"Yes, I was! I was so mad at you, that I was glad to have that brute of astation-master bullying _some_ woman!"

"Bartley!"

He sat holding her hand. "Marcia, " he said, gravely, "we must write to yourfather at once, and tell him. I want to begin life in the right way, and Ithink it's only fair to him. "

She was enraptured at his magnanimity. "Bartley! That's _like_ you! Poorfather! I declare--Bartley, I'm afraid I had forgotten him! It's dreadful;but--_you_ put everything else out of my head. I do believe I've died andcome to life somewhere else!"

"Well, _I_ haven't, " said Bartley, "and I guess you'd better write to yourfather. _You'd_ better write; at present, he and I are not on speakingterms. Here!" He took out his note-book, and gave her his stylographic penafter striking the fist that held it upon his other fist, in the fashion ofthe amateurs of that reluctant instrument, in order to bring down the ink. 

"Oh, what's that?" she asked. 

"It's a new kind of pen. I got it for a notice in the Free Press. "

"Is Henry Bird going to edit the paper?"

"I don't know, and I don't care, " answered Bartley. 

"I'll go out and get an envelope, and ask the landlord what's the quickestway to get the letter to your father. "

He took up his hat, but she laid her hand on his arm. "Oh, send for him!"she said. 

"Are you afraid I sha'n't come back?" he demanded, with a laughing kiss. "Iwant to see him about something else, too. "

"Well, don't be gone long. "

They parted with an embrace that would have fortified older married peoplefor a year's separation. When Bartley came back, she handed him the leafshe had torn out of his book, and sat down beside him while he read it, with her arm over his shoulder. 

"Dear father, " the letter ran, "Bartley and I are married. We were marriedan hour ago, just across the New Hampshire line, by the Rev. Mr. Jessup. Bartley wants I should let you know the very first thing. I am going toBoston with Bartley to-night, and, as soon as we get settled there, I willwrite again. I want you should forgive us both; but if you wont forgiveBartley, you mustn't forgive me. You were mistaken about Bartley, and I wasright. Bartley has told me everything, and I am perfectly satisfied. Loveto mother. 

"MARCIA. "

"P. S. --I _did_ intend to visit Netty Spaulding. But I saw Bartley drivingpast on his way to the Junction, and I determined to see him if I couldbefore he started for Boston, and tell him I was all wrong, no matter whathe said or did afterwards. I ought to have told you I meant to see Bartley;but then you would not have let me come, and if I had not come, I shouldhave died. "

"There's a good deal of Bartley in it, " said the young man with a laugh. 

"You don't like it!"

"Yes, I do; it's all right. Did you use to take the prize for compositionat boarding-school?"

"Why, I think it's a very good letter for when I'm in such an excitedstate. "

"It's beautiful!" cried Bartley, laughing more and more. The tears startedto her eyes. 

"Marcia, " said her husband fondly, "what a child you are! If ever I doanything to betray your trust in me--"

There came a shuffling of feet outside the door, a clinking of glass andcrockery, and a jarring sort of blow, as if some one were trying to rap onthe panel with the edge of a heavy-laden waiter. Bartley threw the dooropen and found the landlord there, red and smiling, with the waiter in hishand. 

"I thought I'd bring your supper in here, you know, " he explainedconfidentially, "so 's't you could have it a little more snug. And my wifeshe kind o' got wind o' what was going on, --women will, you know, " he saidwith a wink, --"and she's sent ye in some hot biscuit and a little jell, andsome of her cake. " He set the waiter down on the table, and stood admiringits mystery of napkined dishes. "She guessed you wouldn't object to somecold chicken, and she's put a little of that on. Sha'n't cost ye any more, "he hastened to assure them. "Now this is your room till the train comes, and there aint agoin' to anybody come in here. So you can make yourselvesat home. And _I_ hope you'll enjoy your supper as much as we did ourn thenight _we_ was married. There! I guess I'll let the lady fix the table; shelooks as if she knowed how. "

He got himself out of the room again, and then Marcia, who had made himsome embarrassed thanks, burst out in praise of his pleasantness. 

"Well, he ought to be pleasant, " said Bartley, "he's just beaten me on ahorse-trade. I've sold him the colt. "

"Sold him the colt!" cried Marcia, tragically dropping the napkin she hadlifted from the plate of cold chicken. 

"Well, we couldn't very well have taken him to Boston with us. And wecouldn't have got there without selling him. You know you haven't married amillionnaire, Marcia. "

"How much did you get for the colt?"

"Oh, I didn't do so badly. I got a hundred and fifty for him. "

"And you had fifteen besides. "

"That was before we were married. I gave the minister five for you, --Ithink you are worth it, I wanted to give fifteen. "

"Well, then, you have a hundred and sixty now. Isn't that a great deal?"

"An everlasting lot, " said Bartley, with an impatient laugh. "Don't let thesupper cool, Marcia!"

She silently set out the feast, but regarded it ruefully. "You oughtn't tohave ordered so much, Bartley, " she said. "You couldn't afford it. "

"I can afford anything when I'm hungry. Besides. I only ordered the oystersand coffee; all the rest is conscience money--or sentiment--from thelandlord. Come, come! cheer up, now! We sha'n't starve to-night, anyhow. "

"Well, I know father will help us. "

"We sha'n't count on him, " said Bartley. "Now _drop_ it!" He put his armround her shoulders and pressed her against him, till she raised her facefor his kiss. 

"Well, I _will!"_ she said, and the shadow lifted itself from their weddingfeast, and they sat down and made merry as if they had all the money in theworld to spend. They laughed and joked; they praised the things they liked, and made fun of the others. 

"How strange! How perfectly impossible it all seems! Why, last night I wastaking supper at Kinney's logging-camp, and hating you at every mouthfulwith all my might. Everything seemed against me, and I was feeling ugly, and flirting like mad with a fool from Montreal: she had come out therefrom Portland for a frolic with the owners' party. You made me do it, Marcia!" he cried jestingly. "And remember that, if you want me to be good, you must be kind. The other thing seems to make me worse and worse. "

"I will, --I will, Bartley. " she said humbly. "I will try to be kind andpatient with you. I will indeed. "

He threw back his head, and laughed and laughed. "Poor--poor old Kinney!He's the cook, you know, and he thought I'd been making fun of him to thatwoman, and he behaved so, after they were gone, that I started home in arage; and he followed me out with his hands all covered with dough, andwanted to stop me, but he couldn't for fear of spoiling my clothes--" Helost himself in another paroxysm. 

Marcia smiled a little. Then, "What sort of a looking person was she?" shetremulously asked. 

Bartley stopped abruptly. "Not one ten-thousandth part as good-looking, nor one millionth part as bright, as Marcia Hubbard!" He caught her andsmothered her against his breast. 

"I don't care! I don't care!" she cried. "I was to blame more than you, if you flirted with her, and it serves me right. Yes, I will never sayanything to you for anything that happened after I behaved so to you. "

"There wasn't anything else happened, " cried Bartley. "And the Montrealwoman snubbed me soundly before she was done with me. "

"Snubbed you!" exclaimed Marcia, with illogical indignation. This delightedBartley so much that it was long before he left off laughing over her. 

Then they sat down, and were silent till she said, "And did you leave himin a temper?"

"Who? Kinney? In a perfect devil of a temper. I wouldn't even borrow somemoney he wanted to lend me. "

"Write to him, Bartley, " said his wife, seriously. "I love you so I can'tbear to have anybody bad friends with you. "

XIII. 

The whole thing was so crazy, as Bartley said, that it made no differenceif they kept up the expense a few days longer. He took a hack from thedepot when they arrived in Boston, and drove to the Revere House, insteadof going up in the horse-car. He entered his name on the register with aflourish, "Bartley J. Hubbard and Wife, _Boston_, " and asked for a room andfire, with laconic gruffness; but the clerk knew him at once for a countryperson, and when the call-boy followed him into the parlor where Marciasat, in the tremor into which she fell whenever Bartley was out of hersight, the call-boy discerned her provinciality at a glance, and made freeto say that he guessed they had better let him take their things up totheir room, and come up themselves after the porter had got their firegoing. 

"All right, " said Bartley, with hauteur; and he added, for no reason, "Bequick about it. "

"Yes, sir, " said the boy. 

"What time is supper--dinner, I mean?"

"It's ready now, sir. "

"Good. Take up the things. Come just as you are, Marcia. Let him take yourcap, --no, keep it on; a good many of them come down in their bonnets. "

Marcia put off her sack and gloves, and hastily repaired the ravages oftravel as best she could. She would have liked to go to her room just longenough to brush her hair a little, and the fur cap made her head hot; butshe was suddenly afraid of doing something that would seem countrified inBartley's eyes, and she promptly obeyed: they had come from Portland in aparlor car, and she had been able to make a traveller's toilet before theyreached Boston. 

She had been at Portland several times with her father; but he stopped at asecond-class hotel where he had always "put up" when alone, and she was newto the vastness of hotel mirrors and chandeliers, the glossy paint, thefrescoing, the fluted pillars, the tessellated marble pavements upon whichshe stepped when she left the Brussels carpeting of the parlors. She clungto Bartley's arm, silently praying that she might not do anything tomortify him, and admiring everything he did with all her soul. He made ahalt as they entered the glittering dining-room, and stood frowning tillthe head-waiter ran respectfully up to them, and ushered them with sweepingbows to a table, which they had to themselves. Bartley ordered their dinnerwith nonchalant ease, beginning with soup and going to black coffee withdazzling intelligence. While their waiter was gone with their order, hebeckoned with one finger to another, and sent him out for a paper, which heunfolded and spread on the table, taking a toothpick into his mouth, andrunning the sheet over with his eyes. "I just want to see what's going onto-night, " he said, without looking at Marcia. 

She made a little murmur of acquiescence in her throat, but she could notspeak for strangeness. She began to steal little timid glances about, andto notice the people at the other tables. In her heart she did not find theladies so very well dressed as she had expected the Boston ladies to be;and there was no gentleman there to compare with Bartley, either in styleor looks. She let her eyes finally dwell on him, wishing that he would puthis paper away and say something, but afraid to ask, lest it should not bequite right: all the other gentlemen were reading papers. She was feelinglonesome and homesick, when he suddenly glanced at her and said, "Howpretty you look, Marsh!"

"Do I?" she asked, with a little grateful throb, while her eyes joyfullysuffused themselves. 

"Pretty as a pink, " he returned. "Gay, --isn't it?" he continued, with awink that took her into his confidence again, from which his study of thenewspaper had seemed to exclude her. "I'll tell you what I'm going todo: I'm going to take you to the Museum after dinner, and let you seeBoucicault in the 'Colleen Bawn. '" He swept his paper off the table andunfolded his napkin in his lap, and, leaning back in his chair, began totell her about the play. "We can walk: it's only just round the corner, " hesaid at the end. 

Marcia crept into the shelter of his talk, --he sometimes spoke ratherloud, --and was submissively silent. When they got into their ownroom, --which had gilt lambrequin frames, and a chandelier of three burners, and a marble mantel, and marble-topped table and washstand, --and Bartleyturned up the flaring gas, she quite broke down, and cried on his breast, to make sure that she had got him all back again. 

"Why, Marcia!" he said. "I know just how you feel. Don't you suppose Iunderstand as well as you do that we're a country couple? But I'm not goingto give myself away; and you mustn't, either. There wasn't a woman in thatroom that could compare with you, --_dress_ or looks!"

"You were splendid, " she whispered, "and just like the rest! and that mademe feel somehow as if I had lost you. "

"I know, --I saw just how you felt; but I wasn't going to say anything forfear you'd give way right there. Come, there's plenty of time beforethe play begins. I call this _nice_! Old-fashioned, rather, in thedecorations, " he said, "but pretty good for its time. " He had pulled up twoarm-chairs in front of the glowing grate of anthracite; as he spoke, hecast his eyes about the room, and she followed his glance obediently. Hehad kept her hand in his, and now he held her slim finger-tips in the fistwhich he rested on his knee. "No; I'll tell you what, Marcia, if you wantto get on in a city, there's no use being afraid of people. No use beingafraid of _anything_, so long as we're good to each other. And you've gotto believe in me right along. Don't you let anything get you on the wrongtrack. I believe that as long as you have faith in me, I shall deserve it;and when you don't--"

"Oh, Bartley, you know I didn't doubt you! I just got to thinking, and Iwas a little worked up! I suppose I'm excited. "

"I knew it! I knew it!" cried her husband. "Don't you suppose I understand_you?"_

They talked a long time together, and made each other loving promises ofpatience. They confessed their faults, and pledged each other that theywould try hard to overcome them. They wished to be good; they both feltthey had much to retrieve; but they had no concealments, and they knewthat was the best way to begin the future, of which they did their best toconceive seriously. Bartley told her his plans about getting some newspaperwork till he could complete his law studies. He meant to settle down topractice in Boston. "You have to wait longer for it than you would in acountry place; but when you get it, it's worth while. " He asked Marciawhether she would look up his friend Halleck if she were in his place; buthe did not give her time to decide. "I guess I won't do it. Not just yet, at any rate. He might suppose that I wanted something of him. I'll call onhim when I don't need his help. "

Perhaps, if they had not planned to go to the theatre, they would havestaid where they were, for they were tired, and it was very cosey. But whenthey were once in the street, they were glad they had come out. BowdoinSquare and Court Street and Tremont Row were a glitter of gas-lights, andthose shops, with their placarded bargains, dazzled Marcia. 

"Is it one of the principal streets?" she asked Bartley. 

He gave the laugh of a veteran _habitué_ of Boston. "Tremont Row? No. Waittill I show you Washington Street to-morrow. There's the Museum, " he said, pointing to the long row of globed lights on the façade of the building. "Here we are in Scollay Square. There's Hanover Street; there's Cornhill;Court crooks down that way; there's Pemberton Square. "

His familiarity with these names estranged him to her again; she clung thecloser to his arm, and caught her breath nervously as they turned in withthe crowd that was climbing the stairs to the box-office of the theatre. Bartley left her a moment, while he pushed his way up to the little windowand bought the tickets. "First-rate seats, " he said, coming back to her, and taking her hand under his arm again, "and a great piece of luck. Theywere just returned for sale by the man in front of me, or I should have hadto take something 'way up in the gallery. There's a regular jam. These areright in the centre of the parquet. "

Marcia did not know what the parquet was; she heard its name with thecertainty that but for Bartley she should not be equal to it. All hervillage pride was quelled; she had only enough self-control to act uponBartley's instructions not to give herself away by any conviction ofrusticity. They passed in through the long, colonnaded vestibule, with itspaintings, and plaster casts, and rows of birds and animals in glass caseson either side, and she gave scarcely a glance at any of those objects, endeared by association, if not by intrinsic beauty, to the Bostonplay-goer. Gulliver, with the Liliputians swarming upon him; thepainty-necked ostriches and pelicans; the mummied mermaid under a glassbell; the governors' portraits; the stuffed elephant; Washington crossingthe Delaware; Cleopatra applying the asp; Sir William Pepperell, at fulllength, on canvas; and the pagan months and seasons in plaster, --if allthese are, indeed, the subjects, --were dim phantasmagoria amid which sheand Bartley moved scarcely more real. The usher, in his dress-coat, ran upthe aisle to take their checks, and led them down to their seats; half adozen elegant people stood to let them into their places; the theatre wasfilled with faces. At Portland, where she saw the "Lady of Lyons, " with herfather, three-quarters of the house was empty. 

Bartley only had time to lean over and whisper, "The place is packed withBeacon Street swells, --it's a regular field night, "--when the bell tinkledand the curtain rose. 

As the play went on, the rich jacqueminot-red flamed into her cheeks, andburnt there a steady blaze to the end. The people about her laughed andclapped, and at times they seemed to be crying. But Marcia sat throughevery part as stoical as a savage, making no sign, except for the flamingcolor in her cheeks, of interest or intelligence. Bartley talked of theplay all the way home, but she said nothing, and in their own room heasked: "Didn't you really like it? Were you disappointed? I haven't beenable to get a word out of you about it. Didn't you like Boucicault?"

"I didn't know which he was, " she answered, with impassioned exaltation. "Ididn't care for him. I only thought of that poor girl, and her husband whodespised her--"

She stopped. Bartley looked at her a moment, and then caught her to him andfell a-laughing over her, till it seemed as if he never would end. "And youthought--you thought, " he cried, trying to get his breath, --"you thoughtyou were Eily, and I was Hardress Cregan! Oh, I see, I see!" He went onmaking a mock and a burlesque of her tragical hallucination till shelaughed with him at last. When he put his hand up to turn out the gas, hebegan his joking afresh. "The real thing for Hardress to do, " he said, fumbling for the key, "is to _blow_ it out. That's what Hardress usuallydoes when he comes up from the rural districts with Eily on their bridaltour. That finishes off Eily, without troubling Danny Mann. The onlydrawback is that it finishes off Hardress, too: they're both foundsuffocated in the morning. "

XIV. 

The next day, after breakfast, while they stood together before the parlorfire, Bartley proposed one plan after another for spending the day. Marciarejected them all, with perfectly recovered self-composure. 

"Then what _shall_ we do?" he asked, at last. 

"Oh, I don't know, " she answered, rather absently. She added, after aninterval, smoothing the warm front of her dress, and putting her foot onthe fender, "What did those theatre-tickets cost?"

"Two dollars, " he replied carelessly. "Why?"

Marcia gasped. "Two dollars! Oh, Bartley, we couldn't afford it!"

"It seems we did. "

"And here, --how much are we paying here?"

"That room, with fire, " said Bartley, stretching himself, "is seven dollarsa day--"

"We mustn't stay another instant!" said Marcia, all a woman's terror ofspending money on anything but dress, all a wife's conservative instinct, rising within her. "How much have you got left?"

Bartley took out his pocket-book and counted over the bills in it. "Ahundred and twenty dollars. "

"Why, what has become of it all? We had a hundred and sixty!"

"Well, our railroad tickets were nineteen, the sleeping-car was three, theparlor-car was three, the theatre was two, the hack was fifty cents, andwe'll have to put down the other two and a half to refreshments. "

Marcia listened in dismay. At the end she drew a long breath. "Well, wemust go away from here as soon as possible, --that I know. We'll go out andfind some boarding-place. That's the first thing. "

"Oh, now, Marcia, you're not going to be so severe as that, are you?"pleaded Bartley. "A few dollars, more or less, are not going to keep us outof the poorhouse. I just want to stay here three days: that will leave usa clean hundred, and we can start fair. " He was half joking, but she waswholly serious. 

"No, Bartley! Not another hour, --not another minute! Come!" She took hisarm and bent it up into a crook, where she put her hand, and pulled himtoward the door. 

"Well, after all, " he said, "it will be some fun looking up a room. "

There was no one else in the parlor; in going to the door they took somewaltzing steps together. 

While she dressed to go out, he looked up places where rooms were let withor without board, in the newspaper. "There don't seem to be a great many, "he said meditatively, bending over the open sheet. But he cut out half adozen advertisements with his editorial scissors, and they started upontheir search. 

They climbed those pleasant old up-hill streets that converge to the StateHouse, and looked into the houses on the quiet Places that stretch from onethoroughfare to another. They had decided that they would be content withtwo small rooms, one for a chamber, and the other for a parlor, where theycould have a fire. They found exactly what they wanted in the first housewhere they applied, one flight up, with sunny windows, looking down thestreet; but it made Marcia's blood run cold when the landlady said thatthe price was thirty dollars a week. At another place the rooms were onlytwenty; the position was as good, and the carpet and furniture prettier. This was still too dear, but it seemed comparatively reasonable till itappeared that this was the price without board. 

"I think we should prefer rooms with board, shouldn't we?" asked Bartley, with a sly look at Marcia. 

The prices were of all degrees of exorbitance, and they varied for noreason from house to house; one landlady had been accustomed to take moreand another less, but never little enough for Marcia, who overruled Bartleyagain and again when he wished to close with some small abatement of terms. She declared now that they must put up with one room, and they must notcare what floor it was on. But the cheapest room with board was fourteendollars a week, and Marcia had fixed her ideal at ten: even that was toohigh for them. 

"The best way will be to go back to the Revere House, at seven dollarsa day, " said Bartley. He had lately been leaving the transaction of thebusiness entirely to Marcia, who had rapidly acquired alertness anddecision in it. 

She could not respond to his joke. "What is there left?" she asked. 

"There isn't anything left, " he said. "We've got to the end. "

They stood on the edge of the pavement and looked up and down the street, and then, by a common impulse, they looked at the house opposite, where aplacard in the window advertised, "Apartments to Let--to Gentlemen only. "

"It would be of no use asking there, " murmured Marcia, in sad abstraction. 

"Well, let's go over and try, " said her husband. "They can't do more thanturn us out of doors. "

"I know it won't be of any use, " Marcia sighed, as people do when theyhope to gain something by forbidding themselves hope. But she helplesslyfollowed, and stood at the foot of the door-steps while he ran up and rang. 

It was evidently the woman of the house who came to the door and shrewdlyscanned them. 

"I see you have apartments to let, " said Bartley. 

"Well, yes, " admitted the woman, as if she considered it useless to denyit, "I have. "

"I should like to look at them, " returned Bartley, with promptness. "Come, Marcia. " And, reinforced by her, he invaded the premises before thelandlady had time to repel him. "I'll tell you what we want, " he continued, turning into the little reception-room at the side of the door, "and if youhaven't got it, there's no need to trouble you. We want a fair-sized room, anywhere between the cellar-floor and the roof, with a bed and a stove anda table in it, that sha'n't cost us more than ten dollars a week, withboard. "

"Set down, " said the landlady, herself setting the example by sinking intothe rocking-chair behind her and beginning to rock while she made a briefstudy of the intruders. "Want it for yourselves?"

"Yes, " said Bartley. 

"Well, " returned the landlady, "I always _have_ preferred singlegentlemen. "

"I inferred as much from a remark which you made in your front window, "said Bartley, indicating the placard. 

The landlady smiled. They were certainly a very pretty-appearing youngcouple, and the gentleman was evidently up-and-coming. Mrs. Nash likedBartley, as most people of her grade did, at once. "It's always be'n myexper'ence, " she explained, with the lazily rhythmical drawl in which mosthalf-bred New-Englanders speak, "that I seemed to get along rather betterwith gentlemen. They give less trouble--as a general rule, " she added, witha glance at Marcia, as if she did not deny that there were exceptions, andMarcia might be a striking one. 

Bartley seized his advantage. "Well, my wife hasn't been married longenough to be unreasonable. I guess you'd get along. "

They both laughed, and Marcia, blushing, joined them. 

"Well, I thought when you first come up the steps you hadn't beenmarried--well, not a _great_ while, " said the landlady. 

"No, " said Bartley. "It seems a good while to my wife; but we were onlymarried day before yesterday. "

"The land!" cried Mrs. Nash. 

"Bartley!" whispered Marcia, in soft upbraiding. 

"What? Well, say last week, then. We were married last week, and we've cometo Boston to seek our fortune. "

His wit overjoyed Mrs. Nash. "You'll find Boston an awful hard place to getalong, " she said, shaking her head with a warning smile. 

"I shouldn't think so, by the price Boston people ask for their rooms, "returned Bartley. "If I had rooms to let, I should get along prettyeasily. "

This again delighted the landlady. "I guess you aint goin' to get out ofspirits, anyway, " she said. "Well, " she continued, "I _have_ got a room 'tI guess would suit you. Unexpectedly vacated. " She seemed to recur to thelanguage of an advertisement in these words, which she pronounced as ifreading them. "It's pretty high up, " she said, with another warning shakeof the head. 

"Stairs to get to it?" asked Bartley. 

"Plenty of _stairs_. "

"Well, when a place is pretty high up, I like to have plenty of stairs toget to it. I guess we'll see it, Marcia. " He rose. 

"Well, I'll just go up and see if it's _fit_ to be seen, first, " said thelandlady. 

"Oh, Bartley!" said Marcia, when she had left them alone, "how _could_ youjoke so about our just being married!"

"Well, I saw she wanted awfully to ask. And anybody can tell by lookingat us, anyway. We can't keep that to ourselves, any more than we can ourgreenness. Besides, it's money in our pockets; she'll take something offour board for it, you'll see. Now, will you manage the bargaining from thison? I stepped forward because the rooms were for gentlemen only. "

"I guess I'd better, " said Marcia. 

"All right; then I'll take a back seat from this out. "

"Oh, I do _hope_ it won't be too much!" sighed the young wife. "I'm so_tired_, looking. "

"You can come right along up, " the landlady called down through the ovalspire formed by the ascending hand-rail of the stairs. 

They found her in a broad, low room, whose ceiling sloped with the roof, and had the pleasant irregularity of the angles and recessions of twodormer windows. The room was clean and cosey; there was a table, and astove that could be used open or shut; Marcia squeezed Bartley's arm tosignify that it would do perfectly--if only the price would suit. 

The landlady stood in the middle of the floor and lectured: "Now, there!I get five dollars a week for this room; and I gen'ly let it to twogentlemen. It's just been vacated by two gentlemen unexpectedly; and it'shard to get gentlemen at this time the year; and that's the reason Ithought of takin' you. As I _say_, I don't much like ladies for inmates, and so I put in the window 'for gentlemen only. ' But it's no use bein' tooparticular; I can't have the room layin' empty on my hands. If it suitsyou, you can have it for four dollars. It's high up, and there's no usetryin' to deny it. But there aint such another view as them winderscommands anywheres. You can see the harbor, and pretty much the wholecoast. "

"Anything extra for the view?" said Bartley, glancing out. 

"No, I throw that in. "

"Does the price include gas and fire?" asked Marcia, sharpened as to alldetails by previous interviews. 

"It includes the gas, but it don't include the fire, " said the landlady, firmly. "And it's pretty low at that, as you've found out, I guess. "

"Yes, it is low, " said Marcia. "Bartley, I think we'd better take it. "

She looked at him timidly, as if she were afraid he might not think it goodenough; she did not think it good enough for him, but she felt that theymust make their money go as far as possible. 

"All _right_!" he said. "Then it's a bargain. "

"And how much more will the board be?"

"Well, there, " the landlady said, with candor, "I don't know as I can meetyour views. I don't ever give board. But there's plenty of houses right onthe street here where you can get day-board from four dollars a week up. "

"Oh, dear!" sighed Marcia; "and that would make it twelve dollars!"

"Why, the dear suz, child!" exclaimed the landlady, "you didn't expect toget it for less?"

"We must, " said Marcia. 

"Then you'll have to go to a mechanics' boardin'-house. "

"I suppose we shall, " she returned, dejectedly. Bartley whistled. 

"Look here, " said the landlady, "aint you from Down East, some'eres?"

Marcia started, as if the woman had recognized them. "Yes. " she said. 

"Well, now, " said Mrs. Nash, "I'm from down Maine way myself, and I'll tellyou what I should do, if I was in your _place_. You don't want much ofanything tor breakfast or tea; you can boil you an egg on the stove here, and you can make your own tea or coffee; and if I was you, I'd go out formy dinners to an eatin'-house. I heard some my lodgers tellin' how theydone. Well, I heard the very gentlemen that occupied this room sayin' howthey used to go to an eatin'-house, and one 'd order one thing, and anotheranother, and then they'd halve it between 'em, and make out a first-ratemeal for about a quarter apiece. Plenty of places now where they give you acut o'lamb or rib-beef for a shillin', and they bring you bread and butterand potato with it; an' it's always enough for two. That's what they_said_. I haint never tried it myself; but as long as you haint got anybodybut yourselves to care for, there aint any reason why _you_ shouldn't. "

They looked at each other. 

"Well, " added the landlady for a final touch, "_say_ fire. That stove won'tburn a great deal, anyway. "

"All right, " said Bartley, "we'll take the room--for a month, at least. "

Mrs. Nash looked a little embarrassed. If she had made some concession tothe liking she had conceived for this pretty young couple, she could notrisk everything. "I always have to get the first week in advance--wherethere ain't no reference, " she suggested. 

"Of course, " said Bartley, and he took out his pocket-book, which he had aboyish satisfaction in letting her see was well filled. "Now, Marcia, " hecontinued, looking at his watch, "I'll just run over to the hotel, and giveup our room before they get us in for dinner. "

Marcia accepted Mrs. Nash's invitation to come and sit with her till thechill was off the room; and she borrowed a pen and paper of her to writehome. The note she sent was brief: she was not going to seem to askanything of her father. But she was going to do what was right; she toldhim where she was, and she sent her love to her mother. She would not speakof her things; he might send them or not, as he chose; but she knew hewould. This was the spirit of her letter, and her training had not taughther to soften and sweeten her phrase; but no doubt the old man, who waslike her, would understand that she felt no compunction for what she haddone, and that she loved him though she still defied him. 

Bartley did not ask her what her letter was when she demanded a stamp ofhim on his return; but he knew. He inquired of Mrs. Nash where these cheapeating-houses were to be found, and he posted the letter in the first boxthey came to, merely saying, "I hope you haven't been asking any favors, Marsh?"

"No, indeed. "

"Because I couldn't stand that. "

Marcia had never dined in a restaurant, and she was somewhat bewildered bythe one into which they turned. There was a great show of roast, and steak, and fish, and game, and squash and cranberry-pie in the window, and atthe door a tack was driven through a mass of bills of fare, two of whichBartley plucked off as they entered, with a knowing air, and then threw onthe floor when he found the same thing on the table. The table had a marbletop, and a silver-plated castor in the centre. The plates were laid witha coarse red doily in a cocked hat on each, and a thinly plated knife andfork crossed beneath it; the plates were thick and heavy; the handle aswell as the blade of the knife was metal, and silvered. Besides the castor, there was a bottle of Leicestershire sauce on the table, and salt in whatMarcia thought a pepper-box; the marble was of an unctuous translucencein places, and showed the course of the cleansing napkin on its smearedsurface. The place was hot, and full of confused smells of cooking; all thetables were crowded, so that they found places with difficulty, and pale, plain girls, of the Provincial and Irish-American type, in fashionablebangs and pull-backs, went about taking the orders, which they wailed outtoward a semicircular hole opening upon a counter at the farther end of theroom; there they received the dishes ordered, and hurried with them to thecustomers, before whom they laid them with a noisy clacking of the heavycrockery. A great many of the people seemed to be taking hulled corn andmilk; baked beans formed another favorite dish, and squash-pie was in largerequest. Marcia was not critical; roast turkey for Bartley and stewedchicken for herself, with cranberry-pie for both, seemed to her a very goodand sufficient dinner, and better than they ought to have had. She askedBartley if this were anything like Parker's; he had always talked to herabout Parker's. 

"Well, Marcia, " he said, folding up his doily, which does not betray uselike the indiscreet white napkin, "I'll just take you round and show youthe _outside_ of Parker's, and some day we'll go there and get dinner. "

He not only showed her Parker's, but the City Hall; they walked down SchoolStreet, and through Washington as far as Boylston: and Bartley pointed outthe Old South, and brought Marcia home by the Common, where they stopped tosee the boys coasting under the care of the police, between two long linesof spectators. 

"The State House, " said Bartley, with easy command of the facts, and, pointing in the several directions; "Beacon Street; Public Garden; BackBay. "

She came home to Mrs. Nash joyfully admiring the city, but admiring stillmore her husband's masterly knowledge of it. 

Mrs. Nash was one of those people who partake intimately of the importanceof the place in which they live; to whom it is sufficient splendor andprosperity to be a Bostonian, or New-Yorker, or Chicagoan, and whoexperience a delicious self-flattery in the celebration of the municipalgrandeur. In his degree, Bartley was of this sort, and he exchangedcompliments of Boston with Mrs. Nash, till they grew into warm favor witheach other. 

After a while, he said he must go up-stairs and do some writing; and thenhe casually dropped the fact that he was an editor, and that he had come toBoston to get an engagement on a newspaper; he implied that he had come totake one. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Nash, smoothing the back of the cat, which she had in herlap, "I guess there ain't anything like our Boston papers. And they saythis new one--the 'Daily Events'--is goin' to take the lead. You acquaintedany with our Boston editors?"

Bartley hemmed. "Well--I know the proprietor of the Events. "

"Ah, yes: Mr. Witherby. Well, they say he's got the money. I hear mylodgers talkin' about that paper consid'able. I haven't ever seen it. "

Bartley now went up-stairs; he had an idea in his head. Marcia remainedwith Mrs. Nash a few moments. "He's been in Boston before, " she said, withproud satisfaction; "he visited here when he was in college. "

"Law, is he college-bred?" cried Mrs. Nash. "Well, I thought he looked'most too wide-awake for that. He aint a bit offish. He seems _re'l_practical. What you hurryin' off so for?" she asked, as Marcia rose, andstood poised on the threshold, in act to follow her husband. "Why don't youset here with me, while he's at his writin'? You'll just keep talkin to himand takin' his mind off, the whole while. You stay here!" she commandedhospitably. "You'll just be in the way, up there. "

This was a novel conception to Marcia, but its good sense struck her. "Well, I will, " she said. "I'll run up a minute to leave my things, andthen I'll come back. "

She found Bartley dragging the table, on which he had already laid out hiswriting-materials, into a good light, and she threw her arms round hisneck, as if they had been a great while parted. 

"Come up to kiss me good luck?" he asked, finding her lips. 

"Yes, and to tell you how splendid you are, going right to work this way, "she answered fondly. 

"Oh, I don't believe in losing time; and I've got to strike while theiron's hot, if I'm going to write out that logging-camp business. I'll takeit over to that Events man, and hit him with it, while it's fresh in hismind. "

"Yes, " said Marcia. "Are you going to write that out?"

"Why, I told you I was. Any objections?" He did not pay much attentionto her, and he asked his question jokingly, as he went on making hispreparations. 

"It's hard for me to realize that people can care for such things. Ithought perhaps you'd begin with something else, " she suggested, hanging upher sack and hat in the closet. 

"No, that's the very thing to begin with, " he answered, carelessly. "Whatare you going to do? Want that book to read that I bought on the cars?"

"No, I'm going down to sit with Mrs. Nash while you're writing. "

"Well, that's a good idea. "

"You can call me when you've done. "

"Done!" cried Bartley. "I sha'n't be done till this time to-morrow. I'mgoing to make a lot about it. "

"Oh!" said his wife. "Well, I suppose the more there is, the more you willget for it. Shall you put in about those people coming to see the camp?"

"Yes, I think I can work that in so that old Witherby will like it. Something about a distinguished Boston newspaper proprietor and his refinedand elegant ladies, as a sort of contrast to the rude life of the loggers. "

"I thought you didn't admire them a great deal. "

"Well, I didn't much. But I can work them up. "

Marcia was quite ready to go; Bartley had seated himself at his table, butshe still hovered about. "And are you--shall you put that Montreal womanin?"

"Yes, get it all in. She'll work up first-rate. "

Marcia was silent. Then, "I shouldn't think you'd put her in, " she said, "if she was so silly and disagreeable. "

Bartley turned around, and saw the look on her face that he could notmistake. He rose and took her by the chin. "Look here, Marsh!" he said, "didn't you promise me you'd stop that?"

"Yes, " she murmured, while the color flamed into her cheeks. 

"And will you?"

"I _did_ try--"

He looked sharply into her eyes. "Confound the Montreal woman! I won't putin a word about her. There!" He kissed Marcia, and held her in his arms andsoothed her as if she had been a jealous child. 

"Oh, Bartley! Oh, Bartley!" she cried. "I love you so!"

"I think it's a remark you made before, " he said, and, with a final kissand laugh, he pushed her out of the door; and she ran down stairs to Mrs. Nash again. 

"Your husband ever write poetry, any?" inquired the landlady. 

"No, " returned Marcia; "he used to in college, but he says it don't pay. "

"One my lodgers--well, she was a lady; you can't seem to get gentlemenoftentimes in the summer season, for love or money, and I was puttin' upwith her, --breakin' joints, as you may say, for the time bein'--_she_ wrotepoetry; 'n' I guess she found it pretty poor pickin'. Used to write for theweekly papers, she said, 'n' the child'n's magazines. Well, she couldn'tget more 'n a doll' or two, 'n' I do' know but what less, for a piece aslong as that. " Mrs. Nash held her hands about a foot apart. "Used to show'em to me, and tell me about 'em. I declare I used to pity her. I used totell her I ruther break stone for my livin'. "

Marcia sat talking more than an hour to Mrs. Nash, informing herself uponthe history of Mrs. Nash's past and present lodgers, and about the ways ofthe city, and the prices of provisions and dress-goods. The dearness ofeverything alarmed and even shocked her; but she came back to her faith inBartley's ability to meet and overcome all difficulties. She grew drowsyin the close air which Mrs. Nash loved, after all her fatigues andexcitements, and she said she guessed she would go up and see how Bartleywas getting on. But when she stole into the room and saw him busilywriting, she said, "Now I won't speak a word, Bartley, " and coiled herselfdown under a shawl on the bed, near enough to put her hand on his shoulderif she wished, and fell asleep. 

XV. 

It took Bartley two days to write out his account of the logging-camp. Heworked it up to the best of his ability, giving all the facts that he hadgot out of Kinney, and relieving these with what he considered picturesquetouches. He had the newspaper instinct, and he divined that his readerswould not care for his picturesqueness without his facts. He thereforesubordinated this, and he tried to give his description of the loggers apolitico-economical interest, dwelling upon the variety of nationalitiesengaged in the industry, and the changes it had undergone in what he calledits _personnel_; he enlarged upon its present character and its futuredevelopment in relation to what he styled, in a line of small capitals, with an early use of the favorite newspaper possessive, COLUMBIA'S MORIBUND SHIP-BUILDING. 

And he interspersed his text plentifully with exclamatory headings intendedto catch the eye with startling fragments of narration and statement, suchas

THE PINE-TREE STATE'S STORIED STAPLE

MORE THAN A MILLION OF MONEY

UNBROKEN WILDERNESS

WILD-CATS, LYNXES, AND BEARS

BITTEN OFF

BOTH LEGS FROZEN TO THE KNEES

CANADIAN SONGS

JOY UNCONFINED

THE LAMPLIGHT ON THEIR SWARTHY FACES. 

He spent a final forenoon in polishing his article up, and stuffing itfull of telling points. But after dinner on this last day he took leave ofMarcia with more trepidation than he was willing to show, or knew how toconceal. Her devout faith in his success seemed to unnerve him, and hebegged her not to believe in it so much. 

He seized what courage he had left in both hands, and found himself, afterthe usual reluctance of the people in the business office, face to facewith Mr. Witherby in his private room. Mr. Witherby had lately dismissedhis managing editor for his neglect of the true interests of the paper asrepresented by the counting-room; and was managing the Events himself. Hesat before a table strewn with newspapers and manuscripts; and as he lookedup, Bartley saw that he did not recognize him. 

"How do you do, Mr. Witherby? I had the pleasure of meeting you the otherday in Maine--at Mr. Willett's logging-camp. Hubbard is my name; rememberme as editor of the Equity Free Press. "

"Oh, yes, " said Mr. Witherby, rising and standing at his desk, as a sortof compromise between asking his visitor to sit down and telling him to goaway. He shook hands in a loose way, and added: "I presume you would liketo exchange. But the fact is, our list is so large already, that we can'textend it, just now; we can't--"

Bartley smiled. "I don't want any exchange, Mr. Witherby. I'm out of theFree Press. "

"Ah!" said the city journalist, with relief. He added, in a leading tone:"Then--"

"I've come to offer you an article, --an account of lumbering in our State. It's a little sketch that I've prepared from what I saw in Mr. Willett'scamp, and some facts and statistics I've picked up. I thought it might makean attractive feature of your Sunday edition. "

"The Events, " said Mr. Witherby, solemnly, "does not publish a Sundayedition!"

"Of course not, " answered Bartley, inwardly cursing his blunder, --"I meanyour Saturday evening supplement. " He handed him his manuscript. 

Mr. Witherby looked at it, with the worry of a dull man who has assumedunintelligible duties. He had let the other papers "get ahead of him"on several important enterprises lately, and he would have been glad toretrieve himself; but he could not be sure that this was an enterprise. Hebegan by saying that their last Saturday supplement was just out, and thenext was full; and he ended by declaring, with stupid pomp, that the Eventspreferred to send its own reporters to write up those matters. Then hehemmed, and looked at Bartley, and he would really have been glad to havehim argue him out of this position; but Bartley could not divine what wasin his mind. The cold fit, which sooner or later comes to every form ofauthorship, seized him. He said awkwardly he was very sorry, and puttinghis manuscript back in his pocket he went out, feeling curiouslylight-headed, as if his rebuff had been a stunning blow. The affair was soquickly over, that he might well have believed it had not happened. But hewas sickeningly disappointed; he had counted upon the sale of his articleto the Events; his hope had been founded upon actual knowledge of theproprietor's intention; and although he had rebuked Marcia's overweeningconfidence, he had expected that Witherby would jump at it. But Witherbyhad not even looked at it. 

Bartley walked a long time in the cold winter sunshine, fie would haveliked to go back to his lodging, and hide his face in Marcia's hands, andlet her pity him, but he could not bear the thought of her disappointment, and he kept walking. At last he regained courage enough to go to the editorof the paper for which he used to correspond in the summer, and which hadalways printed his letters. This editor was busy, too, but he apparentlyfelt some obligations to civility with Bartley; and though he kept glancingover his exchanges as they talked, he now and then glanced at Bartley also. He said that he should be glad to print the sketch, but that they neverpaid for outside material, and he advised Bartley to go with it to theEvents or to the Daily Chronicle-Abstract; the Abstract and the BriefChronicle had lately consolidated, and they were showing a good deal ofenterprise. Bartley said nothing to betray that he had already been at theEvents office, and upon this friendly editor's invitation to drop in againsome time he went away considerably re-inspirited. 

"If you should happen to go to the Chronicle-Abstract folks, " the editorcalled after him, "you can tell them I suggested your coming. "

The managing editor of the Chronicle-Abstract was reading a manuscript, andhe did not desist from his work on Bartley's appearance, which he gave nosign of welcoming. But he had a whimsical, shrewd, kind face, and Bartleyfelt that he should get on with him, though he did not rise, and though helet Bartley stand. 

"Yes, " he said. "Lumbering, hey? Well, there's some interest in that, justnow, on account of this talk about the decay of our shipbuilding interests. Anything on that point?"

"That's the very point I touch on first, " said Bartley. 

The editor stopped turning over his manuscript. "Let's see, " he said, holding out his hand for Bartley's article. He looked at the firsthead-line, "What I Know about Logging, " and smiled. "Old, but good. " Thenhe glanced at the other headings, and ran his eye down the long strips onwhich Bartley had written; nibbled at the text here and there a little;returned to the first paragraph, and read that through; looked back atsomething else, and then read the close. 

"I guess you can leave it, " he said, laying the manuscript on the table. 

"No, I guess not, " said Bartley, with equal coolness, gathering it up. 

The editor looked fairly at him for the first time, and smiled. Evidentlyhe liked this. "What's the reason? Any particular hurry?"

"I happen to know that the Events is going to send a man down East to writeup this very subject. And I don't propose to leave this article here tillthey steal my thunder, and then have it thrown back on my hands not worththe paper it's written on. "

The editor tilted himself back in his chair and braced his knees againsthis table. "Well, I guess you're right, " he said. "What do you want forit?"

This was a terrible question. Bartley knew nothing about the prices thatcity papers paid; he feared to ask too much, but he also feared to cheapenhis wares by asking too little. "Twenty-five dollars, " he said, huskily. 

"Let's look at it, " said the editor, reaching out his hand for themanuscript again. "Sit down. " He pushed a chair toward Bartley with hisfoot, having first swept a pile of newspapers from it to the floor. He nowread the article more fully, and then looked up at Bartley, who sat still, trying to hide his anxiety. "You're not quite a new hand at the bellows, are you?"

"I've edited a country paper. "

"Yes? Where?"

"Down in Maine. "

The editor bent forward and took out a long, narrow blank-book. "I guess weshall want your article What name?"

"Bartley J. Hubbard. " It sounded in his ears like some other name. 

"Going to be in Boston some time?"

"All the time, " said Bartley, struggling to appear nonchalant. Therevulsion from the despair into which he had fallen after his interviewwith Witherby was still very great. The order on the counting-room whichthe editor had given him shook in his hand. He saw his way before himclearly now; he wished to propose some other things that he would liketo write; but he was saved from this folly for the time by the editor'ssaying, in a tone of dismissal: "Better come in to-morrow and see a proof. We shall put you into the Wednesday supplement. "

"Thanks, " said Bartley. "Good day. "

The editor did not hear him, or did not think it necessary to respond frombehind the newspaper which he had lifted up between them, and Bartley wentout. He did not stop to cash his order; he made boyish haste to show it toMarcia, as something more authentic than the money itself, and more sacred. As he hurried homeward he figured Marcia's ecstasy in his thought. He sawhimself flying up the stairs to their attic three steps at a bound, andbursting into the room, where she sat eager and anxious, and flinging theorder into her lap; and then, when she had read it with rapture at the sum, and pride in the smartness with which he had managed the whole affair, he saw himself catching her up and dancing about the floor with her. Hethought how fond of her he was, and he wondered that he could ever havebeen cold or lukewarm. 

She was standing at the window of Mrs. Nash's little reception-room when hereached the house. It was not to be as he had planned, but he threw her akiss, glad of the impatience which would not let her wait till he couldfind her in their own room, and he had the precious order in his hand todazzle her eyes as soon as he should enter. But, as he sprang into thehall, his foot struck against a trunk and some boxes. 

"Hello!" he cried, "Your things have come!"

Marcia lingered within the door of the reception-room; she seemed afraid tocome out. "Yes, " she said, faintly; "father brought them. He has just beenhere. "

He seemed there still, and the vision unnerved her as if Bartley and he hadbeen confronted there in reality. Her husband had left her hardly a quarterof an hour, when a hack drove up to the door, and her father alighted. Shelet him in herself, before he could ring, and waited tremulously for whathe should do or say. But he merely took her hand, and, stooping over, gaveher the chary kiss with which he used to greet her at home when he returnedfrom an absence. 

She flung her arms around his neck. "Oh, father!"

"Well, well! There, there!" he said, and then he went into thereception-room with her; and there was nothing in his manner to betray thatanything unusual had happened since they last met. He kept his hat on, ashis fashion was, and he kept on his overcoat, below which the skirts of hisdress-coat hung an inch or two; he looked old, and weary, and shabby. 

"I can't leave Bartley, father, " she began, hysterically. 

"I haven't come to separate you from your husband, Marcia. What made youthink so? It's your place to stay with him. "

"He's out, now, " she answered, in an incoherent hopefulness. "He's justgone. Will you wait and see him, father?"

"No, I guess I can't wait, " said the old man. "It wouldn't do any good forus to meet now. "

"Do you think he coaxed me away? He didn't. He took pity on me, --he forgaveme. And I didn't mean to deceive you when I left home, father. But Icouldn't help trying to see Bartley again. "

"I believe you, Marcia. I understand. The thing had to be. Let me see yourmarriage certificate. "

She ran up to her room and fetched it. 

Her father read it carefully. "Yes, that is all right, " he said, andreturned it to her. He added, after an absent pause: "I have brought yourthings, Marcia. Your mother packed all she could think of. "

"How _is_ mother?" asked Marcia, as if this had first reminded her of hermother. 

"She is usually well, " replied her father. 

"Won't you--won't you come up and see our room, father?" Marcia asked, after the interval following this feint of interest in her mother. 

"No, " said the old man, rising restlessly from his chair, and buttoning athis coat, which was already buttoned. "I guess I sha'n't have time. I guessI must be going. "

Marcia put herself between him and the door. "Won't you let me tell youabout it, father?"

"About what?"

"How--I came to go off with Bartley. I want you should know. "

"I guess I know all I want to know about it, Marcia. I accept the facts. I told you how I felt. What you've done hasn't changed me toward you. Iunderstand you better than you understand yourself; and I can't say thatI'm surprised. Now I want you should make the best of it. "

"You don't forgive Bartley!" she cried, passionately. "Then I don't wantyou should forgive me!"

"Where did you pick up this nonsense about forgiving?" said her father, knitting his shaggy brows. "A man does this thing or that, and theconsequence follows. I couldn't forgive Bartley so that he could escape anyconsequence of what he's done; and you're not afraid I shall hurt him?"

"Stay and see him!" she pleaded. "He is so kind to me! He works night andday, and he has just gone out to sell something he has written for thepapers. "

"I never said he was lazy, " returned her father. "Do you want any money, Marcia?"

"No, we have plenty. And Bartley is earning it all the time. I _wish_ youwould stay and see him!"

"No, I'm glad he didn't happen to be in, " said the Squire. "I sha'n't waitfor him to come back. It wouldn't do any good, just yet, Marcia; it wouldonly do harm. Bartley and I haven't had time to change our minds about eachother yet. But I'll say a good word for him to you. You're his wife, andit's your part to help him, not to hinder him. You can make him worse bybeing a fool; but you needn't be a fool. Don't worry him about other women;don't be jealous. He's your husband, now: and the worst thing you can do isto doubt him. "

"I won't, father, I won't, indeed! I will be good, and I will try to besensible. Oh, I _wish_ Bartley could know how you feel!"

"Don't tell him from _me_, " said her father. "And don't keep makingpromises and breaking them. I'll help the man in with your things. "

He went out, and came in again with one end of a trunk, as if he had beengiving the man a hand with it into the house at home, and she suffered himas passively as she had suffered him to do her such services all her life. Then he took her hand laxly in his, and stooped down for another charykiss. "Good by, Marcia. "

"Why, father! Are you going to _leave_ me?" she faltered. 

He smiled in melancholy irony at the bewilderment, the childishforgetfulness of all the circumstances, which her words expressed. "Oh, no!I'm going to take you with me. "

His sarcasm restored her to a sense of what she had said, and she ruefullylaughed at herself through her tears. "What am I talking about? Give mylove to mother. When will you come again?" she asked, clinging about himalmost in the old playful way. 

"When you want me, " said the Squire, freeing himself. 

"I'll write!" she cried after him, as he went down the steps; and if therehad been, at any moment, a consciousness of her cruelty to him in herheart, she lost it, when he drove away, in her anxious waiting forBartley's return. It seemed to her that, though her father had refused tosee him, his visit was of happy augury for future kindness between them, and she was proudly eager to tell Bartley what good advice her father hadgiven her. But the sight of her husband suddenly turned these thoughts tofear. She trembled, and all that she could say was, "I know father will beall right, Bartley. "

"How?" he retorted, savagely. "By the way he abused me to you? Where ishe?"

"He's gone, --gone back. "

"I don't care where he's gone, so he's gone. Did he come to take you homewith him? Why didn't you go?--Oh, Marcia!" The brutal words had hardlyescaped him when he ran to her as if he would arrest them before theirsense should pierce her heart. 

She thrust him back with a stiffly extended arm. "Keep away! Don't touchme!" She walked by him up the stairs without looking round at him, and heheard her close their door and lock it. 

XVI. 

Bartley stood for a moment, and then went out and wandered aimlessly abouttill nightfall. He went out shocked and frightened at what he had done, and ready for any reparation. But this mood wore away, and he came backsullenly determined to let her make the advances toward reconciliation, ifthere was to be one. Her love had already made his peace, and she methim in the dimly lighted little hall with a kiss of silent penitence andforgiveness. She had on her hat and shawl, as if she had been waiting forhim to come and take her out to tea; and on their way to the restaurant sheasked him of his adventure among the newspapers. He told her briefly, andwhen they sat down at their table he took out the precious order and showedit to her. But its magic was gone; it was only an order for twenty-fivedollars, now; and two hours ago it had been success, rapture, a commonhope and a common joy. They scarcely spoke of it, but talked soberly ofindifferent things. 

She could not recur to her father's visit at once, and he would not bethe first to mention it. He did nothing to betray his knowledge of herintention, as she approached the subject through those feints that womenuse, and when they stood again in their little attic room she was obligedto be explicit. 

"What hurt me, Bartley, " she said, "was that you should think for aninstant that I would let father ask me to leave you, or that he would asksuch a thing. He only came to tell me to be good to you, and help you, andtrust you; and not worry you with my silliness and--and--jealousy. And Idon't ever mean to. And I know he will be good friends with you yet. Hepraised you for working so hard;"--she pushed it a little beyond the barefact;--"he always did that; and I know he's only waiting for a good chanceto make it up with you. "

She lifted her eyes, glistening with tears, and it touched his peculiarsense of humor to find her offering him reparation, when he had felthimself so outrageously to blame; but he would not be outdone inmagnanimity, if it came to that. 

"It's all right, Marsh. I was a furious idiot, or I should have let youexplain at once. But you see I had only one thought in my mind, and thatwas my luck, which I wanted to share with you; and when your father seemedto have come in between us again--"

"Oh, yes, yes!" she answered. "I understand. " And she clung to him inthe joy of this perfect intelligence, which she was sure could never beobscured again. 

When Bartley's article came out, she read it with a fond admiration whichall her praises seemed to leave unsaid. She bought a scrap-book, and pastedthe article into it, and said that she was going to keep everything hewrote. "What are you going to write the next thing?" she asked. 

"Well, that's what I don't know, " he answered. "I can't find anothersubject like that, so easily. "

"Why, if people care to read about a logging-camp, I should think theywould read about almost anything. Nothing could be too common for them. You might even write about the trouble of getting cheap enough rooms inBoston. "

"Marcia, " cried Bartley, "you're a treasure! I'll write about that verything! I know the Chronicle-Abstract will be glad to get it. "

She thought he was joking, till he came to her after a while for somefigures which he did not remember. He had the true newspaper instinct, and went to work with a motive that was as different as possible from theliterary motive. He wrote for the effect which he was to make, and notfrom any artistic pleasure in the treatment. He did not attempt to give itform, --to imagine a young couple like himself and Marcia coming down fromthe country to place themselves in the city; he made no effort to throwabout it the poetry of their ignorance and their poverty, or the pathetichumor of their dismay at the disproportion of the prices to their means. He set about getting all the facts he could, and he priced a great manylodgings in different parts of the city; then he went to a numberof real-estate agents, and, giving himself out as a reporter of theChronicle-Abstract, he interviewed them as to house-rents, past andpresent. Upon these bottom facts, as he called them, he based a "spicy"sketch, which had also largely the character of an _exposé_. There isnothing the public enjoys so much as an _exposé_: it seems to be made inthe reader's own interest; it somehow constitutes him a party to the attackupon the abuse, and its effectiveness redounds to the credit of all thenewspaper's subscribers. After a week's stay in Boston, Bartley was ableto assume the feelings of a native who sees his city falling into decaythrough the rapacity of its landladies. In the heading of ten or fifteenlines which he gave his sketch, the greater number were devoted to thisfeature of it; though the space actually allotted to it in the text wascomparatively small. He called his report "Boston's Boarding-Houses, " andhe spent a paragraph upon the relation of boarding-houses to civilization, before detailing his own experience and observation. This part had many ofthose strokes of crude picturesqueness and humor which he knew how to give, and was really entertaining; but it was when he came to contrast the ratesof house-rent and the cost of provisions with the landladies'

"PERPENDICULAR PRICES, "

that Bartley showed all the virtue of a born reporter. The sentences werevivid and telling; the _ensemble_ was very alarming; and the conclusion wasinevitable, that, unless this abuse could somehow be reached, we shouldlose a large and valuable portion of our population, --especially thoseyoung married people of small means with whom the city's future prosperityso largely rested, and who must drift away to find homes in rivalcommunities if the present exorbitant demands were maintained. 

As Bartley had foretold, he had not the least trouble in selling thissketch to the Chronicle-Abstract. The editor probably understood itsessential cheapness perfectly well; but he also saw how thoroughly readableit was. He did not grumble at the increased price which Bartley putupon his work; it was still very far from dear; and he liked the youngDowneaster's enterprise. He gave him as cordial a welcome as an overworkedman may venture to offer when Bartley came in with his copy, and he feltlike doing him a pleasure. Some things out of the logging-camp sketch hadbeen copied, and people had spoken to the editor about it, which was astill better sign that it was a hit. 

"Don't you want to come round to our club to-night?" asked the editor, ashe handed Bartley the order for his money across the table. "We have a baddinner, and we try to have a good time. We're all newspaper men together. "

"Why, thank you, " said Bartley, "I guess I should like to go. "

"Well, come round at half-past five, and go with me. "

Bartley walked homeward rather soberly. He had meant, if he sold thisarticle, to make amends for the disappointment they had both sufferedbefore, and to have a commemorative supper with Marcia at Parker's: he hadignored a little hint of hers about his never having taken her there yet, because he was waiting for this chance to do it in style. He resolved that, if she did not seem to like his going to the club, he would go back andwithdraw his acceptance. But when he told her he had been invited, --hethought he would put the fact in this tentative way, --she said, "I hope youaccepted!"

"Would you have liked me to?" he asked with relief. 

"Why, of course! It's a great honor. You'll get acquainted with all thoseeditors, and perhaps some of them will want to give you a regular place. " Asalaried employment was their common ideal of a provision for their future. 

"Well, that's what I was thinking myself, " said Bartley. 

"Go and accept at once, " she pursued. 

"Oh, that isn't necessary. If I get round there by half-past five, I cango, " he answered. 

His lurking regret ceased when he came into the reception-room, where themembers of the club were constantly arriving, and putting off their hatsand overcoats, and then falling into groups for talk. His friend of theChronicle-Abstract introduced him lavishly, as our American custom is. Bartley had a little strangeness, but no bashfulness, and, with hisessentially slight opinion of people, he was promptly at his ease. Thesemen liked his handsome face, his winning voice, the good-fellowship of hisinstant readiness to joke; he could see that they liked him, and that hisfriend Ricker was proud of the impression he made; before the evening wasover he kept himself with difficulty from patronizing Ricker a little. 

The club has grown into something much more splendid and expensive; but itwas then content with a dinner certainly as bad as Ricker promised, butfabulously modest in price, at an old-fashioned hotel, whose site was longago devoured by a dry-goods palace. The drink was commonly water or beer;occasionally, if a great actor or other distinguished guest honored theboard, some spendthrift ordered champagne. But no one thought fit to go tothis ruinous extreme for Bartley. Ricker offered him his choice of beer orclaret, and Bartley temperately preferred water to either; he could seethat this raised him in Ricker's esteem. 

No company of men can fail to have a good time at a public dinner, and thegood time began at once with these journalists, whose overworked week endedin this Saturday evening jollity. They were mostly young men, who foundsufficient compensation in the excitement and adventure of their underpaidlabors, and in the vague hope of advancement; there were grizzled beardsamong them, for whom neither the novelty nor the expectation continued, butwho loved the life for its own sake, and would hardly have exchanged it forprosperity. Here and there was an old fellow, for whom probably all theillusion was gone; but he was proud of his vocation, proud even of thechanges that left him somewhat superannuated in his tastes and methods. None, indeed, who have ever known it, can wholly forget the generous ragewith which journalism inspires its followers. To each of those young men, beginning the strangely fascinating life as reporters and correspondents, his paper was as dear as his king once was to a French noble; to serve itnight and day, to wear himself out for its sake, to merge himself in itsglory, and to live in its triumphs without personal recognition from thepublic, was the loyal devotion which each expected his sovereign newspaperto accept as its simple right. They went and came, with the prompt andpassive obedience of soldiers, wherever they were sent, and they struggledeach to "get in ahead" of all the others with the individual zeal ofheroes. They expanded to the utmost limits of occasion, and they submittedwith an anguish that was silent to the editorial excision, compression, andmutilation of reports that were vitally dear to them. What becomes of theseardent young spirits, the inner history of journalism in any great citymight pathetically show; but the outside world knows them only in the finefrenzy of interviewing, or of recording the midnight ravages of what theycall the devouring element, or of working up horrible murders or tragicalaccidents, or of tracking criminals who have baffled all the detectives. Hearing their talk Bartley began to realize that journalism might be a verydifferent thing from what he had imagined it in a country printing-office, and that it might not be altogether wise to consider it merely as astepping-stone to the law. 

With the American eagerness to recognize talent, numbers of good fellowsspoke to him about his logging sketch; even those who had not read itseemed to know about it as a hit. They were all delighted to be able tosay, "Ricker tells me that you offered it to old Witherby, and he wouldn'tlook at it!" He found that this fact, which he had doubtfully confided toRicker, was not offensive to some of the Events people who were there; oneof them got him aside, and darkly owned to him that Witherby was doingeverything that any one man could to kill the Events, and that in fact thecounting-room was running the paper. 

All the club united in abusing the dinner, which in his rustic ignoranceBartley had not found so infamous; but they ate it with perfect appetiteand with mounting good spirits. The president brewed punch in a great bowlbefore him, and, rising with a glass of it in his hand, opened a freeparliament of speaking, story-telling, and singing. Whoever recollected asong or a story that he liked, called upon the owner of it to sing it ortell it; and it appeared not to matter how old the fun or the music was:the company was resolved to be happy; it roared and clapped till theglasses rang. "You will like this song, " Bartley's neighbors to right andleft of him prophesied; or, "Just listen to this story of Mason's, --it'scapital, "--as one or another rose in response to a general clamor. Whenthey went back to the reception-room they carried the punch-bowl with them, and there, amid a thick cloud of smoke, two clever amateurs took theirplaces at the piano, and sang and played to their heart's content, whilethe rest, glass in hand, talked and laughed, or listened as they chose. Bartley had not been called upon, but he was burning to try that song inwhich he had failed so dismally in the logging-camp. When the pianist roseat last, he slipped down into the chair, and, striking the chords of theaccompaniment, he gave his piece with brilliant audacity. The room silenceditself and then burst into a roar of applause, and cries of "Encore!" Therecould be no doubt of the success. "Look here, Ricker, " said a leadingman at the end of the repetition, "your friend must be one of us!"--and, rapping on the table, he proposed Bartley's name. In that simple time theclub voted _viva voce_ on proposed members, and Bartley found himselfelected by acclamation, and in the act of paying over his initiation fee tothe treasurer, before he had well realized the honor done him. Everybodynear him shook his hand, and offered to be of service to him. Much of thiscordiality was merely collective good feeling; something of it might bejustly attributed to the punch; but the greater part was honest. In thiscivilization of ours, grotesque and unequal and imperfect as it is in manythings, we are bound together in a brotherly sympathy unknown to any other. We new men have all had our hard rubs, but we do not so much remember themin soreness or resentment as in the wish to help forward any other who ispresently feeling them. If he will but help himself too, a hundred handsare stretched out to him. 

Bartley had kept his head clear of the punch, but he left the club drunkwith joy and pride, and so impatient to be with Marcia and tell her of histriumphs that he could hardly wait to read the proof of his boarding-housearticle which Ricker had put in hand at once for the Sunday edition. Hefound Marcia sitting up for him, and she listened with a shining face whilehe hastily ran over the most flattering facts of the evening. She was notso much surprised at the honors done him as he had expected but she washappier, and she made him repeat it all and give her the last details. Hewas afraid she would ask him what his initiation had cost; but she seemedto have no idea that it had cost anything, and though it had swept away athird of the money he had received for his sketch, he still resolved thatshe should have that supper at Parker's. 

"I consider my future made, " he said aloud, at the end of his swiftcogitation on this point. 

"Oh, yes!" she responded rapturously. "We needn't have a moment's anxiety. But we must be very saving still till you get a place. "

"Oh, certainly, " said Bartley. 

XVII. 

During several months that followed, Bartley's work consisted ofinterviewing, of special reporting in all its branches, of correspondenceby mail and telegraph from points to which he was sent; his leisurehe spent in studying subjects which could be treated like that ofthe boarding-houses. Marcia entered into his affairs with the keenhalf-intelligence which characterizes a woman's participation in business;whatever could be divined, she was quickly mistress of; she vividlysympathized with his difficulties and his triumphs; she failed to followhim in matters of political detail, or of general effect; she could not bedispassionate or impartial; his relation to any enterprise was always moreimportant than anything else about it. On some of his missions he took herwith him, and then they made it a pleasure excursion; and if they came homelate with the material still unwritten, she helped him with his notes, wrote from his dictation, and enabled him to give a fuller report thanhis rivals. She caught up with amusing aptness the technical terms of theprofession, and was voluble about getting in ahead of the Events and theother papers; and she was indignant if any part of his report was cut outor garbled, or any feature was spoiled. 

He made a "card" of grouping and treating with picturesque freshness thespring openings of the milliners and dry-goods people; and when he broughthis article to Ricker, the editor ran it over, and said, "Guess you tookyour wife with you, Hubbard. "

"Yes, I did, " Bartley owned. He was always proud of her looks, and itflattered him that Ricker should see the evidences of her feminine tasteand knowledge in his account of the bonnets and dress goods. "You don'tsuppose I could get at all these things by inspiration, do you?"

Marcia was already known to some of his friends whom he had introduced toher in casual encounters. They were mostly unmarried, or if married theylived at a distance, and they did not visit the Hubbards at their lodgings. Marcia was a little shy, and did not quite know whether they ought to callwithout being asked, or whether she ought to ask them; besides, Mrs. Nash'sreception-room was not always at her disposal, and she would not have likedto take them all the way up to her own room. Her social life was thereforeconfined to the public places where she met these friends of her husband's. They sometimes happened together at a restaurant, or saw one anotherbetween the acts at the theatre, or on coming out of a concert. Marcia wasnot so much admired for her conversation by her acquaintance, as for herbeauty and her style; a rustic reluctance still lingered in her; she wasthin and dry in her talk with any one but Bartley, and she could not helpletting even men perceive that she was uneasy when they interested him inmatters foreign to her. 

Bartley did not see why they could not have some of these fellows upin their room for tea; but Marcia told him it was impossible. In fact, although she willingly lived this irregular life with him, she was at heartnot at all a Bohemian. She did not like being in lodgings or dining atrestaurants; on their horse-car excursions into the suburbs, when thespring opened, she was always choosing this or that little house as theplace where she would like to live, and wondering if it were within theirmeans. She said she would gladly do all the work herself; she hated to beidle so much as she now must. The city's novelty wore off for her soonerthan for him: the concerts, the lectures, the theatres, had already losttheir zest for her, and she went because he wished her to go, or in orderto be able to help him with what he was always writing about such things. 

As the spring advanced, Bartley conceived the plan of a local study, something in the manner of the boarding-house article, but on a much vasterscale: he proposed to Ricker a timely series on the easily accessiblehot-weather resorts, to be called "Boston's Breathing-Places, " and torelate mainly to the seaside hotels and their surroundings. His idea wasencouraged, and he took Marcia with him on most of his expeditions for itsrealization. These were largely made before the regular season had wellbegun; but the boats were already running, and the hotels were open, andthey were treated with the hospitality which a knowledge of Bartley'smission must invoke. As he said, it was a matter of business, give andtake on both sides, and the landlords took more than they gave in any suchtrade. 

On her part Marcia regarded dead-heading as a just and legitimate privilegeof the press, if not one of its chief attributes; and these passes on boatsand trains, this system of paying hotel-bills by the presentation of acard, constituted distinguished and honorable recognition from the public. To her simple experience, when Bartley told how magnificently the reportershad been accommodated, at some civic or commercial or professional banquet, with a table of their own, where they were served with all the wines andcourses, he seemed to have been one of the principal guests, and her fearwas that his head should be turned by his honors. But at the bottom of herheart, though she enjoyed the brilliancy of Bartley's present life, she didnot think his occupation comparable to the law in dignity. Bartley calledhimself a journalist now, but his newspaper connection still identified himin her mind with those country editors of whom she had always heard herfather speak with such contempt: men dedicated to poverty and the despiteof all the local notables who used them. She could not shake off theold feeling of degradation, even when she heard Bartley and some of hisfellow-journalists talking in their boastfulest vein of the sovereigncharacter of journalism; and she secretly resolved never to relinquish herpurpose of having him a lawyer. Till he was fairly this, in regular andprosperous practice, she knew that she should not have shown her fatherthat she was right in marrying Bartley. 

In the mean time their life went ignorantly on in the obscure channelswhere their isolation from society kept it longer than was natural. Threeor four months after they came to Boston, they were still country people, with scarcely any knowledge of the distinctions and differences soimportant to the various worlds of any city. So far from knowing that theymust not walk in the Common, they used to sit down on a bench there, in thepleasant weather, and watch the opening of the spring, among the loverswhose passion had a publicity that neither surprised nor shocked them. After they were a little more enlightened, they resorted to the PublicGarden, where they admired the bridge, and the rock-work, and the statues. Bartley, who was already beginning to get up a taste for art, boldlystopped and praised the Venus, in the presence of the gardeners plantingtulip-bulbs. 

They went sometimes to the Museum of Fine Arts, where they found a pleasurein the worst things which the best never afterwards gave them; and whereshe became as hungry and tired as if it were the Vatican. They had a pridein taking books out of the Public Library, where they walked about ontiptoe with bated breath; and they thought it a divine treat to hear theGreat Organ play at noon. As they sat there in the Music Hall, and let themighty instrument bellow over their strong young nerves, Bartley whisperedMarcia the jokes he had heard about the organ; and then, upon the wave ofaristocratic sensation from this experience, they went out and dined atCopeland's, or Weber's, or Fera's, or even at Parker's: they had long sinceforsaken the humble restaurant with its doilies and its ponderous crockery, and they had so mastered the art of ordering that they could manage adinner as cheaply at these finer places as anywhere, especially if Marciapretended not to care much for her half of the portion, and connived at itstransfer to Bartley's plate. 

In his hours of leisure, they were so perpetually together that it became ajoke with the men who knew them to say, when asked if Bartley were married, "Very _much_ married. " It was not wholly their inseparableness that gavethe impression of this extreme conjugality; as I said, Marcia's uneasinesswhen others interested Bartley in things alien to her made itself felt evenby these men. She struggled against it because she did not wish to put himto shame before them, and often with an aching sense of desolation she senthim off with them to talk apart, or left him with them if they met on thestreet, and walked home alone, rather than let any one say that she kepther husband tied to her apron-strings. His club, after the first sense ofits splendor and usefulness wore away, was an ordeal; she had failed toconceal that she thought the initiation and annual fees extravagant. Sheknew no other bliss like having Bartley sit down in their own room withher; it did not matter whether they talked; if he were busy, she would aslief sit and sew, or sit and silently look at him as he wrote. In thesemoments she liked to feign that she had lost him, that they had never beenmarried, and then come back with a rush of joy to the reality. But on hisclub nights she heroically sent him off, and spent the evening with Mrs. Nash. Sometimes she went out by day with the landlady, who had a passionfor auctions and cemeteries, and who led Marcia to an intimate acquaintancewith such pleasures. At Mount Auburn, Marcia liked the marble lambs, andthe emblematic hands pointing upward with the dexter finger, and theinfants carved in stone, and the angels with folded wings and lifted eyes, better than the casts which Bartley said were from the antique, in theMuseum; on this side her mind was as wholly dormant as that of Mrs. Nashherself. She always came home feeling as if she had not seen Bartley for ayear, and fearful that something had happened to him. 

The hardest thing about their irregular life was that he must sometimes begone two or three days at a time, when he could not take her with him. Thenit seemed to her that she could not draw a full breath in his absence; andonce he found her almost wild on his return: she had begun to fancy thathe was never coming back again. He laughed at her when she betrayed hersecret, but she was not ashamed; and when he asked her, "Well, what if Ihadn't come back?" she answered passionately, "It wouldn't have made muchdifference to me: I should not have lived. "

The uncertainty of his income was another cause of anguish to her. At timeshe earned forty or fifty dollars a week; oftener he earned ten; there wasnow and then a week when everything that he put his hand to failed, and heearned nothing at all. Then Marcia despaired; her frugality became amania, and they had quarrels about what she called his extravagance. Sheembittered his daily bread by blaming him for what he spent on it; she woreher oldest dresses, and would have had him go shabby in token of theiradversity. Her economies were frantic child's play, --methodless, inexperienced, fitful; and they were apt to be followed by remorse in whichshe abetted him in some wanton excess. 

The future of any heroic action is difficult to manage; and the sublimesacrifice of her pride and all the conventional proprieties which Marciahad made in giving herself to Bartley was inevitably tried by the samesordid tests that every married life is put to. 

That salaried place which he was always seeking on the staff of somenewspaper, proved not so easy to get as he had imagined in the flush ofhis first successes. Ricker willingly included him among theChronicle-Abstract's own correspondents and special reporters; and he heldthe same off-and-on relation to several other papers; but he remainedwithout a more definite position. He earned perhaps more money than asalary would have given him, and in their way of living he and Marcia laidup something out of what he earned. But it did not seem to her that heexerted himself to get a salaried place; she was sure that, if so manyothers who could not write half so well had places, he might get one if heonly kept trying. Bartley laughed at these business-turns of Marcia's ashe called them; but sometimes they enraged him, and he had days of sullenresentment when he resisted all her advances towards reconciliation. But hekept hard at work, and he always owned at last how disinterested her mostridiculous alarm had been. 

Once, when they had been talking as usual about that permanent place onsome newspaper, she said, "But I should only want that to be temporary, if you got it. I want you should go on with the law, Bartley. I've beenthinking about that. I don't want you should always be a journalist. "

Bartley smiled. "What could I do for a living, I should like to know, whileI was studying law?"

"You could do some newspaper work, --enough to support us, --while you werestudying. You said when we first came to Boston that you should settle downto the law. "

"I hadn't got my eyes open, then. I've got a good deal longer row to hoethan I supposed, before I can settle down to the law. "

"Father said you didn't need to study but a little more. "

"Not if I were going into the practice at Equity. But it's a very differentthing, I can tell you, in Boston: I should have to go in for a course inthe Harvard Law School, just for a little start-off. "

Marcia was silenced, but she asked, after a moment, "Then you're going togive up the law, altogether?"

"I don't know what I'm going to do; I'm going to do the best I can for thepresent, and trust to luck. I don't like special reporting, for a finality;but I shouldn't like shystering, either. "

"What's shystering?" asked Marcia. 

"It's pettifogging in the city courts. Wait till I can get my basis, --tillI have a fixed amount of money for a fixed amount of work, --and then I'lltalk to you about taking up the law again. I'm willing to do it wheneverit seems the right thing. I guess I should like it, though I don't seewhy it's any better than journalism, and I don't believe it has any moreprizes. "

"But you've been a long time trying to get your basis on a newspaper, " shereasoned. "Why don't you try to get it in some other way? Why don't you tryto get a clerk's place with some lawyer?"

"Well, suppose I was willing to starve along in that way, how should I goabout to get such a place?" demanded Bartley, with impatience. 

"Why don't you go to that Mr. Halleck you visited here? You used to tell mehe was going to be a lawyer. "

"Well, if you remember so distinctly what I said about going into the lawwhen I first came to Boston, " said her husband angrily, "perhaps you'llremember that I said I shouldn't go to Halleck until I didn't need hishelp. I shall not go to him _for_ his help. "

Marcia gave way to spiteful tears. "It seems as if you were ashamed tolet them know that you were in town. Are you afraid I shall want to getacquainted with them? Do you suppose I shall want to go to their parties, and disgrace you?"

Bartley took his cigar out of his mouth, and looked blackly at her. "So, that's what you've been thinking, is it?"

She threw herself upon his neck. "No! no, it isn't!" she cried, hysterically. "You know that I never thought it till this instant; you knowI didn't think it at all; I just _said_ it. My nerves are all gone; I don'tknow _what_ I'm saying half the time, and you're as strict with me as ifI were as well as ever! I may as well take off my things, --I'm not wellenough to go with you, to-day, Bartley. "

She had been dressing while they talked for an entertainment which Bartleywas going to report for the Chronicle-Abstract; and now she made a feint ofwishing to remove her hat. He would not let her. He said that if she didnot go, he should not; he reproached her with not wishing to go with himany more; he coaxed her laughingly and fondly. 

"It's only because I'm not so strong, now, " she said in a whisper thatended in a kiss on his cheek. "You must walk very slowly, and not hurryme. "

The entertainment was to be given in aid of the Indigent Children'sSurf-Bathing Society, and it was at the end of June, rather late in theseason. But the society itself was an afterthought, not conceived till agreat many people had left town on whose assistance such a charitymust largely depend. Strenuous appeals had been made, however: it wasrepresented that ten thousand poor children could be transported toNantasket Beach, and there, as one of the ladies on the committee said, bathed, clam-baked, and lemonaded three times during the summer at a costso small that it was a saving to spend the money. Class Day falling aboutthe same time, many exiles at Newport and on the North Shore came up anddown; and the affair promised to be one of social distinction, if notpecuniary success. The entertainment was to be varied: a distinguished poetwas to read an old poem of his, and a distinguished poetess was to reada new poem of hers; some professional people were to follow with comicsinging; an elocutionist was to give impressions of noted public speakers;and a number of vocal and instrumental amateurs were to contribute theirtalent. 

Bartley had instructions from Ricker to see that his report was veryfull socially. "We want something lively, and at the same time nice andtasteful, about the whole thing, and I guess you're the man to do it. GetMrs. Hubbard to go with you, and keep you from making a fool of yourselfabout the costumes. " He gave Bartley two tickets. "Mighty hard to get, Ican tell you, for _love_ or money, --especially love, " he said; and Bartleymade much of this difficulty in impressing Marcia's imagination with theuncommon character of the occasion. She had put on a new dress whichshe had just finished for herself, and which was a marvel not only ofcheapness, but of elegance; she had plagiarized the idea from the costumeof a lady with whom she stopped to look in at a milliner's window where sheformed the notion of her bonnet. But Marcia had imagined the things anew inrelation to herself, and made them her own; when Bartley first saw her inthem, though he had witnessed their growth from the germ, he said that hewas afraid of her, she was so splendid, and he did not quite know whetherhe felt acquainted. When they were seated at the concert, and had time tolook about them, he whispered, "Well, Marsh, I don't see anything here thatcomes near you in style, " and she flung a little corner of her drapery outover his hand so that she could squeeze it: she was quite happy again. 

After the concert, Bartley left her for a moment, and went up to a groupof the committee near the platform, to get some points for his report. He spoke to one of the gentlemen, note-book and pencil in hand, and thegentleman referred him to one of the ladies of the committee, who, after amoment of hesitation, demanded in a rich tone of injury and surprise, "Why!Isn't this Mr. Hubbard?" and, indignantly answering herself, "Of _course_it is!" gave her hand with a sort of dramatic cordiality, and flooded himwith questions: "When did you come to Boston? Are you at the Hallecks'? Didyou come--Or no, you're _not_ Harvard. You're not _living_ in Boston? Andwhat in the world are _you_ getting items for? Mr. Hubbard, Mr. Atherton. "

She introduced him in a breathless climax to the gentleman to whom he hadfirst spoken, and who had listened to her attack on Bartley with a smilewhich he was at no trouble to hide from her. "Which question are you goingto answer first, Mr. Hubbard?" he asked quietly, while his eyes searchedBartley's for an instant with inquiry which was at once kind and keen. Hisface had the distinction which comes of being clean-shaven in our beardedtimes. 

"Oh, the last, " said Bartley. "I'm reporting the concert for theChronicle-Abstract, and I want to interview some one in authority aboutit. "

"Then interview _me_, Mr. Hubbard, " cried the young lady. "_I'm_ inauthority about this affair, --it's my own invention, as the White Knightsays, --and then I'll interview you afterwards. And you've gone intojournalism, like all the Harvard men! So glad it's you, for you can be aperfect godsend to the cause if you will. The entertainment hasn't given usall the money we shall want, by any means, and we shall need all the helpthe press can give us. Ask me any questions you please, Mr. Hubbard:there isn't a soul here that I wouldn't sacrifice to the last personalparticular, if the press will only do its duty in return. You've no ideahow we've been working during the last fortnight since this Old Man of theSea-Bathing sprang upon us. I was sitting quietly at home, thinking ofanything else in the world, I can assure you, when the atrocious ideaoccurred to me. " She ran on to give a full sketch of the inception andhistory of the scheme up to the present time. Suddenly she arrested herselfand Bartley's flying pencil: "Why, you're not putting all that nonsensedown?"

"Certainly I am, " said Bartley, while Mr. Atherton, with a laugh, turnedand walked away to talk with some other ladies. "It's the very thing Iwant. I shall get in ahead of all the other papers on this; they haven'thad anything like it, yet. "

She looked at him for a moment in horror. Then, "Well, go on; I would doanything for the cause!" she cried. 

"Tell me who's been here, then, " said Bartley. 

She recoiled a little. "I don't like giving names. "

"But I can't say who the people were, unless you do. "

"That's true, " said the young lady thoughtfully. She prided herself on herthoughtfulness, which sometimes came before and sometimes after the fact. "You're not obliged to say who told you?"

"Of course not. "

She ran over a list of historical and distinguished names, and he slylyasked if this and that lady were not dressed so, and so, and worked inthe costumes from her unconsciously elaborate answers; she was afterwardsastonished that he should have known what people had on. Lastly, he askedwhat the committee expected to do next, and was enabled to enrich hisreport with many authoritative expressions and intimations. The lady becameall zeal in these confidences to the public, at last; she told everythingshe knew, and a great deal that she merely hoped. 

"And now come into the committee-room and have a cup of coffee; I know youmust be faint with all this talking, " she concluded. "I want to askyou something about yourself. " She was not older than Bartley, but sheaddressed him with the freedom we use in encouraging younger people. 

"Thank you, " he said coolly; "I can't, very well. I must go back to mywife, and hurry up this report. "

"Oh! is Mrs. Hubbard here?" asked the young lady with well-controlledsurprise. "Present me to her!" she cried, with that fearlessness of socialconsequences for which she was noted: she believed there were ways ofgetting rid of undesirable people without treating them rudely. 

The audience had got out of the hall, and Marcia stood alone near one ofthe doors waiting for Bartley. He glanced proudly toward her, and said, "Ishall be very glad. "

Miss Kingsbury drifted by his side across the intervening space, and wasready to take Marcia impressively by the hand when she reached her; she hadpromptly decided her to be very beautiful and elegantly simple in dress, but she found her smaller than she had looked at a distance. Miss Kingsburywas herself rather large, --sometimes, she thought, rather too large:certainly too large if she had not had such perfect command of every inchof herself. In complexion she was richly blonde, with beautiful fair hairroughed over her forehead, as if by a breeze, and apt to escape in sunnytendrils over the peachy tints of her temples. Her features were massiverather than fine; and though she thoroughly admired her chin and respectedher mouth, she had doubts about her nose, which she frankly referred tofriends for solution: had it not _too_ much of a knob at the end? Sheseemed to tower over Marcia as she took her hand at Bartley's introduction, and expressed her pleasure at meeting her. 

"I don't know why it need be such a surprise to find one's gentlemenfriends married, but it always is, somehow. I don't think Mr. Hubbard wouldhave known me if I hadn't insisted upon his recognizing me; I can't blamehim: it's three years since we met. Do you help him with his reports? Iknow you do! You _must_ make him lenient to our entertainment, --the causeis so good! How long have you been in Boston? Though I don't know why Ishould ask that, --you may have always been in Boston! One used to knoweverybody; but the place _is_ so large, now. I should like to come and seeyou; but I'm going out of town to-morrow, for the summer. I'm not reallyhere, now, except _ex officio_; I ought to have been away weeks ago, but this Indigent Surf-Bathing has kept me. You've no idea what such anundertaking is. But you _must_ let me have your address, and as soon as Iget back to town in the fall, I shall insist upon looking you up. _Good_by! I must run away, now, and leave you; there are a thousand things forme to look after yet to-day. " She took Marcia again by the hand, andsuperadded some bows and nods and smiles of parting, after she releasedher, but she did not ask her to come into the committee-room and have somecoffee; and Bartley took his wife's hand under his arm and went out of thehall. 

"Well, " he said, with a man's simple pleasure in Miss Kingsbury'sfriendliness to his wife, "that's the girl I used to tell you about, --therich one with the money in her own right, whom I met at the Hallecks'. Sheseemed to think you were about the thing, Marsh! I saw her eyes open as shecame up, and I felt awfully proud of you; you never looked half so well. But why didn't you _say_ something?"

"She didn't give me any chance, " said Marcia, "and I had nothing to say, anyway. I thought she was very disagreeable. "

"Disagreeable!" repeated Bartley in amaze. 

Miss Kingsbury went back to the committee-room, where one of the amateurshad been lecturing upon her: "Clara Kingsbury can say and do, from the bestheart in the world, more offensive things in ten minutes than malice couldinvent in a week. Somebody ought to go out and drag her away from thatreporter by main force. But I presume it's too late already; she's had timeto destroy us all. You'll see that there won't be a shred left of us in_his_ paper at any rate. Really, I wonder that, in a city full of nervousand exasperated people like Boston, Clara Kingsbury has been suffered tolive. She throws her whole soul into everything she undertakes, and she hasgone so _en masse_ into this Indigent Bathing, and splashed about in it so, that _I_ can't understand how we got anybody to come to-day. Why, I haven'tthe least doubt that she's offered that poor man a ticket to go down toNantasket and bathe with the other Indigents; she's treated _me_ as if Iought to be personally surf-bathed for the last fortnight; and if there'sany chance for us left by her tactlessness, you may be sure she's gone atit with her conscience and simply swept it off the face of the earth. "

XVIII. 

One hot day in August, when Bartley had been doing nothing for a week, andMarcia was gloomily forecasting the future when they would have to beginliving upon the money they had put into the savings bank, she reverted tothe question of his taking up the law again. She was apt to recur to thisin any moment of discouragement, and she urged him now to give up hisnewspaper work with that wearisome persistence with which women torment themen they love. 

"My newspaper work seems to have given me up, my dear, " said Bartley. "It'slike asking a fellow not to marry a girl that won't have him. " He laughedand then whistled; and Marcia burst into fretful, futile tears, which hedid not attempt to assuage. 

They had been all summer in town; the country would have been no changeto them; and they knew nothing of the seaside except the crowded, noisy, expensive resorts near the city. Bartley wished her to go to one of thesefor a week or two, at any rate, but she would not; and in fact neither ofthem had the born citizen's conception of the value of a summer vacation. But they had found their attic intolerable; and, the single gentlemenhaving all given up their rooms by this time, Mrs. Nash let Marcia have onelower down, where they sat looking out on the hot street. 

"Well, " cried Marcia at last, "you don't care for my feelings, or you wouldtake up the law again. "

Her husband rose with a sigh that was half a curse, and went out. Afterwhat she had said, he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing whathe meant to do; but he had it in his head to go to that Mr. Atherton towhom Miss Kingsbury had introduced him, and ask his advice; he had foundout that Mr. Atherton was a lawyer, and he believed that he would tell himwhat to do. He could at least give him some authoritative discouragementwhich he might use in these discussions with Marcia. 

Mr. Atherton had his office in the Events building, and Bartley was on hisway thither when he met Ricker. 

"Seen Witherby?" asked his friend. "He was round looking for you. "

"What does Witherby want with me?" asked Bartley, with a certainresentment. 

"Wants to give you the managing-editorship of the Events, " said Ricker, jocosely. 

"Pshaw! Well, he knows where to find me, if he wants me very badly. "

"Perhaps he doesn't, " suggested Ricker. "In that case, you'd better lookhim up. "

"Why, you don't advise--"

"Oh, _I_ don't advise anything! But if _he_ can let bygones be bygones, Iguess _you_ can afford to! I don't know just what he wants with you, but ifhe offers you anything like a basis, you'd better take it. "

Bartley's basis had come to be a sort of by-word between them; Rickerusually met him with some such demand as, "Well, what about the basis?" or, "How's your poor basis?" Bartley's ardor for a salaried position amusedhim, and he often tried to argue him out of it. "You're much better off asa free lance. You make as much money as most of the fellows in places, andyou lead a pleasanter life. If you were on any one paper, you'd have tobe on duty about fifteen hours out of the twenty-four; you'd be out everynight till three or four o'clock; you'd have to do fires, and murders, and all sorts of police business; and now you work mostly on fancyjobs, --something you suggest yourself, or something you're specially askedto do. That's a kind of a compliment, and it gives you scope. "

Nevertheless, if Bartley had his heart set upon a basis, Ricker wanted himto have it. "Of course, " he said, "I was only joking about the basis. Butif Witherby should have something permanent to offer, don't quarrel withyour bread and butter, and don't hold yourself _too_ cheap. Witherby'sgoing to get all he can, for as little as he can, every time. "

Ricker was a newspaper man in every breath. His great interest in life wasthe Chronicle-Abstract, which paid him poorly and worked him hard. Toget in ahead of the other papers was the object for which he toiled withunremitting zeal; but after that he liked to see a good fellow prosper, and he had for Bartley that feeling of comradery which comes out amongjournalists when their rivalries are off. He would hate to lose Bartleyfrom the Chronicle-Abstract; if Witherby meant business, Bartley andhe might be excoriating each other before a week passed in sarcasticreferences to "our esteemed contemporary of the Events, " and "our esteemedcontemporary of the Chronicle-Abstract"; but he heartily wished him luck, and hoped it might be some sort of inside work. 

When Ricker left him Bartley hesitated. He was half minded to go home andwait for Witherby to look him up, as the most dignified and perhaps themost prudent course. But he was curious and impatient, and he was afraidof letting the chance, whatever it might be, slip through his fingers. Hesuddenly resolved upon a little ruse, which would still oblige Witherbyto make the advance, and yet would risk nothing by delay. He mounted toWitherby's room in the Events building, and pushed open the door. Then hedrew back, embarrassed, as if he had made a mistake. "Excuse me, " he said, "isn't Mr. Atherton's office on this floor?"

Witherby looked up from the papers on his desk, and cleared his throat. When he overreached himself he was apt to hold any party to the transactionaccountable for his error. Ever since he refused Bartley's paper on thelogging-camp, he had accused him in his heart of fraud because he had soldthe rejected sketch to another paper, and anticipated Witherby's tardyenterprise in the same direction. Each little success that Bartley madeadded to Witherby's dislike; and whilst Bartley had written for all theother papers, he had never got any work from the Events. Witherby had theguilty sense of having hated him as he looked up, and Bartley on his partwas uneasily sensible of some mocking paragraphs of a more or less personalcast, which he had written in the Chronicle-Abstract, about the enterpriseof the Events. 

"Mr. Atherton is on the floor above, " said Witherby. "But I'm very gladyou happened to look in, Mr. Hubbard. I--I was just thinking about you. Ah--wont you take a chair?"

"Thanks, " said Bartley, non-committally; but he sat down in the chair whichthe other rose to offer him. 

Witherby fumbled about among the things on his desk before he resumed hisown seat. "I hope you have been well since I saw you?"

"Oh, yes, I'm always well. How have you been?" Bartley wondered whitherthis exchange of civilities tended; but he believed he could keep it up aslong as old Witherby could. 

"Why, I have not been very well, " said Witherby, getting into his chair, and taking up a paper-weight to help him in talk. "The fact is, I find thatI have been working too hard. I have undertaken to manage the editorialdepartment of the Events in addition to looking after its business, and thecare has been too great. It has told upon me. I flatter myself that I havenot allowed either department to suffer--"

He referred this point so directly to him, that Bartley made a murmur ofassent, and Witherby resumed. 

"But the care has told upon me. I am not so well as I could wish. I needrest, and I need help, " he added. 

Bartley had by this time made up his mind that, if Witherby had anything tosay to him, he should say it unaided. 

Witherby put down the paper-weight, and gave his attention for a moment toa paper-cutter. "I don't know whether you have heard that Mr. Clayton isgoing to leave us?"

"No, " Bartley said, "I hadn't heard that. "

"Yes, he is going to leave us. Mr. Clayton and I have not agreed upon somepoints, and we have both judged it best that we should part. "Witherby paused again, and changed the positions of his inkstand andmucilage-bottle. "Mr. Clayton has failed me, as I may say, at thelast moment, and we have been compelled to part. I found Mr. Clayton--unpractical. "

He looked again at Bartley, who said, "Yes?"

"Yes. I found Mr. Clayton so much at variance in his views with--with myown views--that I could do nothing with him. He has used language to mewhich I am sure he will regret. But that is neither here nor there; heis going. I have had my eye on you, Mr. Hubbard, ever since you came toBoston, and have watched your career with interest. But I thought of Mr. Clayton, in the first instance, because he was already attached to theEvents, and I wished to promote him. Office during good behavior, andpromotion in the direct line: I'm _that_ much of a civil-service reformer, "said Witherby. 

"Certainly, " said Bartley. 

"But of course my idea in starting the Events was to make money. "

"Of course. "

"I hold that the first duty of a public journal is to make money for theowner; all the rest follows naturally. "

"You're quite right, Mr. Witherby, " said Bartley. "Unless it makes money, there can be no enterprise about it, no independence, --nothing. That wasthe way I did with my little paper down in Maine. The first thing--I toldthe committee when I took hold of the paper--is to keep it from losingmoney; the next is to make money with it. First peaceable, then pure:that's what I told them. "

"Precisely so!" Witherby was now so much at his ease with Bartley thathe left off tormenting the things on his desk, and used his hands ingesticulating. "Look at the churches themselves! No church can do any goodtill it's on a paying basis. As long as a church is in debt, it can'tsecure the best talent for the pulpit or the choir, and the members goabout feeling discouraged and out of heart. It's just so with a newspaper. I say that a paper does no good till it pays; it has no influence, itsmotives are always suspected, and you've got to make it pay by hook or bycrook, before you can hope to--to--forward any good cause by it. That'swhat _I_ say. Of course, " he added, in a large, smooth way, "I'm not goingto contend that a newspaper should be run _solely_ in the interest of thecounting-room. Not at all! But I do contend that, when the counting-roomprotests against a certain course the editorial room is taking, it ought tobe respectfully listened to. There are always two sides to every question. Suppose all the newspapers pitch in--as they sometimes do--and denounce acertain public enterprise: a projected scheme of railroad legislation, ora peculiar system of banking, or a co-operative mining interest, and thecounting-room sends up word that the company advertises heavily with us;shall _we_ go and join indiscriminately in that hue and cry, or shall wegive our friends the benefit of the doubt?"

"Give them the benefit of the doubt, " answered Bartley. "That's what Isay. "

"And so would any other practical man!" said Witherby. "And that's justwhere Mr. Clayton and I differed. Well, I needn't allude to him anymore, " he added leniently. "What I wish to say is this, Mr. Hubbard. I amoverworked, and I feel the need of some sort of relief. I know that I havestarted the Events in the right line at last, --the only line in which itcan be made a great, useful, and respectable journal, efficient inevery good cause, --and what I want now is some sort of assistant in themanagement who shall be in full sympathy with my own ideas. I don't want amere slave, --a tool; but I do want an independent, right-minded man, whoshall be with me for the success of the paper the whole time and everytime, and shall not be continually setting up his will against mine on allsorts of _doctrinaire_ points. That was the trouble with Mr. Clayton. Ihave nothing against Mr. Clayton personally; he is an excellent young manin very many respects; but he was all wrong about journalism, all wrong, Mr. Hubbard. I talked with him a great deal, and tried to make him seewhere his interest lay. He had been on the paper as a reporter from thestart, and I wished very much to promote him to this position; which hecould have made the best position in the country. The Events is an eveningpaper; there is no night-work; and the whole thing is already thoroughlysystematized. Mr. Clayton had plenty of talent, and all he had to do was tostep in under my direction and put his hand on the helm. But, no! I shouldhave been glad to keep him in a subordinate capacity; but I had to let himgo. He said that he would not report the conflagration of a peanut-standfor a paper conducted on the principles I had developed to him. Now, thatis no way to talk. It's absurd. "

"Perfectly. " Bartley laughed his rich, caressing laugh, in which therewas the insinuation of all worldly-wise contempt for Clayton and allworldly-wise sympathy with Witherby. It made Witherby feel good, --betterperhaps than he had felt at any time since his talk with Clayton. 

"Well, now, what do you say, Mr. Hubbard? Can't we make some arrangementwith you?" he asked, with a burst of frankness. 

"I guess you can, " said Bartley. The fact that Witherby needed him was soplain that he did not care to practise any finesse about the matter. 

"What are your present engagements?"

"I haven't any. "

"Then you can take hold at once?"

"Yes. "

"That's good!" Witherby now entered at large into the nature of theposition which he offered Bartley. They talked a long time, and in becomingbetter acquainted with each other's views, as they called them, they becamebetter friends. Bartley began to respect Witherby's business ideas, andWitherby in recognizing all the admirable qualities of this clear-sightedand level-headed young man began to feel that he had secretly liked himfrom the first, and had only waited a suitable occasion to unmask hisaffection. It was arranged that Bartley should come on as Witherby'sassistant, and should do whatever he was asked to do in the management ofthe paper; he was to write on topics as they occurred to him, or as theywere suggested to him. "I don't say whether this will lead to anythingmore, Mr. Hubbard, or not; but I do say that you will be in the direct lineof promotion. "

"Yes, I understand that, " said Bartley. 

"And now as to terms, " continued Witherby, a little tremulously. 

"And now as to terms, " repeated Bartley to himself; but he said nothingaloud. He felt that Witherby had cut out a great deal of work for him, andwork of a kind that he could not easily find another man both willing andable to do. He resolved that he would have all that his service was worth. 

"What should you think of twenty dollars a week?" asked Witherby. 

"I shouldn't think it was enough, " said Bartley, amazed at his ownaudacity, but enjoying it, and thinking how he had left Marcia with theintention of offering himself to Mr. Atherton as a clerk for ten dollars aweek. "There is a great deal of labor in what you propose, and you commandmy whole time. You would not like to have me do any work outside of theEvents. "

"No, " Witherby assented. "Would twenty-five be nearer the mark?" heinquired soberly. 

"It would be nearer, certainly, " said Bartley. "But I guess you had bettermake it thirty. " He kept a quiet face, but his heart throbbed. 

"Well, say thirty, then, " replied Witherby so promptly that Bartleyperceived with a pang that he might as easily have got forty from him. Butit was now too late, and a salary of fifteen hundred a year passed thewildest hopes he had cherished half an hour before. 

"All right, " he said quietly. "I suppose you want me to take hold at once?"

"Yes, on Monday. Oh, by the way, " said Witherby, "there is one little pieceof outside work which I should like you to finish up for us; and we'llagree upon something extra for it, if you wish. I mean our Solid Menseries. I don't know whether you've noticed the series in the Events?"

"Yes, " said Bartley, "I have. "

"Well, then, you know what they are. They consist of interviews--guardedand inoffensive as respects the sanctity of private life--with our leadingmanufacturers and merchant princes at their places of business and theirresidences, and include a description of these, and some account of thelives of the different subjects. "

"Yes, I have seen them, " said Bartley. "I've noticed the general plan. "

"You know that Mr. Clayton has been doing them. He made them a popularfeature. The parties themselves were very much pleased with them. "

"Oh, people are always tickled to be interviewed, " said Bartley. "I knowthey put on airs about it, and go round complaining to each other aboutthe violation of confidence, and so on; but they all like it. You knowI reported that Indigent Surf-Bathing entertainment in June for theChronicle-Abstract. I knew the lady who got it up, and I interviewed herafter the entertainment. "

"Miss Kingsbury?"

"Yes. " Witherby made an inarticulate murmur of respect for Bartley inhis throat, and involuntarily changed toward him, but not so subtly thatBartley's finer instinct did not take note of the change. "She was a freshsubject, and she told me everything. Of course I printed it all. Shewas awfully shocked, --or pretended to be, --and wrote me a veryO-dear-how-could-you note about it. But I went round to the office the nextday, and I found that nearly every lady mentioned in the interview hadordered half a dozen copies of that issue sent to her seaside address, andthe office had been full of Beacon Street swells all the morning buyingChronicle-Abstracts, --'the one with the report of the Concert in it. '"These low views of high society, coupled with an apparent familiarity withit, modified Witherby more and more. He began to see that he had got aprize. "The way to do with such fellows as your Solid Men, " continuedBartley, "is to submit a proof to 'em. They never know exactly what to doabout it, and so you print the interview with their approval, and make 'em_particeps criminis_. I'll finish up the series for you, and I won't makeany very heavy extra charge. "

"I should wish to pay you whatever the work was worth, " said Witherby, notto be outdone in nobleness. 

"All right; we sha'n't quarrel about that, at any rate. "

Bartley was getting toward the door, for he was eager to be gone now toMarcia, but Witherby followed him up as if willing to detain him. "Mywife, " he said, "knows Miss Kingsbury. They have been on the same charitiestogether. "

"I met her a good while ago, when I was visiting a chum of mine at hisfather's house here. I didn't suppose she'd know me; but she did at once, and began to ask me if I was at the Hallecks'--as if I had never goneaway. "

"Mr. Ezra B. Halleck?" inquired Witherby reverently. "Leather trade?"

"Yes, " said Bartley. "I believe his first name was Ezra. Ben Halleck was myfriend. Do you know the family?" asked Bartley. 

"Yes, we have met them--in society. I hope you're pleasantly situated whereyou are, Mr. Hubbard? Should be glad to have you call at the house. "

"Thank you, " said Bartley, "my wife will be glad to have Mrs. Witherbycall. "

"Oh!" cried Witherby. "I didn't know you were married! That's good! There'snothing like marriage, Mr. Hubbard, to keep a man going in the rightdirection. But you've begun pretty young. "

"Nothing like taking a thing in time, " answered Bartley. "But I haven'tbeen married a great while; and I'm not so young as I look. Well, goodafternoon, Mr. Witherby. "

"_What_ did you say was your address?" asked Witherby, taking out hisnote-book. "My wife will certainly call. She's down at Nantasket now, butshe'll be up the first part of September, and then she'll call. _Good_afternoon. "

They shook hands at last, and Bartley ran home to Marcia. He burst into theroom with a glowing face. "Well, Marcia, " he shouted, "I've got my basis!"

"Hush! No! Don't be so loud! You haven't!" she answered, springing to herfeet. "I don't believe it! How hot you are!"

"I've been running--almost all the way from the Events office. I've got aplace on the Events, --assistant managing-editor, --thirty dollars a week, "he panted. 

"I knew you would succeed yet, --I knew you would, if I could only have alittle patience. I've been scolding myself ever since you went. I thoughtyou were going to do something desperate, and I had driven you to it. ButBartley, Bartley! It can't be true, is it? Here, here! Do take this fan. Orno, I'll fan you, if you'll let me sit on your knee! O poor thing, how hotyou are! But I thought you wouldn't white for the Events; I thought youhated that old Witherby, who acted so ugly to you when you first came. "

"Oh, Witherby is a pretty good old fellow, " said Bartley, who had begun toget his breath again. He gave her a full history of the affair, and theyrejoiced together over it, and were as happy as if Bartley had beencelebrating a high and honorable good fortune. She was too ignorant to feelthe disgrace, if there were any, in the compact which Bartley had closed, and he had no principles, no traditions, by which to perceive it. To themit meant unlimited prosperity; it meant provision for the future, which wasto bring a new responsibility and a new care. 

"We will take the parlor with the alcove, now, " said Bartley. "Don't exciteyourself, " he added, with tender warning. 

"No, no, " she said, pillowing her head on his shoulder, and sheddingpeaceful tears. 

"It doesn't seem as if we should ever quarrel again, does it?"

"No, no! We never shall, " she murmured. "It has always come from myworrying you about the law, and I shall never do that any more. If you likejournalism better, I shall not urge you any more to leave it, now you'vegot your basis. "

"But I'm going on with the law, now, for that very reason. I shall read lawall my leisure time. I feel independent, and I shall not be anxious aboutthe time I give, because I shall know that I can afford it. "

"Well, only you mustn't overdo. " She put her lips against his cheek. "You're more to me than anything you can do for me. "

"Oh, Marcia!"

XIX. 

Now that Bartley had got his basis and had no favors to ask of any one, hewas curious to see his friend Halleck again; but when, in the course of theSolid Men Series, he went to interview A Nestor of the Leather Interest, as he meant to call the elder Halleck, he resolved to let him make allthe advances. On a legitimate business errand it should not matter to himwhether Mr. Halleck welcomed him or not. The old man did not wait forBartley to explain why he came; he was so simply glad to see him thatBartley felt a little ashamed to confess that he had been eight months inBoston without making himself known. He answered all the personal questionswith which Mr. Halleck plied him; and in his turn he inquired after hiscollege friend. 

"Ben is in Europe, " said his father. "He has been there all summer; butwe expect him home about the middle of September. He's been a good whilesettling down, " continued the old man, with an unconscious sigh. "He talkedof the law at first, and then he went into business with me; but he didn'tseem to find his calling in it; and now he's taken up the law again. He'sbeen in the Law School at Cambridge, and he's going back there for a yearor two longer. I thought you used to talk of the law yourself when you werewith us, Mr. Hubbard. "

"Yes, I did, " Bartley assented. "And I haven't given up the notion yet. I've read a good deal of law already; but when I came up to Boston, I hadto go into newspaper work till I could see my way out of the woods. "

"Well, " said Mr. Halleck, "that's right. And you say you like thearrangement you've made with Mr. Witherby?"

"It's ideal--for me, " answered Bartley. 

"Well, that's good, " said the old man. "And you've come to interview me. Well, that's all right. I'm not much used to being in print, but I shall beglad to tell you all I know about leather. "

"You may depend upon my not saying anything that will be disagreeableto you, Mr. Halleck, " said Bartley, touched by the old man's trustingfriendliness. When his inquisition ended, he slipped his notebook back intohis pocket, and said with a smile, "We usually say something about thevictim's private residence, but I guess I'll spare you that, Mr. Halleck. "

"Why, we live in the old place, and I don't suppose there is much to say. We are plain people, and we don't like to change. When I built there thirtyyears ago, Rumford Street was one of the most desirable streets in Boston. There was no Back Bay, then, you know, and we thought we were doingsomething very fashionable. But fashion has drifted away, and left us highand dry enough on Rumford Street; though we don't mind it. We keep the oldhouse and the old garden pretty much as you saw them. You can say whateveryou think best. There's a good deal of talk about the intrusiveness of thenewspapers; all I know is that they've never intruded upon me. We shall notbe afraid that you will abuse our house, Mr. Hubbard, because we expect youto come there again. When shall it be? Mrs. Halleck and I have been at homeall summer; we find it the most comfortable place; and we shall be veryglad if you'll drop in any evening and take tea with us. We keep the oldhours; we've never taken kindly to the late dinners. The girls are off atthe mountains, and you'd see nobody but Mrs. Halleck. Come this evening!"cried the old man, with mounting cordiality. 

His warmth as he put his hand on Bartley's shoulder made the young manblush again for the reserve with which he had been treating his ownaffairs. He stammered out, hoping that the other would see the relevancy ofthe statement, "Why, the fact is, Mr. Halleck, I--I'm married. "

"Married?" said Mr. Halleck. "Why didn't you tell me before? Of course wewant Mrs. Hubbard, too. Where are you living? We won't stand upon ceremonyamong old friends. Mrs. Halleck will come with the carriage and fetch Mrs. Hubbard, and your wife must take that for a call. Why, you don't know howglad we shall be to have you both! I wish Ben was married. You'll come?"

"Of course we will, " said Bartley. "But you mustn't let Mrs. Halleck sendfor us; we can walk perfectly well. "

"_You_ can walk if you want, but Mrs. Hubbard shall ride, " said the oldman. 

When Bartley reported this to Marcia, "Bartley!" she cried. "In hercarriage? I'm afraid!"

"Nonsense! She'll be a great deal more afraid than you are. She's thebashfulest old lady you ever saw. All that I hope is that you won'toverpower her. "

"Bartley, hush! Shall I wear my silk, or--"

"Oh, wear the silk, by all means. Crush them at a blow!"

Rumford Street is one of those old-fashioned thoroughfares at the West Endof Boston, which are now almost wholly abandoned to boarding-houses of thepoorer class. Yet they are charming streets, quiet, clean, and respectable, and worthy still to be the homes, as they once were, of solid citizens. Thered brick houses, with their swell fronts, looking in perspective like asuccession of round towers, are reached by broad granite steps, and theirdoors are deeply sunken within the wagon-roofs of white-painted Romanarches. Over the door there is sometimes the bow of a fine transom, and theparlor windows on the first floor of the swell front have the same azuregleam as those of the beautiful old houses which front the Common on BeaconStreet. 

When her husband bought his lot there, Mrs. Halleck could hardly believethat a house on Rumford Street was not too fine for her. They had come tothe city simple and good young village people, and simple and good theyhad remained, through the advancing years which had so wonderfully--Mrs. Halleck hoped, with a trembling heart, not wickedly--prospered them. Theywere of faithful stock, and they had been true to their traditions in everyway. One of these was constancy to the orthodox religious belief in whichtheir young hearts had united, and which had blessed all their life; thoughtheir charity now abounded perhaps more than their faith. They stillbelieved that for themselves there was no spiritual safety except in theirchurch; but since their younger children had left it they were forcedtacitly to own that this might not be so in all cases. Their last endeavorfor the church in Ben's case was to send him to the college where he andBartley met; and this was such a failure on the main point, that it leftthem remorsefully indulgent. He had submitted, and had foregone his boyishdreams of Harvard, where all his mates were going; but the sacrifice seemedto have put him at odds with life. The years which had proved the oldpeople mistaken would not come back upon their recognition of their error. He returned to the associations from which they had exiled him too muchestranged to resume them, and they saw, with the unavailing regrets whichvisit fathers and mothers in such cases, that the young know their ownworld better than their elders can know it, and have a right to be in itand of it, superior to any theory of their advantage which their elders canform. Ben was not the fellow to complain; in fact, after he came home fromcollege, he was allowed to shape his life according to his own ratherfitful liking. His father was glad now to content him in anything he could, it was so very little that Ben asked. If he had suffered it, perhaps hisfamily would have spoiled him. 

The Halleck girls went early in July to the Profile House, where they hadspent their summers for many years; but the old people preferred to stayat home, and only left their large, comfortable house for short absences. Their ways of life had been fixed in other times, and Mrs. Halleck likedbetter than mountain or sea the high-walled garden that stretched back oftheir house to the next street. They had bought through to this street whenthey built, but they had never sold the lot that fronted on it. Theylaid it out in box-bordered beds, and there were clumps of hollyhocks, sunflowers, lilies, and phlox, in different corners; grapes covered thetrellised walls; there were some pear-trees that bore blossoms, andsometimes ripened their fruit beside the walk. Mrs. Halleck used to work inthe garden; her husband seldom descended into it, but he liked to sit onthe iron-railed balcony overlooking it from the back parlor. 

As for the interior of the house, it had been furnished, once for all, in the worst style of that most tasteless period of household art, whichprevailed from 1840 to 1870; and it would be impossible to say which weremost hideous, the carpets or the chandeliers, the curtains or the chairsand sofas; crude colors, lumpish and meaningless forms, abounded in a richand horrible discord. The old people thought it all beautiful, and thosedaughters who had come into the new house as little girls revered it; butBen and his youngest sister, who had been born in the house, used the rightof children of their parents' declining years to laugh at it. Yet theylaughed with a sort of filial tenderness. 

"I suppose you know how frightful you have everything about you, Olive, "said Clara Kingsbury, one day after the Eastlake movement began, as shetook a comprehensive survey of the Halleck drawing-room through her_pince-nez_. 

"Certainly, " answered the youngest Miss Halleck. "It's a perfect chamber ofhorrors. But I like it, because everything's so exquisitely in keeping. "

"Really, I feel as if I had seen it all for the first time, " said MissKingsbury. "I don't believe I ever realized it before. "

She and Olive Halleck were great friends, though Clara was fashionable andOlive was not. 

"It would all have been different, " Ben used to say, in whimsical sarcasmof what he had once believed, "if I had gone to Harvard. Then the fellowsin my class would have come to the house with me, and we should have gotinto the right set naturally. Now, we're outside of everything, and itmakes me mad, because we've got money enough to be inside, and there'snothing to prevent it. Of course, I'm not going to say that leather isquite as blameless as cotton socially, but taken in the wholesale form itisn't so very malodorous, and it's quite as good as other things that areaccepted. "

"It's not the leather, Ben, " answered Olive, "and it's not your not goingto Harvard altogether, though that has something to do with it. Thetrouble's in me. I was at school with all those girls Clara goes with, andI could have been in that set if I'd wanted; but I didn't really want to. Isaw, at a very tender age, that it was going to be more trouble than it wasworth, and I just quietly kept out of it. Of course, I couldn't have goneto Papanti's without a fuss, but mother would have let me go if I had madethe fuss; and I could be hand and glove with those girls now, if I tried. They come here whenever I ask them; and when I meet them on charities, I'mawfully popular. No, if I'm not fashionable, it's my own fault. But whatdifference does it make to you, Ben? You don't want to marry any of thosegirls as long as your heart's set on that unknown charmer of yours. " Benhad once seen his charmer in the street of a little Down East town, wherehe met her walking with some other boarding-school girls; in a freak withhis fellow-students, he had bribed the village photographer to let him havethe picture of the young lady, which he had sent home to Olive, marked, "MyLost Love. "

"No, I don't want to marry anybody, " said Ben. "But I hate to live in atown where I'm not first chop in everything. "

"Pshaw!" cried his sister, "I guess it doesn't trouble you much. "

"Well, I don't know that it does, " he admitted. 

Mrs. Halleck's black coachman drove her to Mrs. Nash's door on CanaryPlace, where she alighted and rang with as great perturbation as if it hadbeen a palace, and these poor young people to whom she was going to be kindwere princes. It was sufficient that they were strangers; but Marcia'sanxiety, evident even to meekness like Mrs. Halleck's, restored hersomewhat to her self-possession; and the thought that Bartley, in spite ofhis personal splendor, was a friend of Ben's, was a help, and she got homewith her guests without any great chasms in the conversation, though shenever ceased to twist the window-tassel in her embarrassment. 

Mr. Halleck came to her rescue at her own door, and let them in. He shookhands with Bartley again, and viewed Marcia with a fatherly friendlinessthat took away half her awe of the ugly magnificence of the interior. Butstill she admired that Bartley could be so much at his ease. He pointed toa stick at the foot of the hat-rack, and said, "How much that looks likeHalleck!" which made the old man laugh, and clap him on the shoulder, andcry: "So it does! so it does! Recognized it, did you? Well, we shall soonhave him with us again, now. Seems a long time to us since he went. "

"Still limps a little?" asked Bartley. 

"Yes, I guess he'll never quite get over that. "

"I don't believe I should like him to, " said Bartley. "He wouldn't seemnatural without a cane in his hand, or hanging by the crook over his leftelbow, while he stood and talked. "

The old man clapped Bartley on the shoulder again, and laughed again at theimage suggested. "That's so! that's so! You're right, I _guess!"_

As soon as Marcia could lay off her things in the gorgeous chamber towhich Mrs. Halleck had shown her, they went out to tea in the dining-roomoverlooking the garden. 

"Seems natural, don't it?" asked the old man, as Bartley turned to one ofthe windows. 

"Not changed a bit, except that I was here in winter, and I hadn't a chanceto see how pretty your garden was. "

"It is pretty, isn't it?" said the old man. "Mother--Mrs. Halleck, Imean--looks after it. She keeps it about right. Here's Cyrus!" he said, asthe serving-man came into the room with something from the kitchen in hishands. "You remember Cyrus, I guess, Mr. Hubbard?"

"Oh, yes!" said Bartley, and when Cyrus had set down his dish, Bartleyshook hands with the New Hampshire exemplar of freedom and equality; he wasno longer so young as to wish to mark a social difference between himselfand the inside-man who had served Mr. Halleck with unimpaired self-respectfor twenty-five years. 

There was a vacant place at table, and Mr. Halleck said he hoped it wouldbe taken by a friend of theirs. He explained that the possible guest washis lawyer, whose office Ben was going into after he left the Law School;and presently Mr. Atherton came. Bartley was prepared to be introducedanew, but he was flattered and the Hallecks were pleased to find that heand Mr. Atherton were already acquainted; the latter was so friendly, thatBartley was confirmed in his belief that you could not make an interviewtoo strong, for he had celebrated Mr. Atherton among the other peoplepresent at the Indigent Surf-Bathing entertainment. 

He was put next to Marcia, and after a while he began to talk with her, feeling with a tacit skill for her highest note, and striking that withkindly perseverance. It was not a very high note, and it was not always acertain sound. She could not be sure that he was really interested in thesimple matters he had set her to talking about, and from time to time shewas afraid that Bartley did not like it: she would not have liked him totalk so long or so freely with a lady. But she found herself talking on, about boarding, and her own preference for keeping house; about Equity, andwhat sort of place it was, and how far from Crawford's; about Boston, andwhat she had seen and done there since she had come in the winter. Mostof her remarks began or ended with Mr. Hubbard; many of her opinions, especially in matters of taste, were frank repetitions of what Mr. Hubbardthought; her conversation had the charm and pathos of that of the youngwife who devotedly loves her husband, who lives in and for him, testseverything by him, refers everything to him. She had a good mind, though itwas as bare as it could well be of most of the things that the ladies ofMr. Atherton's world put into their minds. 

Mrs. Halleck made from time to time a little murmur of satisfaction inMarcia's loyalty, and then sank back into the meek silence that she onlyemerged from to propose more tea to some one, or to direct Cyrus aboutoffering this dish or that. 

After they rose she took Marcia about, to show her the house, ending withthe room which Bartley had when he visited there. They sat down in thisroom and had a long chat, and when they came back to the parlor theyfound Mr. Atherton already gone. Marcia inferred the early habits of thehousehold from the departure of this older friend, but Bartley was in nohurry; he was enjoying himself, and he could not see that Mr. Halleckseemed at all sleepy. 

Mrs. Halleck wished to send them home in her carriage, but they would nothear of this; they would far rather walk, and when they had been followedto the door, and bidden mind the steps as they went down, the wide opennight did not seem too large for their content in themselves and eachother. 

"Did you have a nice time?" asked Bartley, though he knew he need not. 

"The best time I ever had in the world!" cried Marcia. 

They discussed the whole affair; the two old people; Mr. Atherton, and howpleasant he was; the house and its splendors, which they did not know werehideous. "Bartley, " said Marcia at last, "I _told_ Mrs. Halleck. "

"Did you?" he returned, in trepidation; but after a while he laughed. "Well, all right, if you wanted to. "

"Yes, I did; and you can't think how kind she was. She says we must have ahouse of our own somewhere, and she's going round with me in her carriageto help me to find one. "

"Well, " said Bartley, and he fetched a sigh, half of pride, half of dismay. 

"Yes, I long to go to housekeeping. We can afford it now. She says we canget a cheap little house, or half a house, up at the South End, and itwon't cost us any more than to board, hardly; and that's what I think, too. "

"Go ahead, if you can find the house. I don't object to my own fireside. And I suppose we must. "

"Yes, we must. Ain't you glad of it?"

They were in the shadow of a tall house, and he dropped his face toward theface she lifted to his, and gave her a silent kiss that made her heart leaptoward him. 

XX. 

With the other news that Halleck's mother gave him on his return, she toldhim of the chance that had brought his old college comrade to them again, and of how Bartley was now married, and was just settled in the littlehouse she had helped his wife to find. "He has married a very pretty girl, "she said. 

"Oh, I dare say!" answered her son. "He isn't the fellow to have married aplain girl. "

"Your father and I have been to call upon them in their new house, and theyseem very happy together. Mr. Hubbard wants you should come to see them. Hetalks a great deal about you. "

"I'll look them up in good time, " said the young man. "Hubbard's ardor tosee me will keep. "

That evening Mr. Atherton came to tea, and Halleck walked home with him tohis lodgings, which were over the hill, and beyond the Public Garden. "Yes, it's very pleasant, getting back, " he said, as they sauntered down theCommon side of Beacon Street, "and the old town is picturesque after thebest they can do across the water. " He halted his friend, and broughthimself to a rest on his cane, for a look over the hollow of the Common andthe level of the Garden where the late September dark was keenly spangledwith lamps. "'My heart leaps up, ' and so forth, when I see that. Now thatAthens and Florence and Edinburgh are past, I don't think there is anyplace quite so well worth being born in as Boston. " He moved forward again, gently surging with his limp, in a way that had its charm for those thatloved him. "It's more authentic and individual, more municipal, afterthe old pattern, than any other modern city. It gives its stamp, itcharacterizes. The Boston Irishman, the Boston Jew, is a quite differentIrishman or Jew from those of other places. Even Boston provinciality isa precious testimony to the authoritative personality of the city. Cosmopolitanism is a modern vice, and we're antique, we're classic, in theother thing. Yes, I'd rather be a Bostonian, at odds with Boston, than oneof the curled darlings of any other community. "

A friend knows how to allow for mere quantity in your talk, and onlyreplies to the quality, separates your earnest from your whimsicality, andaccounts for some whimsicality in your earnest. "I didn't know but youmight have got that bee out of your bonnet, on the other side, " saidAtherton. 

"No, sir; we change our skies, but not our bees. What should I amount towithout my grievance? You wouldn't have known me. This talk to-night aboutHubbard has set my bee to buzzing with uncommon liveliness; and the thoughtof the Law School next week does nothing to allay him. The Law School isn'tHarvard; I realize that more and more, though I have tried to fancy that itwas. No, sir, my wrongs are irreparable. I had the making of a real Harvardman in me, and of a Unitarian, nicely balanced between radicalism andamateur episcopacy. Now, I am an orthodox ruin, and the undutiful stepsonof a Down East _alma mater_. I belong nowhere; I'm at odds. --Is Hubbard'swife really handsome, or is she only country-pretty?"

"She's beautiful, --I assure you she's beautiful, " said Atherton with suchearnestness that Halleck laughed. 

"Well, that's right! as my father says. How's she beautiful?"

"That's difficult to tell. It's rather a superb sort of style; and--Whatdid you really use to think of your friend?" Atherton broke off to ask. 

"Who? Hubbard?"

"Yes. "

"He was a poor, cheap sort of a creature. Deplorably smart, and regrettablyhandsome. A fellow that assimilated everything to a certain extent, andnothing thoroughly. A fellow with no more moral nature than a base-ball Thesort of chap you'd expect to find, the next time you met him, in Congressor the house of correction. "

"Yes, that accounts for it, " said Atherton, thoughtfully. 

"Accounts for what?"

"The sort of look she had. A look as if she were naturally above him, andhad somehow fascinated herself with him, and were worshipping him in somesort of illusion. "

"Doesn't that sound a little like refining upon the facts? Recollect: I'venever seen her, and I don't say you're wrong. "

"I'm not sure I'm not, though. I talked with her, and found her nothingmore than honest and sensible and good; simple in her traditions, ofcourse, and countrified yet, in her ideas, with a tendency to the intenselypractical. I don't see why she mightn't very well be his wife. I supposeevery woman hoodwinks herself about her husband in some degree. "

"Yes; and we always like to fancy something pathetic in the fate of prettygirls that other fellows marry. I notice that we don't sorrow much over theplain ones. How's the divine Clara?"

"I believe she's well, " said Atherton. "I haven't seen her, all summer. She's been at Beverley. "

"Why, I should have supposed she would have come up and surf-bathed thoseindigent children with her own hand. She's equal to it. What made herfalter in well-doing?"

"I don't know that we can properly call it faltering. There was a deficitin the appropriation necessary, and she made it up herself. After that, she consulted me seriously as to whether she ought not to stay in townand superintend the execution of the plan. But I told her she might fitlydelegate that. She was all the more anxious to perform her whole duty, because she confessed that indigent children were personally unpleasant toher. "

Halleck burst out laughing. "That's like Clara! How charming women are!They're charming even in their goodness! I wonder the novelists don't takea hint from that fact, and stop giving us those scaly heroines they've beenrunning lately. Why, a real woman can make righteousness delicious andvirtue piquant. I like them for that!"

"Do you?" asked Atherton, laughing in his turn at the single-mindedconfession. He was some years older than his friend. 

They had got down to Charles Street, and Halleck took out his watch at thecorner lamp. "It isn't at all late yet, --only half-past eight. The days aregetting shorter. "

"Well?"

"Suppose we go and call on Hubbard now? He's right up here on CloverStreet!"

"I don't know, " said Atherton. "It would do for you; you're an old friend. But for me, --wouldn't it be rather unceremonious?"

"Oh, come along! They'll not be punctilious. They'll like our dropping in, and I shall have Hubbard off my conscience. I must go to see him sooner orlater, for decency's sake. "

Atherton suffered himself to be led away. "I suppose you won't stay long?"

"Oh, no; I shall cut it very short, " said Halleck; and they climbedthe narrow little street where Marcia had at last found a house, aftersearching the South End quite to the Highlands, and ransacking Charlestownand Carnbridgeport. These points all seemed to her terribly remote fromwhere Bartley must be at work during the day, and she must be alone withoutthe sight of him from morning till night. The accessibility of CanaryPlace had spoiled her for distances; she wanted Bartley at home for theirone-o'clock dinner; she wanted to have him within easy call at all times;and she was glad when none of those far-off places yielded quite what theydesired in a house. They took the house on Clover Street, though it was alittle dearer than they expected, for two years, and they furnished it, asfar as they could, out of the three or four hundred dollars they had saved, including the remaining hundred from the colt and cutter, kept sacredlyintact by Marcia. When you entered, the narrow staircase cramped you intothe little parlor opening out of the hall; and back of the parlor wasthe dining-room. Overhead were two chambers, and overhead again were twochambers more; in the basement was the kitchen. The house seemed absurdlylarge to people who had been living for the last seven months in one room, and the view of the Back Bay from the little bow-window of the frontchamber added all outdoors to their superfluous space. 

Bartley came himself to answer Halleck's ring, and they met at once withsuch a "Why, Halleck!" and "How do you do, Hubbard?" as restored somethingof their old college comradery. Bartley welcomed Mr. Atherton under thegas-light he had turned up, and then they huddled into the little parlor, where Bartley introduced his old friend to his wife. Marcia wore a sort ofdark robe, trimmed with bows of crimson ribbon, which she had madeherself, and in which she looked a Roman patrician in an avatar of Bostondomesticity; and Bartley was rather proud to see his friend so visiblydazzled by her beauty. It quite abashed Halleck, who limped helplesslyabout, after his cane had been taken from him, before he sat down, whileMarcia, from the vantage of the sofa and the covert of her talk withAtherton, was content that Halleck should be plain and awkward, withclose-cut drab hair and a dull complexion; she would not have liked even aman who knew Bartley before she did to be very handsome. 

Halleck and Bartley had some talk about college days, from which their eyeswandered at times; and then Marcia excused herself to Atherton, and wentout, reappearing after an interval at the sliding doors, which she rolledopen between the parlor and dining-room. A table set for supper stoodbehind her, and as she leaned a little forward with her hands each ona leaf of the door, she said, with shy pride, "Bartley, I thought thegentlemen would like to join you, " and he answered, "Of course they would, "and led the way out, refusing to hear any demur. His heart swelled withsatisfaction in Marcia; it was something like: having fellows drop in uponyou, and be asked out to supper in this easy way; it made Bartley feelgood, and he would have liked to give Marcia a hug on the spot. He couldnot help pressing her foot, under the table, and exchanging a quiver of theeyelashes with her, as he lifted the lid of the white tureen, and lookedat her across the glitter of their new crockery and cutlery. They made thejokes of the season about the oyster being promptly on hand for the firstof the R months, and Bartley explained that he was sometimes kept at theEvents office rather late, and that then Marcia waited supper for him, andalways gave him an oyster stew, which she made herself. She could notstop him, and the guests praised the oysters, and then they praised thedining-room and the parlor; and when they rose from the table Bartley said, "Now, we must show you the house, " and persisted against her deprecationsin making her lead the way. She was in fact willing enough to show it; hertaste had made their money go to the utmost in furnishing it; and thoughmost people were then still in the period of green reps and tan terry, andof dull black-walnut movables, she had everywhere bestowed little touchesthat told. She had covered the marble parlor-mantel with cloth, and fringedit; and she had set on it two vases in the Pompeiian colors then liked; hercarpet was of wood color and a moss pattern; she had done what could bedone with folding carpet chairs to give the little room a specious airof luxury; the centre-table was heaped with her sewing and Bartley'snewspapers. 

"We've just moved in, and we haven't furnished _all_ the rooms yet, " shesaid of two empty ones which Bartley perversely flung open. 

"And I don't know that we shall. The house is much too big for us; butwe thought we'd better take it, " he added, as if it were a castle forvastness. 

Halleck and Atherton were silent for some moments after they came away, andthen, "_I_ don't believe he whips her, " suggested the latter. 

"No, I guess he's fond of her, " said Halleck, gravely. 

"Did you see how careful he was of her, coming up and down stairs? That wasvery pretty; and it was pretty to see them both so ready to show off theiryoung housekeeping to us. "

"Yes, it improves a man to get married, " said Halleck, with a long, stifledsigh. "It's improved the most selfish hound I ever knew. "

XXI. 

The two elder Miss Hallecks were so much older than Olive, the youngest, that they seemed to be of a sort of intermediary generation between her andher parents, though Olive herself was well out of her teens, and was thesenior of her brother Ben by two or three years. The elder sisters werealways together, and they adhered in common to the religion of their fatherand mother. The defection of their brother was passive, but Olive, havingconscientiously adopted an alien faith, was not a person to let othersimagine her ashamed of it, and her Unitarianism was outspoken. In her turnshe formed a kind of party with Ben inside the family, and would have ledhim on in her own excesses of independence if his somewhat melancholyindifferentism had consented. It was only in his absence that she had beenwith her sisters during their summer sojourn in the White Mountains; whenthey returned home, she vigorously went her way, and left them to gotheirs. She was fond of them in her defiant fashion; but in such a matteras calling on Mrs. Hubbard she chose not to be mixed up with her family, or in any way to countenance her family's prepossessions. Her sisters paidtheir visit together, and she waited for Clara Kingsbury to come up fromthe seaside. Then she went with her to call upon Marcia, sitting observantand non-committal while Clara swooped through the little house, up stairsand down, clamoring over its prettiness, and admiring the art with which sofew dollars could be made to go so far. "Think of finding such a bower onClover Street!" She made Marcia give her the cost of everything; and herheart swelled with pride in her sex--when she heard that Marcia had putdown all the carpets herself. "I wanted to make them up, " Marcia explained, "but Mr. Hubbard wouldn't let me, --it cost so little at the store. "

"Wouldn't let you!" cried Miss Kingsbury. "I should hope as much, indeed!Why, my child, you're a Roman matron!"

She came away in agony lest Marcia might think she meant her nose. Shedrove early the next morning to tell Olive Halleck that she had spent asleepless night from this cause, and to ask her what she _should_ do. "Doyou think she will be hurt, Olive? Tell me what led up to it. How did Ibehave before that? The context is everything in such cases. "

"Oh, you went about praising everything, and screaming and shouting, andmy-dearing and my-childing her, and patronizing--"

"There, there! say no more! That's sufficient! I see, --I see it all! I'vedone the very most offensive thing I could, when I meant to be the mostappreciative. "

"These country people don't like to be appreciated down to the quick, inthat way, " said Olive. "I should think Mrs. Hubbard was rather a proudperson. "

"I know! I know!" moaned Miss Kingsbury. 'It was ghastly. "

"_I_ don't suppose she's ashamed of her nose--"

"Olive!" cried her friend, "be still! Why, I can't _bear_ it! Why, youwretched thing!"

"I dare say all the ladies in Equity make up their own carpets, and putthem down, and she thought you were laughing at her. "

"_Will_ you be still, Olive Halleck?" Miss Kingsbury was now a large, blonde mass of suffering, "Oh, dear, dear! What shall I do? It wassacrilege--yes, it was nothing less than sacrilege--to go on as I did. AndI meant so well! I did so admire, and respect, and revere her!" Olive burstout laughing. "You wicked girl!" whimpered Clara. "Should you--should youwrite to her?"

"And tell her you didn't mean her nose? Oh, by all means, Clara, --by allmeans! Quite an inspiration. Why not make her an evening party?"

"Olive, " said Clara, with guilty meekness, "I have been thinking of that. "

"_No_, Clara! Not seriously!" cried Olive, sobered at the idea. 

"Yes, seriously. Would it be so very bad? Only just a _little_ party, "she pleaded. "Half a dozen people or so; just to show them that I reallyfeel--friendly. I know that he's told her all about meeting me here, andI'm not going to have her think I want to drop him because he's married, and lives in a little house on Clover Street. "

"Noble Clara! So you wish to bring them out in Boston society? What willyou do with them after you've got them there?" Miss Kingsbury fidgeted inher chair a little. "Now, look me in the eye, Clara! Whom were you going toask to meet them? Your unfashionable friends, the Hallecks?"

"My friends, the Hallecks, of course. "

"And Mr. Atherton, your legal adviser?"

"I had thought of asking Mr. Atherton. You needn't say what he is, if youplease, Olive; you know that there's no one I prize so much. "

"Very good. And Mr. Cameron?"

"He has got back, --yes. He's very nice. "

"A Cambridge tutor; very young and of recent attachment to the College, with no local affiliations, yet. What ladies?"

"Miss Strong is a nice girl; she is studying at the Conservatory. "

"Yes. Poverty-stricken votary of Miss Kingsbury. Well?"

"Miss Clancy. "

"Unfashionable sister of fashionable artist. Yes?"

"The Brayhems. "

"Young radical clergyman, and his wife, without a congregation, and hopingfor a pulpit in Billerica. Parlor lectures on German literature in the meantime. Well?"

"And Mrs. Savage, I thought. "

"Well-preserved young widow of uncertain antecedents tending to grassiness;out-door _protégée_ of the hostess. Yes, Clara, go on and give your party. It will be _perfectly safe_! But do you think it will _deceive_ anybody?"

"Now, Olive Halleck!" cried Clara, "I am not going to have you talking tome in that way! You have no right to do it, and you have no business to doit, " she added, trying to pluck up a spirit. "Is there anybody that I valuemore than I do you and your sisters, and Ben?"

"No. But you don't value us _just in that way_, and you know it. Don't yoube a humbug, Clara. Now go on with your excuses. "

"I'm not making excuses! Isn't Mr. Atherton in the most fashionablesociety?"

"Yes. Why don't you ask some other fashionable people?"

"Olive, this is all nonsense, --perfect nonsense! I can invite any one Ilike to meet any one I like, and if I choose to show Mr. Hubbard's wife alittle attention, I can do it, can't I?"

"Oh, of course!"

"And what would be the use of inviting fashionable people--as you callthem--to meet them? It would just embarrass them, all round. "

"Perfectly correct, Miss Kingsbury. All that want you to do is to face thefacts of the case. I want you to realize that, in showing Mr. Hubbard'swife this little attention, you're not doing it because you scorn to dropan old friend, and want to do him the highest honor; but because you thinkyou can palm off your second-class acquaintance on them for first-class, and try to make up in that way for telling her she had a hooked nose!"

"You _know_ that I didn't tell her she had a hooked nose. "

"You told her that she was a Roman matron, --it's the same thing, " saidOlive. 

Miss Kingsbury bit her lip and tried to look a dignified resentment. Sheended by saying, with feeble spite, "I shall have the little evening forall you say. I suppose you won't refuse to come because I don't ask thewhole Blue Book to meet them. "

"Of course we shall come! I wouldn't miss it for anything. I always like tosee how you manage your pieces of social duplicity, Clara. But you needn'texpect that I will be a party to the swindle. No, Clara! I shall go tothese poor young people and tell them plainly, 'This is not the _best_society; Miss Kingsbury keeps that for--'"

"Olive! I think I never saw even you in such a teasing humor. " The tearscame into Clara's large, tender blue eyes, and she continued with an appealthat had no effect, "I'm sure I don't see why you should make it a questionof anything of the sort. It's simply a wish to--to have a little company ofno particular kind, for no partic--Because I want to. "

"Oh, that's it, is it? Then I highly approve of it, " said Olive. "When isit to be?"

"I sha'n't tell you, now! You may wait till I'm ready, " pouted Clara, asshe rose to go. 

"Don't go away thinking I'm enough to provoke a saint because _you've_ gotmad at me, Clara!"

"Mad? You know I'm not mad! But I think you might be a _little_ sympathetic_some_times, Olive!" said her friend, kissing her. 

"Not in cases of social duplicity, Clara. My wrath is all that saves you. If you were not afraid of me, you would have been a lost worldling longago. "

"I know you always really love me, " said Miss Kingsbury, tenderly. 

"No, I don't, " retorted her friend, promptly. "Not when you're humbugging. Don't expect it, for you won't get it. " She followed Clara with atriumphant laugh as she went out of the door; and except for this partingtaunt Clara might have given up her scheme. She first ordered her _coupé_driven home, in fact, and then lowered the window to countermand thedirection, and drove to Bartley's door on Clover Street. 

It was a very handsome equipage, and was in keeping with all the outwardbelongings of Miss Kingsbury, who mingled a sense of duty and a love ofluxury in her life in very exact proportions. When her _coupé_ was notstanding before some of the wretchedest doors in the city, it was waitingat the finest; and Clara's days were divided between the extremes ofsqualor and of fashion. 

She was the only child of parents who had early left her an orphan. Herfather, who was much her mother's senior, was an old friend of Olive'sfather, and had made him his executor and the guardian of his daughter. Mr. Halleck had taken her into his own family, and, in the conscientiouspursuance of what he believed would have been her father's preference, hegave her worldly advantages which he would not have desired for one of hisown children. But the friendship that grew up between Clara and Olivewas too strong for him in some things, and the girls went to the samefashionable school together. 

When his ward came of age he made over to her the fortune, increased by hiscareful management, which her father had left her, and advised her to puther affairs in the hands of Mr. Atherton. She had shown a quite ungirlisheagerness to manage them for herself; in the midst of her profusion she hadodd accesses of stinginess, in which she fancied herself coming to poverty;and her guardian judged it best that she should have a lawyer who couldtell her at any moment just where she stood. She hesitated, but she did ashe advised; and having once intrusted her property to Atherton's care, sheadded her conscience and her reason in large degree, and obeyed himwith embarrassing promptness in matters that did not interfere with herpleasures. Her pleasures were of various kinds. She chose to buy herself afine house, and, having furnished it luxuriously and unearthed a cousin ofher father's in Vermont and brought her to Boston to matronize her, shekept house on a magnificent scale, pinching, however, at certain pointswith unexpected meanness. When she was alone, her table was of a Spartanausterity; she exacted a great deal from her servants, and paid them assmall wages as she could. After that she did not mind lavishing money uponthem in kindness. A seamstress whom she had once employed fell sick, andMiss Kingsbury sent her to the Bahamas and kept her there till she waswell, and then made her a guest in her house till the girl could get backher work. She watched her cook through the measles, caring for her like amother; and, as Olive Halleck said, she was always portioning or buryingthe sisters of her second-girls. She was in all sorts of charities, but shewas apt to cut her charities off with her pleasures at any moment, if shefelt poor. She was fond of dress, and went a great deal into society: shesuspected men generally of wishing to marry her for her money, but withthose whom she did not think capable of aspiring to her hand, she wasgenerously helpful with her riches. She liked to patronize; she had longsupported an unpromising painter at Rome, and she gave orders to desperateartists at home. 

The world had pretty well hardened one half of her heart, but the otherhalf was still soft and loving, and into this side of her mixed nature shecowered when she believed she had committed some blunder or crime, and camewhimpering to Olive Halleck for punishment. She made Olive her disciplinepartly in her lack of some fixed religion. She had not yet found a religionthat exactly suited her, though she had many times believed herself aboutto be anchored in some faith forever. 

She was almost sorry that she had put her resolution in effect when sherang at the door, and Marcia herself answered the bell, in place of the oneservant who was at that moment hanging out the wash. It seemed wicked topretend to be showing this pretty creature a social attention, when shemeant to palm off a hollow imitation of society upon her. Why should shenot ask the very superfinest of her friends to meet such a brilliantbeauty? It would serve Olive Halleck right if she should do this, and leavethe Hallecks out; and Marcia would certainly be a sensation. She halfbelieved that she meant to do it when she quitted the house with Marcia'spromise that she would bring her husband to tea on Wednesday evening, ateight; and she drove away so far penitent that she resolved at least tomake her company distinguished, if not fashionable. She said to herselfthat she would make it fashionable yet, if she chose, and as a first movein this direction she easily secured Mr. Atherton: he had no engagements, so few people had got back to town. She called upon Mrs. Witherby, needlessly reminding her of the charity committees they had served ontogether; and then she went home and actually sent out notes to theplainest daughter and the maiden aunt of two of the most high-born familiesof her acquaintance. She added to her list an artist and his wife, ("NowI shall _have_ to let him paint me!" she reflected, ) a young author whosebook had made talk, a teacher of Italian with whom she was pretending toread Dante, and a musical composer. 

Olive came late, as if to get a whole effect of the affair at once; and hersmile revealed Clara's failure to her, if she had not realized it before. She read there that the aristocratic and aesthetic additions which she hadmade to the guests Olive originally divined had not sufficed; the partyremained a humbug. It had seemed absurd to invite anybody to meet two suchlittle, unknown people as the Hubbards; and then, to avoid marking them asthe subjects of the festivity by the precedence to be observed in going outto supper, she resolved to have tea served in the drawing-room, and to makeit literally tea, with bread and butter, and some thin, ascetic cakes. 

However sharp he was in business, Mr. Witherby was socially a dull man; andhis wife and daughter seemed to partake of his qualities by affinition andheredity. They tried to make something of Marcia, but they failed throughtheir want of art. Mrs. Witherby, finding the wife of her husband'sassistant in Miss Kingsbury's house, conceived an awe of her, which Marciawould not have known how to abate if she had imagined it; and in a littlewhile the Witherby family segregated themselves among the photograph albumsand the bricabrac, from which Clara seemed to herself to be fruitlesslydetaching them the whole evening. The plainest daughter and the maiden auntof the patrician families talked to each other with unavailing intervals ofthe painter and the author, and the radical clergyman and his wife werein danger of a conjugal devotion which society does not favor; theunfashionable sister of the fashionable artist conversed with the youngtutor and the Japanese law-student whom he had asked leave to bring withhim, and whose small, mouse-like eyes continually twinkled away in pursuitof the blonde beauty of his hostess. The widow was winningly attentive, with a tendency to be confidential, to everybody. The Italian could notdisabuse himself of the notion that he was expected to be light andcheerful, and when the pupil of the Conservatory sang, he abandoned himselfto his error, and clapped and cried bravo with unseemly vivacity. But hewas restored to reason when the composer sat down at the piano andplayed, amid the hush that falls on society at such times, something fromBeethoven, and again something of his own, which was so like Beethoven thatBeethoven himself would not have known the difference. 

Mr. Atherton and Halleck moved about among the guests, and did their bestto second Clara's efforts for their encouragement; but it was useless. Inthe desperation which owns defeat, she resolved to devote herself for therest of the evening to trying to make at least the Hubbards have a goodtime; and then, upon the dangerous theory, of which young and prettyhostesses cannot be too wary, that a wife is necessarily flattered byattentions to her husband, she devoted herself exclusively to Bartley, towhom she talked long and with a reckless liveliness of the events of hisformer stay in Boston. Their laughter and scraps of their reminiscencereached Marcia where she sat in a feint of listening to Ben Halleck'sperfunctory account of his college days with her husband, till she couldbear it no longer. She rose abruptly, and, going to him, she said that itwas time to say good-night. "Oh, so soon!" cried Clara, mystified and alittle scared at the look she saw on Marcia's face. "Good night, " she addedcoldly. 

The assembly hailed this first token of its disintegration with relief; itbecame a little livelier; there was a fleeting moment in which it seemed asif it might yet enjoy itself; but its chance passed; it crumbled rapidlyaway, and Clara was left looking humbly into Olive Halleck's pitiless eyes. "Thank you for a _delightful_ evening, Miss Kingsbury! Congratulate you!"she mocked, with an unsparing laugh. "Such a success! But why didn't yougive them something to eat, Clara? Those poor Hubbards have a one-o'clockdinner, and I famished for them. I wasn't hungry myself, --_we_ have atwo-o'clock dinner!"

XXII. 

Bartley came home elate from Miss Kingsbury's entertainment. It wassomething like the social success which he used to picture to himself. Hehad been flattered by the attention specially paid him, and he did notdetect the imposition. He was half starved, but he meant to have up somecold meat and bottled beer, and talk it all over with Marcia. 

She did not seem inclined to talk it over on their way home, and when theyentered their own door, she pushed in and ran up-stairs. "Why, where areyou going, Marcia?" he called after her. 

"To bed!" she replied, closing the door after her with a crash ofunmistakable significance. 

Bartley stood a moment in the fury that tempted him to pursue her with ataunt, and then leave her to work herself out of the transport of senselessjealousy she had wrought herself into. But he set his teeth, and, full ofinward cursing, he followed her up-stairs with a slow, dogged step. He tookher in his arms without a word, and held her fast, while his anger changedto pity, and then to laughing. When it came to that, she put up her arms, which she had kept rigidly at her side, and laid them round his neck, andbegan softly to cry on his breast. 

"Oh, I'm not myself at all, any more!" she moaned penitently. 

"Then this is very improper--for me, " said Bartley. 

The helpless laughter broke through her lamentation, but she cried a littlemore to keep herself in countenance. 

"But I guess, from a previous acquaintance with the party's character, that it's really all you, Marcia. I don't blame you. Miss Kingsbury'shospitality has left me as hollow as if I'd had nothing to eat for a week;and I know you're perishing from inanition. Hence these tears. "

It delighted her to have him make fun of Miss Kingsbury's tea, and shelifted her head to let him see that she was laughing for pleasure now, before she turned away to dry her eyes. 

"Oh, poor fellow!" she cried. "I did pity you so when I saw those meanlittle slices of bread and butter coming round!"

"Yes, " said Bartley, "I felt sorry myself. But don't speak of them anymore, dearest. "

"And I suppose, " pursued Marcia, "that all the time she was talking to youthere, you were simply ravening. "

"I was casting lots in my own mind to see which of the company I shoulddevour first. "

His drollery appeared to Marcia the finest that ever was; she laughed andlaughed again; when he made fun of the conjecturable toughness of theelderly aristocrat, she implored him to stop if he did not want to killher. Marcia was not in the state in which woman best convinces her enemiesof her fitness for empire, though she was charming in her silly happiness, and Bartley felt very glad that he had not yielded to his first impulse todeal savagely with her. "Come, " he said, "let us go out somewhere, and getsome oysters. "

She began at once to take out her ear-rings and loosen her hair. "No, I'll get something here in the house; I'm not very hungry. But _you_ go, Bartley, and have a good supper, or you'll be sick to-morrow, and not fitto work. Go, " she added to his hesitating image in the glass, "I insistupon it. I won't _have_ you stay. " His reflected face approached frombehind; she turned hers a little, and their mirrored lips met over hershoulder. "Oh, how _sweet_ you are, Bartley!" she murmured. 

"Yes, you will always find me obedient when commanded to go out and repairmy wasted tissue. "

"I don't mean _that_, dear, " she said softly. "I mean--your not quarrellingwith me when I'm unreasonable. Why can't we always do so!"

"Well, you see, " said Bartley, "it throws the whole burden on the fellow inhis senses. It doesn't require any great degree of self-sacrifice to flyoff at a tangent, but it's rather a maddening spectacle to the party thatholds on. "

"Now I will show you, " said Marcia, "that I can be reasonable too: I shalllet you go alone to make our party call on Miss Kingsbury. " She looked athim heroically. 

"Marcia, " said Bartley, "you're such a reasonable person when you're themost unreasonable, that I wonder I _ever_ quarrel with you. I rather thinkI'll let _you_ call on Miss Kingsbury alone. I shall suffer agonies ofsuspicion, but it will prove that I have perfect confidence in you. " Hethrew her a kiss from the door, and ran down the stairs. When he returned, an hour later, he found her waiting up for him. "Why, Marcia!" heexclaimed. 

"Oh! I just wanted to say that we will both go to call on her _very soon_. If I sent you, she might think I was mad, and I won't give her thatsatisfaction. "

"Noble girl!" cried Bartley, with irony that pleased her better thanpraise. Women like to be understood, even when they try not to beunderstood. 

When Marcia went with Bartley to call, Miss Kingsbury received her withcareful, perhaps anxious politeness, but made no further effort to take herup. Some of the people whom Marcia met at Miss Kingsbury's called; and theWitherbys came, father, mother, and daughter together; but between theevident fact that the Hubbards were poor, and the other evident fact thatthey moved in the best society, the Witherbys did not quite know what to doabout them. They asked them to dinner, and Bartley went alone; Marcia wasnot well enough to go. 

He was very kind and tractable, now, and went whenever she bade him gowithout her, though tea at the Hallecks was getting to be an old story withhim, and it was generally tea at the Hallecks to which she sent him. TheHalleck ladies came faithfully to see her, and she got on very well withthe two older sisters, who gave her all the kindness they could spare fromtheir charities, and seemed pleased to have her so pretty and conjugal, though these things were far from them. But she was afraid of Oliveat first, and disliked her as a friend of Miss Kingsbury. This ratherattracted the odd girl. What she called Marcia's snubs enabled her todeclare in her favor with a sense of disinterestedness, and to indulge herrepugnance for Bartley with a good heart. She resented his odious goodlooks, and held it a shame that her mother should promote his visibletendency to stoutness by giving him such nice things for tea. 

"Now, I like Mr. Hubbard, " said her mother placidly. "It's very kind of himto come to such plain folks as we are, whenever we ask him; now that hiswife can't come, I know he does it because he likes us. "

"Oh, he comes for the eating, " said Olive, scornfully. Then another phaseof her mother's remark struck her: "Why, mother!" she cried, "I do believeyou think Bartley Hubbard's a distinguished man somehow!"

"Your father says it's very unusual for such a young man to be in a placelike his. Mr. Witherby really leaves everything to him, he says. "

"Well, I think he'd better not, then! The Events has got to be perfectlyhorrid, of late. It's full of murders and all uncleanness. "

"That seems to be the way with the papers, nowadays. Your father hears thatthe Events is making money. "

"Why, mother! What a corrupt old thing you are! I believe you've beenbought up by that disgusting interview with father. Nestor of the LeatherInterest! Father ought to have turned him out of doors. Well, this familyis getting a little _too_ good, for me! And Ben's almost as bad as any ofyou, of late, --I haven't a bit of influence with him any more. He seemsdetermined to be friendlier with that _person_ than ever; he's alwaystrying to do him good, --I can see it, and it makes me sick. One thing Iknow: I'm going to stop Mr. Hubbard's calling me Olive. Impudent!"

Mrs. Halleck shifted her ground with the pretence which women use, evenamongst themselves, of having remained steadfast. "He is a very goodhusband. "

"Oh, because he likes to be!" retorted her daughter. "Nothing is easierthan to be a good husband. "

"Ah, my dear, " said Mrs. Halleck, "wait till you have tried. "

This made Olive laugh; but she answered with an argument that always hadweight with her mother, "Ben doesn't think he's a good husband. "

"What makes you think so, Olive?" asked her mother. 

"I know he dislikes him intensely. "

"Why, you just said yourself, dear, that he was friendlier with him thanever. "

"Oh, that's nothing. The more he disliked him the kinder he would be tohim. "

"That's true, " sighed her mother. "Did he ever say anything to you abouthim?"

"No, " cried Olive, shortly; "he never speaks of people he doesn't like. "

The mother returned, with logical severity, "All that doesn't prove thatBen thinks he isn't a good husband. "

"He dislikes him. Do you believe a bad man can be a good husband, then?"

"No, " Mrs. Halleck admitted, as if confronted with indisputable proof ofBartley's wickedness. 

In the mean time the peace between Bartley and Marcia continued unbroken, and these days of waiting, of suffering, of hoping and dreading, were thehappiest of their lives. He did his best to be patient with her capricesand fretfulness, and he was at least manfully comforting and helpful, andinstant in atonement for every failure. She said a thousand times that sheshould die without him; and when her time came, he thought that she wasgoing to die before he could tell her of his sorrow for all that he hadever done to grieve her. He did not tell her, though she lived to give himthe chance; but he took her and her baby both into his arms, with tears ofas much fondness as ever a man shed. He even began his confession; but shesaid, "Hush! you never did a wrong thing yet that I didn't drive you to. "Pale and faint, she smiled joyfully upon him, and put her hand on his headwhen he hid his face against hers on the pillow, and put her lips againsthis cheek. His heart was full; he was grateful for the mercy that hadspared him; he was so strong in his silent repentance that he felt like agood man. 

"Bartley, " she said, "I'm going to ask a great favor of you. "

"There's nothing that I can do that _I_ shall think a favor, darling!" hecried, lifting his face to look into hers. 

"Write for mother to come. I want her!"

"Why, of course. " Marcia continued to look at him, and kept the quiveringhold she had laid of his hand when he raised his head. "Was that all?"

She was silent, and he added, "I will ask your father to come with her. "

She hid her face for the space of one sob. "I wanted you to offer. "

"Why, of course! of course!" he replied. 

She did not acknowledge his magnanimity directly, but she lifted thecoverlet and showed him the little head on her arm, and the little creasedand crumpled face. 

"Pretty?" she asked. "Bring me the letter before you send it. --Yes, that isjust right, --perfect!" she sighed, when he came back and read the letter toher; and she fell away to happy sleep. 

Her father answered that he would come with her mother as soon as he gotthe better of a cold he had taken. It was now well into the winter, andthe journey must have seemed more formidable in Equity than in Boston. ButBartley was not impatient of his father-in-law's delay, and he set himselfcheerfully about consoling Marcia for it. She stole her white, thin handinto his, and now and then gave it a little pressure to accent the pointsshe made in talking. 

"Father was the first one I thought of--after you, Bartley. It seems to meas if baby came half to show me how unfeeling I had been to him. Of course, I'm not sorry I ran away and asked you to take me back, for I couldn't havehad you if I hadn't done it; but I never realized before how cruel it wasto father. He always made such a pet of me; and I know that he thought hewas acting for the best. "

"I knew that _you_ were, " said Bartley, fervently. 

"What sweet things you always say to me!" she murmured. "But don't you see, Bartley, that I didn't think enough of him? That's what baby seems to havecome to teach me. " She pulled a little away on the pillow, so as to fix himmore earnestly with her eyes. "If baby should behave so to _you_ when shegrew up, I should hate her!"

He laughed, and said, "Well, perhaps your mother hates you. "

"No, they don't--either of them, " answered Marcia, with a sigh. "And Ibehaved very stiffly and coldly with him when he came up to see me, --morethan I had any need to. I did it for your sake; but he didn't mean any harmto you, he just wanted to make sure that I was safe and well. "

"Oh, that's all right, Marsh. "

"Yes, I know. But what if he had died!"

"Well, he didn't die, " said Bartley, with a smile. "And you've correspondedwith them regularly, ever since, and you know they've been getting alongall right. And it's going to be altogether different from this out, " headded, leaning back a little weary with a matter in which he could not beexpected to take a very cordial interest. 

"Truly?" she asked, with one of the eagerest of those hand-pressures. 

"It won't be my fault if it isn't, " he replied, with a yawn. 

"How good you are, Bartley!" she said, with an admiring look, as if it werethe goodness of God she was praising. 

Bartley released himself, and went to the new crib, in which the baby lay, and with his hands in his pockets stood looking down at it with a curioussmile. 

"Is it pretty?" she asked, envious of his bird's-eye view of the baby. 

"Not definitively so, " he answered. "I dare say she will smooth out intime; but she seems to be considerably puckered yet. "

"Well, " returned Marcia, with forced resignation, "I shouldn't let any oneelse say so. "

Her husband set up a soft, low, thoughtful whistle. "I'll tell you what, Marcia, " he said presently. "Suppose we name this baby after your father?"

She lifted herself on her elbow, and stared at him as if he must be makingfun of her. "Why, how could we?" she demanded. Squire Gaylord's parentshad called his name Flavius Josephus, in a superstition once cherishedby old-fashioned people, that the Jewish historian was somehow a sacredwriter. 

"We can't name her Josephus, but we can call her Flavia, " said Bartley. "And if she makes up her mind to turn out a blonde, the name will just fit. Flavia, --it's a very pretty name. " He looked at his wife, who suddenlyturned her face down on the pillow. 

"Bartley Hubbard, " she cried, "you're the best man in the world!"

"Oh, no! Only the second-best, " suggested Bartley. 

In these days they took their fill of the delight of young fatherhood andmotherhood. After its morning bath Bartley was called in, and allowed torevere the baby's mottled and dimpled back as it lay face downward onthe nurse's lap, feebly wiggling its arms and legs, and responding withineffectual little sighs and gurgles to her acceptable rubbings with warmflannel. When it was fully dressed, and its long clothes pulled snuglydown, and its limp person stiffened into something tenable, he was sufferedto take it into his arms, and to walk the room with it. After all, thereis not much that a man can actually do with a small baby, either for itspleasure or his own, and Barkley's usefulness had its strict limitations. He was perhaps most beneficial when he put the child in its mother's arms, and sat down beside the bed, and quietly talked, while Marcia occasionallyput up a slender hand, and smoothed its golden brown hair, bending her neckover to look at it where it lay, with the action of a mother bird. Theyexamined with minute interest the details of the curious little creature:its tiny finger-nails, fine and sharp, and its small queer fist doubled sotight, and closing on one's finger like a canary's claw on a perch; theabsurdity of its foot, the absurdity of its toes, the ridiculous inadequacyof its legs and arms to the work ordinarily expected of legs and arms, madethem laugh. They could not tell yet whether its eyes would be black likeMarcia's, or blue like Bartley's; those long lashes had the sweep of hers, but its mop of hair, which made it look so odd and old, was more like hisin color. 

"She will be a dark-eyed blonde, " Bartley decided. 

"Is that nice?" asked Marcia. 

"With the telescope sight, they're warranted to kill at five hundredyards. "

"Oh, for shame, Bartley! To talk of baby's ever killing!"

"Why, that's what they all come to. It's what you came to yourself. "

"Yes, I know. But it's quite another thing with baby. " She began to mumbleit with her lips, and to talk baby-talk to it. In their common interest inthis puppet they already called each other papa and mamma. 

Squire Gaylord came alone, and when Marcia greeted him with "Why, father!Where's mother?" he asked, "Did you expect her? Well, I guess your mother'sfeeling rather too old for such long winter journeys. You know she don'tgo out a great deal _I_ guess she expects your family down there in thesummer. "

The old man was considerably abashed by the baby when it was put into hisarms, and being required to guess its name he naturally failed. 

"Flavia!" cried Marcia, joyfully. "Bartley named it after you. "

This embarrassed the Squire still more. "Is that so?" he asked, rathersheepishly. "Well, it's quite a compliment. "

Marcia repeated this to her husband as evidence that her father was allright now. Bartley and the Squire were in fact very civil to each other;and Bartley paid the old man many marked attentions. He took him to thetop of the State House, and walked him all about the city, to show him itspoints of interest, and introduced him to such of his friends as they met, though the Squire's dresscoat, whether fully revealed by the removal of hissurtout, or betraying itself below the skirt of the latter, was a trialto a fellow of Bartley's style. He went with his father-in-law to see Mr. Warren in Jefferson Scattering Batkins, and the Squire grimly appreciatedthe burlesque of the member from Cranberry Centre; but he was otherwisenot a very amusable person, and off his own ground he was not conversable, while he refused to betray his impressions of many things that Bartleyexpected to astonish him. The Events editorial rooms had no apparenteffect upon him, though they were as different from most editorial dens astapestry carpets, black-walnut desks, and swivel chairs could make them. Mr. Witherby covered him with urbanities and praises of Bartley that oughtto have delighted him as a father-in-law; but apparently the great man ofthe Events was but a strange variety of the type with which he was familiarin the despised country editors. He got on better with Mr. Atherton, who was of a man's profession. The Squire wore his hat throughout theirinterview, and everywhere except at table and in bed; and as soon as herose front either, he put it on. 

Bartley tried to impress him with such novel traits of cosmopolitan life asa _table d'hôte_ dinner at a French restaurant; but the Squire sat throughthe courses, as if his barbarous old appetite had satisfied itself inthat manner all his life. After that, Bartley practically gave him up; hepleaded his newspaper work, and left the Squire to pass the time as hecould in the little house on Clover Street, where he sat half a day at astretch in the parlor, with his hat on, reading the newspapers, his legssprawled out towards the grate. In this way he probably reconstructed forhimself some image of his wonted life in his office at home, and was forthe time at peace; but otherwise he was very restless, except when he waswith Marcia. He was as fond of her in his way as he had ever been, andthough he apparently cared nothing for the baby, he enjoyed Marcia's pridein it; and he bore to have it thrust upon him with the surly mildness of anold dog receiving children's caresses. He listened with the same patienceto all her celebrations of Bartley, which were often tedious enough, forshe bragged of him constantly, of his smartness and goodness, and of thegreat success that had crowned the merit of both in him. 

Mr. Halleck had called upon the Squire the morning after his arrival, andbrought Marcia a note from his wife, offering to have her father stay withthem if she found herself too much crowded at this eventful time. "There!That is just the sort of people the Hallecks are!" she cried, showing theletter to her father. "And to think of our not going near them for monthsand mouths after we came to Boston, for fear they were stuck up! ButBartley is always just so proud. Now you must go right in, father, and notkeep Mr. Halleck waiting. Give me your hat, or you'll be sure to wear itin the parlor. " She made him stoop down to let her brush his coat-collar alittle. "There! Now you look something like. "

Squire Gaylord had never received a visit except on business in his life, and such a thing as one man calling socially upon another, as women did, was unknown to the civilization of Equity. But, as he reported to Marcia, he got along with Mr. Halleck; and he got along with the whole family whenhe went with Bartley to tea, upon the invitation Mr. Halleck made him thatmorning. Probably it appeared to him an objectless hospitality; but hespent as pleasant an evening as he could hope to spend with his hat offand in a frock-coat, which he wore as a more ceremonious garment than thedress-coat of his every-day life. He seemed to take a special liking toOlive Halleck, whose habit of speaking her mind with vigor and directnessstruck him as commendable. It was Olive who made the time pass for him;and as the occasion was not one for personal sarcasm or question of theChristian religion, her task in keeping the old pagan out of rather abysmalsilences must have had its difficulties. 

"What did you talk about?" asked Marcia, requiring an account of hisenjoyment from him the next morning, after Bartley had gone down to hiswork. 

"Mostly about you, I guess, " said the Squire, with a laugh. "There was alarge sandy-haired young woman there--"

"Miss Kingsbury, " said Marcia, with vindictive promptness. Her eyeskindled, and she began to grow rigid under the coverlet. "Whom did _she_talk with?"

"Well, she talked a little with me; but she talked most of the time to theyoung man. She engaged to him?"

"No, " said Marcia, relaxing. "She's a great friend of the whole family. Idon't know what they meant by telling you it was to be just a family party, when they were going to have strangers in, " she pouted. 

"Perhaps they didn't count her. "

"No. " But Marcia's pleasure in the affair was tainted, and she began totalk of other things. 

Her father stayed nearly a week, and they all found it rather a long week. After showing him her baby, and satisfying herself that he and Bartley wereon good terms again, there was not much left for Marcia. Bartley had beenbanished to the spare room by the presence of the nurse; and he gave up hisbed there to the Squire, and slept on a cot in the unfurnished attic room;the cook and a small girl got in to help, had the other. The house that hadonce seemed so vast was full to bursting. 

"I never knew how little it was till I saw your father coming down stairs, "said Bartley. "He's too tall for it. When he sits on the sofa, andstretches out his legs, his boots touch the mop-board on the other side ofthe room. Fact!"

"He won't stay over Sunday, " began Marcia, with a rueful smile. 

"Why, Marcia, you don't think I want him to go!"

"No, you're as good as can be about it. But I hope he won't stay overSunday. "

"Haven't you enjoyed his visit?" asked Bartley. 

"Oh, yes, I've enjoyed it. " The tears came into her eyes. "I've made it allup with father; and he doesn't feel hard to me. But, Bartley--Sit down, dear, here on the bed!" She took his hand and gently pulled him down. "Isee more and more that father and mother can never be what they used to beto me, --that you're all the world to me. Yes, my life is broken off fromtheirs forever. Could anything break it off from yours? You'll always bepatient with me, won't you? and remember that I'd always rather be goodwhen I'm behaving the worst?"

He rose, and went over to the crib, and kissed the head of their littlegirl. "Ask Flavia, " he said from the door. 

"Bartley!" she cried, in utter fondness, as he vanished from her happyeyes. 

The next morning they heard the Squire moving about in his room, and he waslate in coming down to breakfast, at which he was ordinarily so prompt. "He's packing, " said Marcia, sadly. "It's dreadful to be willing to havehim go!"

Bartley went out and met him at his door, bag in hand. "Hollo!" he cried, and made a decent show of surprise and regret. 

"M-yes!" said the old man, as they went down stairs. "I've made out avisit. But I'm an old fellow, and I ain't easy away from home. I shall tellMis' Gaylord how you're gettin' along, and she'll be pleased to hearit. Yes, she'll be pleased to hear it. I guess I shall get off on theten-o'clock train. "

The conversation between Bartley and his father-in-law was perfunctory. Menwho have dealt so plainly with each other do not assume the conventionalurbanities in their intercourse without effort. They had both been growingmore impatient of the restraint; they could not have kept it up muchlonger. 

"Well, I suppose it's natural you should want to be home again, but Ican't understand how any one can want to go back to Equity when he has theprivilege of staying in Boston. "

"Boston will do for a young man, " said the Squire, "but I'm too old forit. The city cramps me; it's too tight a fit; and yet I can't seem to findmyself in it. "

He suffered from the loss of identity which is a common affliction withcountry people coming to town. The feeling that they are of no specialinterest to any of the thousands they meet bewilders and harasses them;after the searching neighborhood of village life, the fact that nobodywould meddle in their most intimate affairs if they could, is a vaguedistress. The Squire not only experienced this, but, after reigning so longas the censor of morals and religion in Equity, it was a deprivation forhim to pass a whole week without saying a bitter thing to any one. He wastired of the civilities that smoothed him down on every side. 

"Well, if you must go, " said Bartley, "I'll order a hack. "

"I guess I can walk to the depot, " returned the old man. 

"Oh, no, you can't. " Bartley drove to the station with him, and they badeeach other adieu with a hand-shake. They were no longer enemies, but theyliked each other less than ever. 

"See you in Equity next summer, I suppose?" suggested the Squire. 

"So Marcia says, " replied Bartley. "Well, take care of yourself. --Youconfounded, tight-fisted old woodchuck!" he added under his breath, for theSquire had allowed him to pay the hack fare. 

He walked home, composing variations on his parting malison, to find thatthe Squire had profited by his brief absence while ordering the hack, toleave with Marcia a silver cup, knife, fork, and spoon, which Olive Halleckhad helped him choose, for the baby. In the cup was a check for fivehundred dollars. The Squire was embarrassed in presenting the gifts, andwhen Marcia turned upon him with, "Now, look here, father, what do youmean?" he was at a loss how to explain. 

"Well, it's what I always meant to do for you. "

"Baby's things are all right, " said Marcia. "But I'm not going to letBartley take any money from you, unless you think as well of him as I do, and say so, right out. "

The Squire laughed. "You couldn't quite expect me to do that, could you?"

"No, of course not. But what I mean is, do you think _now_ that I did rightto marry him?"

"Oh, _you're_ all right, Marcia. I'm glad you're getting along so well. "

"No, no! Is Bartley all right?"

The Squire laughed again, and rubbed his chin in enjoyment of herpersistence. "You can't expect me to own up to everything all at once. "

"So you see, Bartley, " said Marcia, in repeating these words to him, "itwas quite a concession. "

"Well, I don't know about the concession, but I guess there's no doubtabout the check, " replied Bartley. 

"Oh, don't say that, dear!" protested his wife. "I think father was pleasedwith his visit every way. I know he's been anxious about me, all the time;and yet it was a good deal for him to do, after what he had said, to comedown here and as much as take it all back. Can't you look at it from hisside?"

"Oh, I dare say it was a dose, " Bartley admitted. The money had set severalthings in a better light. "If all the people that have abused me would takeit back as handsomely as your father has, "--he held the check up, --"why, Iwish there were twice as many of them. "

She laughed for pleasure in his joke. "I think father was impressed byeverything about us, --beginning with baby, " she said, proudly. 

"Well, he kept his impressions to himself. "

"Oh, that's nothing but his way. He never was demonstrative, --like me. "

"No, he has his emotions under control, --not to say under lock andkey, --not to add, in irons. "

Bartley went on to give some instances of the Squire's fortitude whenapparently tempted to express pleasure or interest in his Bostonexperiences. 

They both undeniably felt freer now that he was gone. Bartley stayedlonger than he ought from his work, in tacit celebration of the Squire'sdeparture, and they were very merry together; but when he left her, Marciacalled for her baby, and, gathering it close to her heart, sighed over it, "Poor father! poor father!"

XXIII. 

When the spring opened, Bartley pushed Flavia about the sunny pavements ina baby carriage, while Marcia paced alongside, looking in under the calashtop from time to time, arranging the bright afghan, and twitchingthe little one's lace hood into place. They never noticed that otherperambulators were pushed by Irish nurse-girls or French _bonnes_; they hadpaid somewhat more than they ought for theirs, and they were proud of itmerely as a piece of property. It was rather Bartley's ideal, as it is thatof most young American fathers, to go out with his wife and baby in thatway; he liked to have his friends see him; and he went out every afternoonhe could spare. When he could not go, Marcia went alone. Mrs. Halleck hadgiven her a key to the garden, and on pleasant mornings she always foundsome of the family there, when she pushed the perambulator up the path, tolet the baby sleep in the warmth and silence of the sheltered place. Shechatted with Olive or the elder sisters, while Mrs. Halleck drove Cyruson to the work of tying up the vines and trimming the shrubs, with thepitiless rigor of women when they get a man about some outdoor labor. Sometimes, Ben Halleck was briefly of the party; and one morning whenMarcia opened the gate, she found him there alone with Cyrus, who wasbusy at some belated tasks of horticulture. The young man turned at theunlocking of the gate, and saw Marcia lifting the front wheels of theperambulator to get it over the steps of the pavement outside. He limpedhastily down the walk to help her, but she had the carriage in the pathbefore he could reach, her, and he had nothing to do but to walk back atits side, as she propelled it towards the house. "You see what a uselesscreature a cripple is, " he said. 

Marcia did not seem to have heard him. "Is your mother at home?" she asked. 

"I think she is, " said Halleck. "Cyrus, go in and tell mother that Mrs. Hubbard is here, won't you?"

Cyrus went, after a moment of self-respectful delay, and Marcia sat downon a bench under a pear-tree beside the walk. Its narrow young leaves andblossoms sprinkled her with shade shot with vivid sunshine, and in herlight dress she looked like a bright, fresh figure from some painter'sstudy of spring. She breathed quickly from her exertion, and her cheeks hada rich, dewy bloom. She had pulled the perambulator round so that she mightsee her baby while she waited, and she looked at the baby now, and not atHalleck, as she said, "It is quite hot in the sun to-day. " She had a way ofclosing her lips, after speaking, in that sweet smile of hers, and then ofglancing sidelong at the person to whom she spoke. 

"I suppose it is, " said Halleck, who remained on foot. "But I haven't beenout yet. I gave myself a day off from the Law School, and I hadn't quitedecided what to do with it. "

Marcia leaned forward, and brushed a tendril of the baby's hair out of itseye. "She's the greatest little sleeper that ever was when she gets intoher carriage, " she half mused, leaning back with her hands folded in herlap, and setting her head on one side for the effect of the baby withoutthe stray ringlet. "She's getting so fat!" she said, proudly. 

Halleck smiled. "Do you find it makes a difference in pushing her carriage, from day to day?"

Marcia took his question in earnest, as she must take anything but the mostobvious pleasantry concerning her baby. "The carriage runs very easily; wepicked out the lightest one we could, and I never have any trouble with it, except getting up curbstones and crossing Cambridge Street. I don't like tocross Cambridge Street, there are always so many horse-cars. But it's alldown-hill coming here: that's one good thing. "

"That makes it a very bad thing going home, though, " said Halleck. 

"Oh, I go round by Charles Street, and come up the hill from the otherside; it isn't so steep there. "

There was no more to be said upon this point, and in the lapse of theirtalk Halleck broke off some boughs of the blooming pear, and dropped themon the baby's afghan. 

"Your mother won't like your spoiling her pear-tree, " said Marcia, seriously. 

"She will when she knows that I did it for Miss Hubbard. "

"Miss Hubbard!" repeated the young mother, and she laughed in fondderision. "How funny to hear you saying that! I thought you hated babies!"

Halleck looked at her with strong self-disgust, and he dropped the boughwhich he had in his hand upon the ground. There is something in a youngman's ideal of women, at once passionate and ascetic, so fine that anywords are too gross for it. The event which intensified the interest of hismother and sisters in Marcia had abashed Halleck; when she came so proudlyto show her baby to them all, it seemed to him like a mockery of his pityfor her captivity to the love that profaned her. He went out of the room inangry impatience, which he could hardly hide, when one of his sisters triedto make him take the baby. Little by little his compassion adjusted itselfto the new conditions; it accepted the child as an element of her misery inthe future, when she must realize the hideous deformity of her marriage. His prophetic feeling of this, and of her inaccessibility to human helphere and hereafter, made him sometimes afraid of her; but all the moreseverely he exacted of his ideal of her that she should not fall beneaththe tragic dignity of her fate through any levity of her own. Now, at herinnocent laugh, a subtile irreverence, which he was not able to exorcise, infused itself into his sense of her. 

He stood looking at her, after he dropped the pear-bough, and seeingher mere beauty as he had never seen it before. The bees hummed in theblossoms, which gave out a dull, sweet smell; the sunshine had theluxurious, enervating warmth of spring. He started suddenly from hisreverie: Marcia had said something. "I beg your pardon?" he queried. 

"Oh, nothing. I asked if you knew where I went to church yesterday?"

Halleck flushed, ashamed of the wrong his thoughts, or rather his emotions, had done. "No, I don't, " he answered. 

"I was at your church. "

"I ought to have been there myself, " he returned, gravely, "and then Ishould have known. "

She took his self-reproach literally. "You couldn't have seen me. I wassitting pretty far back, and I went out before any of your family saw me. Don't you go there?"

"Not always, I'm sorry to say. Or, rather, I'm sorry not to be sorry. Whatchurch do you generally go to?"

"Oh, I don't know. Sometimes to one, and sometimes to another. Bartley usedto report the sermons, and we went round to all the churches then. That isthe way I did at home, and it came natural to me. But I don't like it verywell. I want Flavia should belong to some particular church. "

"There are enough to choose from, " said Halleck, with pensive sarcasm. 

"Yes, that's the difficulty. But I shall make up my mind to one of them, and then I shall always keep to it. What I mean is that I should like tofind out where most of the good people belong, and then have her be withthem, " pursued Marcia. "I think it's best to belong to some church, don'tyou?"

There was something so bare, so spiritually poverty-stricken, in theseconfessions and questions, that Halleck found nothing to say to them. He was troubled, moreover, as to what the truth was in his own mind. Heanswered, with a sort of mechanical adhesion to the teachings of his youth, "I should be a recreant not to think so. But I'm not sure that I know whatyou mean by belonging to some church, " he added. "I suppose you would wantto believe in the creed of the church, whichever it was. "

"I don't know that I should be particular, " said Marcia, with perfecthonesty. 

Halleck laughed sadly. "I'm afraid _they_ would, then, unless you joinedthe Broad Church. "

"What is that?" He explained as well as he could. At the end she repeated, as if she had not followed him very closely: "I should like her to belongto the church where most of the good people went. I think that would be theright one, if you could only find which it is. " Halleck laughed again. "Isuppose what I say must sound very queer to you; but I've been thinking agood deal about this lately. "

"I beg your pardon, " said Halleck. "I had no reason to laugh, either onyour account or my own. It's a serious subject. " She did not reply, and heasked, as if she had left the subject, "Do you intend to pass the summer inBoston?"

"No; I'm going down home pretty early, and I wanted to ask your mother whatis the best way to put away my winter things. "

"You'll find my mother very good authority on such matters, " said Halleck. Through an obscure association with moths that corrupt, he added, "She's agood authority on church matters, too. "

"I guess I shall talk with her about Flavia, " said Marcia. 

Cyrus came out of the house. "Mis' Halleck will be here in a minute. She'sgot to get red of a lady that's calling, first, " he explained. 

"I will leave you, then, " said Halleck, abruptly. 

"Good by, " answered Marcia, tranquilly. The baby stirred; she pushed thecarriage to and fro, without glancing after him as he walked away. 

His mother came down the steps from the house, and kissed Marcia forwelcome, and looked under the carriage-top at the sleeping baby. "How she_does_ sleep!" she whispered. 

"Yes, " said Marcia, with the proud humility of a mother, who cannot denythe merit of her child, "and she sleeps the whole night through. I'm_never_ up with her. Bartley says she's a perfect Seven-Sleeper. It's aregular joke with him, --her sleeping. "

"Ben was a good baby for sleeping, too, " said Mrs. Halleck, retrospectivelyemulous. "It's one of the best signs. It shows that the child is strong andhealthy. " They went on to talk of their children, and in their community ofmotherhood they spoke of the young man as if he were still an infant. "Hehas never been a moment's care to me, " said Mrs. Halleck. "A well baby willbe well even in teething. "

"And I had somehow thought of him as sickly!" said Marcia, inself-derision. 

Tears of instant intelligence sprang into his mother's eyes. "And did yousuppose he was _always_ lame?" she demanded, with gentle indignation. "Hewas the brightest and strongest boy that ever was, till he was twelve yearsold. That's what makes it so hard to bear; that's what makes me wonder atthe way the child bears it! Did you never hear how it happened? One of thebig boys, as he called him, tripped him up at school, and he fell on hiship. It kept him in bed for a year, and he's never been the same since;he will always be a cripple, " grieved the mother. She wiped her eyes; shenever could think of her boy's infirmity without weeping. "And what seemedthe worst of all, " she continued, "was that the boy who did it neverexpressed any regret for it, or acknowledged it by word or deed, thoughhe must have known that Ben knew who hurt him. He's a man here, now; andsometimes Ben meets him. But Ben always says that he can stand it, if theother one can. He was always just so from the first! He wouldn't let usblame the boy; he said that he didn't mean any harm, and that all was fairin play. And now he says he knows the man is sorry, and would own to whathe did, if he didn't have to own to what came of it. Ben says that very fewof us have the courage to face the consequences of the injuries we do, andthat's what makes people seem hard and indifferent when they are really notso. There!" cried Mrs. Halleck. "I don't know as I ought to have told youabout it; I know Ben wouldn't like it. But I can't bear to have any onethink he was always lame, though I don't know why I shouldn't: I'm prouderof him since it happened than ever I was before. I thought he was here withyou, " she added, abruptly. 

"He went out just before you came, " said Marcia, nodding toward the gate. She sat listening to Mrs, Halleck's talk about Ben; Mrs. Halleck tookherself to task from time to time, but only to go on talking about himagain. Sometimes Marcia commented on his characteristics, and compared themwith Bartley's, or with Flavia's, according to the period of Ben's lifeunder consideration. 

At the end Mrs. Halleck said: "I haven't let you get in a word! Now youmust talk about _your_ baby. Dear little thing! I feel that she's beenneglected. But I'm always just so selfish when I get to running on aboutBen. They all laugh at me. "

"Oh, I like to hear about other children, " said Marcia, turning theperambulator round. "I don't think any one can know too much that has thecare of children of their own. " She added, as if it followed from somethingthey had been saying of vaccination, "Mrs. Halleck, I want to talk with youabout getting Flavia christened. You know I never was christened. "

"Weren't you?" said Mrs. Halleck, with a dismay which she struggled toconceal. 

"No, " said Marcia, "father doesn't believe in any of those things, andmother had got to letting them go, because he didn't take any interest inthem. They did have the first children christened, but I was the last. "

"I didn't speak with your father on the subject, " faltered Mrs. Halleck. "Ididn't know what his persuasion was. "

"Why, father doesn't belong to _any_ church! He believes in a God, but hedoesn't believe in the Bible. " Mrs. Halleck sank down on the garden seattoo much shocked to speak, and Marcia continued. "I don't know whether theBible is true or not; but I've often wished that I belonged to church. "

"You couldn't, unless you believed in the Bible, " said Mrs. Halleck. 

"Yes, I know that. Perhaps I should, if anybody proved it to me. I presumeit could be explained. I never talked much with any one about it. Theremust be a good many people who don't belong to church, although theybelieve in the Bible. I should be perfectly willing to try, if I only knewhow to begin. "

In view of this ruinous open-mindedness, Mrs. Halleck could only say, "Theway to begin is to read it. "

"Well, I will try. How do you know, after you've become so that you believethe Bible, whether you're fit to join the church?"

"It's hard to tell you, my dear. You have to feel first that you have aSaviour, --that you've given your whole heart to him, --that he can save you, and that no one else can, --that all you can do yourself won't help you. It's an experience. "

Marcia looked at her attentively, as if this were all a very hard saying. "Yes, I've heard of that. Some of the girls had it at school. But I neverdid. Well, " she said at last, "I don't feel so anxious about myself, justat present, as I do about Flavia. I want to do everything I can for Flavia, Mrs. Halleck. I want her to be christened, --I want her to be baptized intosome church. I think a good deal about it. I think sometimes, what if sheshould die, and I hadn't done that for her, when may be it was one ofthe most important things--" Her voice shook, and she pressed her lipstogether. 

"Of course, " said Mrs. Halleck, tenderly, "I think it is the _most_important thing. "

"But there are so many churches, " Marcia resumed. "And I don't know aboutany of them. I told Mr. Halleck just now, that I should like her to belongto the church where the best people went, if I could find it out. Ofcourse, it was a ridiculous way to talk; I knew he thought so. But what Imeant was that I wanted she should be with good people all her life; and Ididn't care what she believed. "

"It's very important to believe the truth, my dear, " said Mrs. Halleck. 

"But the truth is so hard to be certain of, and you know goodness as soonas you see it. Mrs. Halleck, I'll tell you what I want: I want Flaviashould be baptized into your church. Will you let her?"

"_Let_ her? O my dear child, we shall be humbly thankful that it has beenput into your heart to choose for her what _we_ think is the true church, "said Mrs. Halleck, fervently. 

"I don't know about that, " returned Marcia. "I can't tell whether it's thetrue church or not, and I don't know that I ever could; but I shall besatisfied--if it's made you what you are, " she added, simply. 

Mrs. Halleck did not try to turn away her praise with vain affectations ofhumility. "We try to do right, Marcia, " she said. "Whenever we do it, wemust be helped to it by some power outside of ourselves. I can't tell youwhether it's our church; I'm not so sure of that as I used to be. I oncethought that there could be no real good out of it; but I _can't_ thinkthat, any more. Olive and Ben are as good children as ever lived; I _know_they won't be lost; but neither of them belongs to our church. "

"Why, what church does he belong to?"

"He doesn't belong to any, my dear, " said Mrs. Halleck, sorrowfully. 

Marcia looked at her absently. "I knew Olive was a Unitarian; but Ithought--I thought he--"

"No, he doesn't, " returned Mrs. Halleck. "It has been a great cross tohis father and me. He is a good boy; but we think the _truth_ is in ourchurch!"

Marcia was silent a moment. Then she said, decisively, "Well, I should likeFlavia to belong to your church. "

"She couldn't belong to it now, " Mrs. Halleck explained. "That would haveto come later, when she could understand. But she could be christened init--dear little thing!"

"Well, christened, then. It must be the training he got in it. I've thoughta great deal about it, and I think my worst trouble is that I've been lefttoo free in everything. One mustn't be left too free. I've never had anyone to control me, and now I can't control myself at the very times when Ineed to do it the most, with--with--When I 'in in danger of vexing--WhenBartley and I--"

"Yes, " said Mrs. Halleck, sympathetically. 

"And Bartley is just so, too. He's always been left to himself. And Flaviawill need all the control we can give her, --I know she will. And I shallhave her christened in your church, and I shall teach her all about it. Sheshall go to the Sunday school, and I will go to church, so that she canhave an example. I told father I should do it when he was up here, and hesaid there couldn't be any harm in it. And I've told Bartley, and _he_doesn't care. "

They were both far too single-minded and too serious to find anything drollin the terms of the adhesion of Marcia's family to her plan, and Mrs. Halleck entered into its execution with affectionate zeal. 

"Ben, dear, " she said, tenderly, that evening, when they were all talkingit over in the family council, "I hope you didn't drop anything, when thatpoor creature spoke to you about it this morning, that could unsettle hermind in any way?"

"No, mother, " said Halleck, gently. 

"I was sure you didn't, " returned his mother, repentantly. 

They had been talking a long time of the matter, and Halleck now left theroom. 

"Mother! How could you say such a thing to Ben?" cried Olive, in a quiverof indignant sympathy. "Ben say anything to unsettle anybody's religiouspurposes! He's got more religion now than all the rest of the family puttogether!"

"Speak for yourself, Olive, " said one of the intermediary sisters. 

"Why, Olive, I spoke because I thought she seemed to place more importanceon Ben's belonging to the church than anything else, and she seemed sosurprised when I told her he didn't belong to any. "

"I dare say she thinks Ben is good when she compares him with that mass ofselfishness of a husband of hers, " said Olive. "But I will thank her, " sheadded, hotly, "not to compare Ben with Bartley Hubbard, even to BartleyHubbard's disadvantage. I don't feel flattered by it. "

"Of course she thinks all the world of her husband, " said Mrs. Halleck. "And I know Ben is good; and, as you say, he is religious; I feel that, though I don't understand how, exactly. I wouldn't hurt his feelings forthe world, Olive, you know well enough. But it was a stumbling-block when Ihad to tell that poor, pretty young thing that Ben didn't belong to church;and I could see that it puzzled her. I couldn't have believed, " continuedMrs. Halleck, "that there was any person in a Christian land, except amongthe very lowest, that seemed to understand so little about the Christianreligion, or any scheme of salvation. Really, she talked to me like apagan. She sat there much better dressed and better educated than I was;but I felt like a missionary talking to a South Sea Islander. "

"I wonder the old Bartlett pear didn't burst into a palm-tree over yourheads, " said Olive. Mrs. Halleck looked grieved at her levity, and Olivehastened to add: "Don't take it to heart, mother! I understood just whatyou meant, and I can imagine just how shocking Mrs. Hubbard's heathenremarks must have been. We should all be shocked if we knew how many peoplethere were like her, and we should all try to deny it, and so would they. Iguess Christianity is about as uncommon as civilization, --and that's _very_uncommon. If her poor, feeble mind was such a chaos, what do you supposeher husband's is?"

This would certainly not have been easy for Mrs. Halleck to say then, orto say afterward, when Bartley walked up to the font in her church, withMarcia at his side, and Flavia in his arms, and a faintly ironical smile onhis face, as if he had never expected to be got in for this, but was goingto see it through now. He had, in fact, said, "Well, let's go the wholefigure, " when Marcia had expressed a preference for having the riteperformed in church, instead of in their own house. 

He was unquestionably growing stout, and even Mrs. Halleck noticed thathis blonde face was unpleasantly red that day. He was, of course, notintemperate. He always had beer with his lunch, which he had begun to takedown town since the warm weather had come on and made the walk up the hillto Clover Street irksome: and he drank beer at his dinner, --he liked a latedinner, and they dined at six, now, --because it washed away the fatiguesof the day, and freshened you up. He was rather particular about his beer, which he had sent in by the gross, --it came cheaper that way; after tryingboth the Cincinnati and the Milwaukee lagers, and making a cursory testof the Boston brand, he had settled down upon the American tivoli; itwas cheap, and you could drink a couple of bottles without feeling it. Freshened up by his two bottles, he was apt to spend the evening in anamiable drowse and get early to bed, when he did not go out on newspaperduty. He joked about the three fingers of fat on his ribs, and franklyguessed it was the beer that did it; at such times he said that perhaps heshould have to cut down on his tivoli. 

Marcia and he had not so much time together as they used to have; she was agreat deal taken up with the baby, and he found it dull at home, not doinganything or saying anything; and when he did not feel sleepy, he sometimesinvented work that took him out at night. But he always came upstairs afterputting his hat on, and asked Marcia if he could help her about anything. 

He usually met other newspaper men on these excursions, and talkednewspaper with them, airing his favorite theories. He liked to wanderabout with reporters who were working up cases; to look in at the policestations, and go to the fires; and he was often able to give the Events menpoints that had escaped the other reporters. If asked to drink, he alwayssaid, "Thanks, no; I don't do anything in that way. But if you'll make itbeer, I don't mind. " He took nothing but beer when he hurried out of thetheatre into one of the neighboring resorts, just as the great platters ofstewed kidneys and lyonnaise potatoes came steaming up out of the kitchen, prompt to the drop of the curtain on the last act. Here; sometimes, he meta friend, and shared with him his dish of kidneys and his schooner of beer;and he once suffered himself to be lured by the click of the balls into theback room. He believed that he played a very good game of billiards; but hewas badly beaten that night. He came home at daylight, fifty dollars out. But he had lost like a gentleman in a game with gentlemen; and he neverplayed again. 

By day he worked hard, and since his expenses had been increased byFlavia's coming, he had undertaken more work for more pay. He stillperformed all the routine labor of a managing editor, and he now wrote theliterary notices of the Events, and sometimes, especially if there wasanything new, the dramatic criticisms; he brought to the latter task allthe freshness of a man who, till the year before, had not been half a dozentimes inside a theatre. 

He attributed the fat on his ribs to the tivoli; perhaps it was also owingin some degree to a good conscience, which is a much easier thing to keepthan people imagine. At any rate, he now led a tranquil, industrious, andregular life, and a life which suited him so well that he was reluctant tointerrupt it by the visit to Equity, which he and Marcia had talked of inthe early spring. He put it off from time to time, and one day when she waspressing him to fix some date for it he said, "Why can't you go, Marcia?"

"Alone?" she faltered. 

"Well, no; take the baby, of course. And I'll run down for a day or twowhen I get a chance. "

Marcia seemed in these days to be schooling herself against the impulsesthat once brought on her quarrels with Bartley. "A day or two--" she began, and then stopped and added gravely, "I thought you said you were going tohave several weeks' vacation. "

"Oh, don't tell me what I _said_!" cried Bartley. "That was before Iundertook this extra work, or before I knew what a grind it was going tobe. Equity is a good deal of a dose for me, any way. It's all well enoughfor you, and I guess the change from Boston will do you good, and do thebaby good, but _I_ shouldn't look forward to three weeks in Equity withunmitigated hilarity. "

"I know it will be stupid for you. But you need the rest. And the Hallecksare going to be at North Conway, and they said they would come over, " urgedMarcia. "I know we should have a good time. "

Bartley grinned. "Is that your idea of a good time, Marsh? Three weeks ofEquity, relieved by a visit from such heavy weights as Ben Halleck and hissisters? Not any in mine, thank you. "

"How can you--how _dare_ you speak of them so!" cried Marcia lighteningupon him. "Such good friends of yours--such good people--" Her voice shookwith indignation and wounded feeling. 

Bartley rose and took a turn about the room, pulling down his waistcoat andcontemplating its outward slope with a smile. "Oh, I've got more friendsthan I can shake a stick at. And with pleasure at the helm, goodness isa drug in the market, --if you'll excuse the mixed metaphor. Look here, Marcia, " he added, severely. "If you like the Hallecks, all well and good;I sha'n't interfere with you; but they bore me. I outgrew Ben Halleck yearsago. He's duller than death. As for the old people, there's no harm inthem, --though _they're_ bores, too, --nor in the old girls; but OliveHalleck doesn't treat me decently. I suppose that just suits you: I'venoticed that you never like the women that _do_ treat me decently. "

"They don't treat _me_ decently!" retorted Marcia. 

"Oh, Miss Kingsbury treated you very well that night. She couldn't imagineyour being jealous of her politeness to me. "

Marcia's temper fired at his treacherous recurrence to a grievance which hehad once so sacredly and sweetly ignored. "If you wish to take up bygones, why don't you go back to Hannah Morrison at once? She treated you evenbetter than Miss Kingsbury. "

"I should have been very willing to do that, " said Bartley, "but I thoughtit might remind you of a disagreeable little episode in your own life, whenyou flung me away, and had to go down on your knees to pick me up again. "

These thrusts which they dealt each other in their quarrels, however blindand misdirected, always reached their hearts: it was the wicked will thathurt, rather than the words. Marcia rose, bleeding inwardly, and herhusband felt the remorse of a man who gets the best of it in such anencounter. 

"Oh, I'm sorry I said that, Marcia! I didn't mean it; indeed I--" Shedisdained to heed him, as she swept out of the room, and up the stairs; andhis anger flamed out again. 

"I give you fair warning, " he called after her, "not to try that trick oflocking the door, or I will smash it in. "

Her answer was to turn the key in the door with a click which he could notfail to hear. 

The peace in which they had been living of late was very comfortable toBartley; he liked it; he hated to have it broken; he was willing to do whathe could to restore it at once. If he had no better motive than this, hestill had this motive; and he choked down his wrath, and followed Marciasoftly upstairs. He intended to reason with her, and he began, "I say, Marsh, " as he turned the door-knob. But you cannot reason through akeyhole, and before he knew he found himself saying, "Will you open this?"in a tone whose quiet was deadly. She did not answer; he heard her stopin her movements about the room, and wait, as if she expected him to askagain. He hesitated a moment whether to keep his threat of breaking thedoor in; but he turned away and went down stairs, and so into the street. Once outside, he experienced the sense of release that comes to a man fromthe violation of his better impulses; but he did not know what to do orwhere to go. He walked rapidly away; but Marcia's eyes and voice seemed tofollow him, and plead with him for his forbearance. But he answered hisconscience, as if it had been some such presence, that he had forborne toomuch already, and that now he should not humble himself; that he was rightand should stand upon his right. There was not much comfort in it, and hehad to brace himself again and again with vindictive resolution. 

XXIV. 

Bartley walked about the streets for a long time, without purpose ordirection, brooding fiercely on his wrongs, and reminding himself howMarcia had determined to have him, and had indeed flung herself upon hismercy, with all sorts of good promises; and had then at once taken thewhip-hand, and goaded and tormented him ever since. All the kindness oftheir common life counted for nothing in this furious reverie, or rather itwas never once thought of; he cursed himself for a fool that he had everasked her to marry him, and for doubly a fool that he had married her whenshe had as good as asked him. He was glad, now, that he had taunted herwith that; he only regretted that he had told her he was sorry. He waspresently aware of being so tired that he could scarcely pull one leg afteranother; and yet he felt hopelessly wide awake. It was in simple despair ofanything else to do that he climbed the stairs to Ricker's lofty perchin the Chronicle-Abstract office. Ricker turned about as he entered, andstared up at him from beneath the green pasteboard visor with which he wasshielding his eyes from the gas; his hair, which was of the harshness andcolor of hay, was stiffly poked up and strewn about on his skull, as if itwere some foreign product. 

"Hello!" he said. "Going to issue a morning edition of the Events?"

"What makes you think so?"

"Oh, I supposed you evening-paper gents went to bed with the hens. Whathas kept you up, esteemed contemporary?" He went on working over somedespatches which lay upon his table. 

"Don't you want to come out and have some oysters?" asked Bartley. 

"Why this princely hospitality? I'll come with you in half a minute, "Ricker said, going to the slide that carried up the copy to thecomposing-room and thrusting his manuscript into the box. 

"Where are you going?" he asked, when they found themselves out in thesoft starlit autumnal air; and Bartley answered with the name of anoyster-house, obscure, but of singular excellence. 

"Yes, that's the best place, " Ricker commented. "What I always wonder at inyou is the rapidity with which you Ve taken on the city. You were quitein the green wood when you came here, and now you know your Boston like alittle man. I suppose it's your newspaper work that's familiarized you withthe place. Well, how do you like your friend Witherby, as far as you'vegone?"

"Oh, we shall get along, I guess, " said Bartley. "He still keeps me in thebackground, and plays at being editor, but he pays me pretty well. "

"Not too well, I hope. "

"I should like to see him try it. "

"I shouldn't, " said Ricker. "He'd expect certain things of you, if he did. You'll have to look out for Witherby. "

"You mean that he's a scamp?"

"No; there isn't a better conscience than Witherby carries in the wholecity. He's perfectly honest. He not only believes that he has a right torun the Events in his way; but he sincerely believes that he is right indoing it. There's where he has the advantage of you, if you doubt him. Idon't suppose he ever did a wrong thing in his life; he'd persuade himselfthat the thing was right before he did it. "

"That's a common phenomenon, isn't it?" sneered Bartley. "Nobody sins. "

"You're right, partly. But some of us sinners have our misgivings, andWitherby never has. You know he offered me your place?"

"No, I didn't, " said Bartley, astonished and not pleased. 

"I thought he might have told you. He made me inducements; but I was afraidof him: Witherby is the counting-room incarnate. I talked you into himfor some place or other; but he didn't seem to wake up to the value of myadvice at once. Then I couldn't tell what he was going to offer you. "

"Thank you for letting me in for a thing you were afraid of!"

"I didn't believe he would get you under his thumb, as he would me. You'vegot more back-bone than I have. I have to keep out of temptation; you havenoticed that I never drink, and I would rather not look upon Witherby whenhe is red and giveth his color in the cup. I'm sorry if I've let you in foranything that you regret. But Witherby's sincerity makes him dangerous, --Iown that. "

"I think he has some very good ideas about newspapers, " said Bartley, rather sulkily. 

"Oh, very, " assented Ricker. "Some of the very best going. He believesthat the press is a great moral engine, and that it ought to be run in theinterest of the engineer. "

"And I suppose you believe that it ought to be run in the interest of thepublic?"

"Exactly--after the public has paid. "

"Well, I don't; and I never did. A newspaper is a private enterprise. "

"It's private property, but it isn't a private enterprise, and in its verynature it can't be. You know I never talk 'journalism' and stuff; it amusesme to hear the young fellows at it, though I think they might be doingsomething worse than magnifying their office; they might be decrying it. But I've got a few ideas and principles of my own in my back pantaloonspocket. "

"Haul them out, " said Bartley. 

"I don't know that they're very well formulated, " returned Ricker, "and Idon't contend that they're very new. But I consider a newspaper a publicenterprise, with certain distinct duties to the public. It's sacredly boundnot to do anything to deprave or debauch its readers; and it's sacredlybound not to mislead or betray them, not merely as to questions of moralsand politics, but as to questions of what we may lump as 'advertising. ' Hasfriend Witherby developed his great ideas of advertisers' rights to you?"Bartley did not answer, and Ricker went on: "Well, then, you can understandmy position, when I say it's exactly the contrary. "

"You ought to be on a religious newspaper, Ricker, " said Bartley with ascornful laugh. 

"Thank you, a secular paper is bad enough for me. "

"Well, I don't pretend that I make the Events just what I want, " saidBartley. "At present, the most I can do is to indulge in a few cheap dreamsof what I should do, if I had a paper of my own. "

"What are your dreams? Haul out, as you say. "

"I should make it pay, to begin with; and I should make it pay by makingit such a thorough newspaper that every class of people _must_ have it. Ishould cater to the lowest class first, and as long as I was poor I wouldhave the fullest and best reports of every local accident and crime; thatwould take all the rabble. Then, as I could afford it, I'd rise a little, and give first-class non-partisan reports of local political affairs; thatwould fetch the next largest class, the ward politicians of all parties. I'd lay for the local religious world, after that;--religion comes rightafter politics in the popular mind, and it interests the women like murder:I'd give the minutest religious intelligence, and not only that, but thereligious gossip, and the religious scandal. Then I'd go in for fashion andsociety, --that comes next. I'd have the most reliable and thorough-goingfinancial reports that money could buy. When I'd got my local groundperfectly covered, I'd begin to ramify. Every fellow that could spell, inany part of the country, should understand that, if he sent me an accountof a suicide, or an elopement, or a murder, or an accident, he shouldbe well paid for it; and I'd rise on the same scale through all thedepartments. I'd add art criticisms, dramatic and sporting news, and bookreviews, more for the looks of the thing than for anything else; they don'tany of 'em appeal to a large class. I'd get my paper into such a shapethat people of every kind and degree would have to say, no matter whatparticular objection was made to it, 'Yes, that's so; but it's the best_news_paper in the world, _and we can't get along without it. '"_

"And then, " said Ricker, "you'd begin to clean up, little by little, --letup on your murders and scandals, and purge and live cleanly like agentleman? The trick's been tried before. "

They had arrived at the oyster-house, and were sitting at their table, waiting for the oysters to be brought to them. Bartley tilted his chairback. "I don't know about the cleaning up. I should want to keep all myaudience. If I cleaned up, the dirty fellows would go off to some one else;and the fellows that pretended to be clean would be disappointed. "

"Why don't you get Witherby to put your ideas in force?" asked Ricker, dryly. 

Bartley dropped his chair to all fours, and said with a smile, "He belongsto church. "

"Ah! he has his limitations. What a pity! He has the money to establishthis great moral engine of yours, and you haven't. It's a loss tocivilization. "

"One thing, I know, " said Bartley, with a certain effect of virtue, "nobodyshould buy or sell me; and the advertising element shouldn't spread beyondthe advertising page. "

"Isn't that rather high ground?" inquired Ricker. 

Bartley did not think it worth while to answer. "I don't believe that anewspaper is obliged to be superior in tone to the community, " he said. 

"I quite agree with you. "

"And if the community is full of vice and crime, the newspaper can't dobetter than reflect its condition. "

"Ah! there I should distinguish, esteemed contemporary. There are severaltones in every community, and it will keep any newspaper scratching to riseabove the highest. But if it keeps out of the mud at all, it can't helprising above the lowest. And no community is full of vice and crime anymore than it is full of virtue and good works. Why not let your modelnewspaper mirror these?"

"They're not snappy. "

"No, that's true. "

"You must give the people what they want. "

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes, I am. "

"Well, it's a beautiful dream, " said Ricker, "nourished on a youth sublime. Why do not these lofty imaginings visit us later in life? You make me quiteashamed of my own ideal newspaper. Before you began to talk, I had beenfancying that the vice of our journalism was its intense localism. I havedoubted a good while whether a drunken Irishman who breaks his wife's head, or a child who falls into a tub of hot water, has really established aclaim on the public interest. Why should I be told by telegraph how threenegroes died on the gallows in North Carolina? Why should an accuratecorrespondent inform me of the elopement of a married man with hismaid-servant in East Machias? Why should I sup on all the horrors of arailroad accident, and have the bleeding fragments hashed up for me atbreakfast? Why should my newspaper give a succession of shocks to mynervous system, as I pass from column to column, and poultice me betweenshocks with the nastiness of a distant or local scandal? You reply, becauseI like spice. But I don't. I am sick of spice; and I believe that most ofour readers are. "

"Cater to them with milk-toast, then, " said Bartley. 

Ricker laughed with him, and they fell to upon their oysters. 

When they parted, Bartley still found himself wakeful. He knew that heshould not sleep if he went home, and he said to himself that he could notwalk about all night. He turned into a gayly-lighted basement, and askedfor something in the way of a nightcap. 

The bar-keeper said there was nothing like a hot-scotch to make you sleep;and a small man with his hat on, who had been talking with the bar-keeper, and coming up to the counter occasionally to eat a bit of cracker or a bitof cheese out of the two bowls full of such fragments that stood at the endof the counter, said that this was so. 

It was very cheerful in the bar-room, with the light glittering on the rowsof decanters behind the bar-keeper, a large, stout, clean, pale man in hisshirt-sleeves, after the manner of his kind; and Bartley made up his mindto stay there till he was drowsy, and to drink as many hot-scotches as werenecessary to the result. He had his drink put on a little table and satdown to it easily, stirring it to cool it a little, and feeling itsflattery in his brain from the first sip. 

The man who was munching cheese and crackers wore a hat rather large forhim, pulled down over his eyes. He now said that he did not care if he tooka gin-sling, and the bar-keeper promptly set it before him on the counter, and saluted with "Good evening, Colonel, " a large man who came in, carryinga small dog in his arms. Bartley recognized him as the manager of a varietycombination playing at one of the theatres, and the manager recognized thelittle man with the gin-sling as Tommy. He did not return the bar-keeper'ssalutation, but he asked, as he sat down at a table, "What do I want forsupper, Charley?"

The bar-keeper said, oracularly, as he leaned forward to wipe his counterwith a napkin, "Fricassee chicken. "

"Fricassee devil, " returned the manager. "Get me a Welsh rabbit. "

The bar-keeper, unperturbed by this rejection, called into the tube behindhim, "One Welsh rabbit. "

"I want some cold chicken for my dog, " said the manager. 

"One cold chicken, " repeated the bar-keeper, in his tube. 

"White meat, " said the manager. 

"White meat, " repeated the bar-keeper. 

"I went into the Parker House one night about midnight, and I saw fourdoctors there eating lobster salad, and devilled crab, and washing it downwith champagne; and I made up my mind that the doctors needn't talk to meany more about what was wholesome. I was going in for what was _good_. Andthere aint anything better for supper than Welsh rabbit in _this_ world. "

As the manager addressed this philosophy to the company at large, no onecommented upon it, which seemed quite the same to the manager, who hitchedone elbow over the back of his chair, and caressed with the other hand thedog lying in his lap. 

The little man in the large hat continued to walk up and down, leaving hisgin-sling on the counter, and drinking it between his visits to the crackerand cheese. 

"What's that new piece of yours, Colonel?" he asked, after a while. "I aintseen it yet. "

"Legs, principally, " sighed the manager. "That's what the public wants. Igive the public what it wants. I don't pretend to be any better than thepublic. Nor any worse, " he added, stroking his dog. 

These ideas struck Bartley in their accordance with his own ideas ofjournalism, as he had propounded them to Ricker. He had drunk half of hishot-scotch. 

"That's what I say, " assented the little man. "All that a theatre has gotto do is to keep even with the public. "

"That's so, Tommy, " said the manager of a school of morals, with wisdomthat impressed more and more the manager of a great moral engine. 

"The same principle runs through everything, " observed Bartley, speakingfor the first time. 

The drink had stiffened his tongue somewhat, but it did not incommode hisutterance; it rather gave dignity to it, and his head was singularly clear. He lifted his empty glass from the table, and, catching the bar-keeper'seye, said, "Do it again. " The man brought it back full. 

"It runs through the churches as well as the theatres. As long as thepublic wanted hell-fire, the ministers gave them hell-fire. But youcouldn't get hell-fire--not the pure, old-fashioned brimstone article--outof a popular preacher now, for love or money. "

The little man said, "I guess you've got about the size of it there"; andthe manager laughed. 

"It's just so with the newspapers, too, " said Bartley. "Some newspapersused to stand out against publishing murders, and personal gossip, anddivorce trials. There ain't a newspaper that pretends to keep anyways upwith the times, now, that don't do it! The public want spice, and they willhave it!"

"Well, sir, " said the manager, "that's my way of looking at it. I say, ifthe public don't want Shakespeare, give 'em burlesque till they're sick ofit. I believe in what Grant said: 'The quickest way to get rid of a bad lawis to enforce it. '"

"That's so, " said the little man, "every time. " He added, to thebar-keeper, that he guessed he would have some brandy and soda, andBartley found himself at the bottom of his second tumbler. He ordered itreplenished. 

The little man seemed to be getting further away. He said, from thedistance to which he had withdrawn, "You want to go to bed with threenightcaps on, like an old-clothes man. "

Bartley felt like resenting the freedom, but he was anxious to pour hisideas of journalism into the manager's sympathetic ear, and he began totalk, with an impression that it behooved him to talk fast. His brain wasstill very clear, but his tongue was getting stiffer. The manager now hadhis Welsh rabbit before him; but Bartley could not make out how it had gotthere, nor when. He was talking fast, and he knew, by the way everybody waslistening, that he was talking well. Sometimes he left his table, glass inhand, and went and laid down the law to the manager, who smilingly assentedto all he said. Once he heard a low growling at his feet, and, lookingdown, he saw the dog with his plate of cold chicken, that had also beenconjured into the room somehow. 

"Look out, " said the manager, "he'll nip you in the leg. "

"Curse the dog! he seems to be on all sides of you, " said Bartley. "I can'tstand anywhere. "

"Better sit down, then, " suggested the manager. 

"Good idea, " said the little man, who was still walking up and down. Itappeared as if he had not spoken for several hours; his hat was furtherover his eyes. Bartley had thought he was gone. 

"What business is it of yours?" he demanded, fiercely, moving towards thelittle man. 

"Come, none of that, " said the bar-keeper, steadily. 

Bartley looked at him in amazement. "Where's your hat?" he asked. 

The others laughed; the bar-keeper smiled. 

"Are you a married man?"

"Never mind!" said the bar-keeper, severely. 

Bartley turned to the little man: "You married?"

"Not _much_, " replied the other. He was now topping off with awhiskey-straight. 

Bartley referred himself to the manager: "You?"

"_Pas si bête_, " said the manager, who did his own adapting from theFrench. 

"Well, you're scholar, and you're gentleman, " said Bartley. The indefinitearticles would drop out, in spite of all his efforts to keep them in. "'N Iwant ask you what you do--to--ask--you--what--would--you--do, " he repeated, with painful exactness, but he failed to make the rest of the sentenceperfect, and he pronounced it all in a word, "'fyour-wifelockyouout?"

"I'd take a walk, " said the manager. 

"I'd bu'st the door in, " said the little man. 

Bartley turned and gazed at him as if the little man were a much moreestimable person than he had supposed. He passed his arm through the littleman's, which the other had just crooked to lift his whiskey to his mouth. "Look here, " said Bartley, "tha's jus' what _I_ told her. I want you to gohome 'th me; I want t' introduce you to my wife. "

"All right, " answered the little man. "Don't care if I do. " He dropped histumbler to the floor. "Hang it up, Charley, glass and all. Hang up thisgentleman's nightcaps--my account. Gentleman asks me home to his house, I'll hang him--I'll get him hung, --well, fix it to suit yourself, --everytime!"

They got themselves out of the door, and the manager said to thebar-keeper, who came round to gather up the fragments of the brokentumbler, "Think his wife will be glad to see 'em, Charley?"

"Oh, they'll be taken care of before they reach his house. "

XXV. 

When they were once out under the stars, Bartley, who still, felt his brainclear, said that he would not take his friend home at once, but would showhim where he visited when he first came to Boston. The other agreed tothe indulgence of this sentiment, and they set out to find Rumford Streettogether. 

"You've heard of old man Halleck, --Lestor Neather Interest? Tha'splace, --there's where I stayed. His son's my frien', --damn stuck-up, supercilious beast he is, too! _I_ do' care f'r him! I'll show you place, so's't you'll know it when you come to it, --'f I can ever find it. "

They walked up and down the street, looking, while Bartley poured hissorrows into the ear of his friend, who grew less and less responsive, andat last ceased from his side altogether. Bartley then dimly perceived thathe was himself sitting on a door-step, and that his head was hanging fardown between his knees, as if he had been sleeping in that posture. 

"Locked out, --locked out of my own door, and by my own wife!" He shedtears, and fell asleep again. From time to time he woke, and bewailedhimself to Ricker as a poor boy who had fought his own way; he owned thathe had made mistakes, as who had not? Again he was trying to convinceSquire Gaylord that they ought to issue a daily edition of the Equity FreePress, and at the same time persuading Mr. Halleck to buy the Events forhim, and let him put it on a paying basis. He shivered, sighed, hiccupped, and was dozing off again, when Henry Bird knocked him down, and he fellwith a cry, which at last brought to the door the uneasy sleeper, who hadbeen listening to him within, and trying to realize his presence, catchinghis voice in waking intervals, doubting it, drowsing when it ceased, andthen catching it and losing it again. 

"Hello, here! What do you want? Hubbard! Is it you? What in the world areyou doing here?"

"Halleck, " said Bartley, who was unsteadily straightening himself upon hisfeet, "glad to find you at home. Been looking for your house all night. Want to introduce you to partic-ic-ular friend of mine. Mr. Halleck, Mr. ----. Curse me if I know your name--"

"Hold on a minute, " said Halleck. 

He ran into the house for his hat and coat, and came out again, closing thedoor softly after him. He found Bartley in the grip of a policeman, whom hewas asking his name, that he might introduce him to his friend Halleck. 

"Do you know this man, Mr. Halleck?" asked the policeman. 

"Yes, --yes, I know him, " said Ben, in a low voice. "Let's get him awayquietly, please. He's all right. It's the first time I ever saw him so. Will you help me with him up to Johnson's stable? I'll get a carriage thereand take him home. "

They had begun walking Bartley along between them; he dozed, and paid noattention to their talk. 

The policeman laughed. "I was just going to run him in, when you came out. You didn't come a minute too soon. "

They got Bartley to the stable, and he slept heavily in one of the chairsin the office, while the ostlers were putting the horses to the carriage. The policeman remained at the office-door, looking in at Bartley, andphilosophizing the situation to Halleck. "Your speakin' about its bein' thefirst time you ever saw him so made me think 't I rather help take home aregular habitual drunk to his family, any day, than a case like this. Theyalways seem to take it so much harder the first time. Boards with hismother, I presume?"

"He's married, " said Halleck? sadly. "He has a house of his own. "

"Well!" said the policeman. 

Bartley slept all the way to Clover Street, and when the carriage stoppedat his door, they had difficulty in waking him sufficiently to get him out. 

"Don't come in, please, " said Halleck to the policeman, when this was done. "The man will carry you back to your beat. Thank you, ever so much!"

"All right, Mr. Halleck. Don't mention it, " said the policeman, and leanedback in the hack with an air of luxury, as it rumbled softly away. 

Halleck remained on the pavement with Bartley falling limply against himin the dim light of the dawn. "What you want? What you doing with me?" hedemanded with sullen stupidity. 

"I've got you home, Hubbard. Here we are at your house. " He pulled himacross the pavement to the threshold, and put his hand on the bell, but thedoor was thrown open before he could ring, and Marcia stood there, with herface white, and her eyes red with watching and crying. 

"Oh, Bartley! oh, Bartley!" she sobbed. "Oh, Mr. Halleck! what is it? Ishe hurt? I did it, --yes, I did it! It's my fault! Oh! will he die? Is hesick?"

"He isn't very well. He'd better go to bed, " said Halleck. 

"Yes, yes! I will help you upstairs with him. "

"Do' need any help, " said Bartley, sulkily. "Go upstairs myself. "

He actually did so, with the help of the hand-rail, Marcia running before, to open the door, and smooth the pillows which her head had not touched, and Halleck following him to catch him if he should fall. She unlaced hisshoes and got them off, while Halleck removed his coat. 

"Oh, Bartley! where do you feel badly, dear? Oh I what shall I do?" shemoaned, as he tumbled himself on the bed, and lapsed into a drunken stupor. 

"Better--better come out, Mrs. Hubbard, " said Halleck. "Better let himalone, now. You only make him worse, talking to him. "

Quelled by the mystery of his manner, she followed him out and down thestairs. "Oh, _do_ tell me what it is, " she implored, in a low voice, "orI shall go wild! But tell me, and I can bear it! I can bear anything if Iknow what it is!" She came close to him in her entreaty, and fixed her eyesbeseechingly on his, while she caught his hand in both of hers. "Is he--ishe insane?"

"He isn't quite in his right mind, Mrs. Hubbard, " Halleck began, softlyreleasing himself, and retreating a little from her; but she pursued him, and put her hand on his arm. 

"Oh, then go for the doctor, --go instantly! Don't lose a minute! I shallnot be afraid to stay alone. Or if you think I'd better not, I will go forthe doctor myself. "

"No, no, " said Halleck, smiling sadly: the case certainly had its ludicrousside. "He doesn't need a doctor. You mustn't think of calling a doctor. Indeed you mustn't. He'll come out all right of himself. If you sent for adoctor, it would make him very angry. "

She burst into tears. "Well, I will do what you say, " she cried. "It wouldnever have happened, if it hadn't been for me. I want to tell you what Idid, " she went on wildly. "I want to tell--"

"Please don't tell me anything, Mrs. Hubbard! It will all come right--andvery soon. It isn't anything to be alarmed about. He'll be well in a fewhours. I--ah--Good by. " He had found his cane, and he made a limp towardthe door, but she swiftly interposed herself. 

"Why, " she panted, in mixed reproach and terror, "you're not going away?You're not going to leave me before Bartley is well? He may get worse, --hemay die! You mustn't go, Mr. Halleck!"

"Yes, I must, --I can't stay, --I oughtn't to stay, --it won't do! He won'tget worse, he won't die. " The perspiration broke out on Halleck's face, which he lifted to hers with a distress as great as her own. 

She only answered, "I can't let you go; it would kill me. I wonder at yourwanting to go. "

There was something ghastly comical in it all, and Halleck stood in fear ofits absurdity hardly less than of its tragedy. He rapidly revolved in hismind the possibilities of the case. He thought at first that it might bewell to call a doctor, and, having explained the situation to him, pay himto remain in charge; but he reflected that it would be insulting to ask adoctor to see a man in Hubbard's condition. He took out his watch, and sawthat it was six o'clock; and he said, desperately, "You can send for me, ifyou get anxious--"

"I can't let you go!"

"I must really get my breakfast--"

"The girl will get something for you here! Oh, _don't_ go away!" Her lipbegan to quiver again, and her bosom to rise. 

He could not bear it. "Mrs. Hubbard, will you believe what I say?"

"Yes, " she faltered, reluctantly. 

"Well, I tell you that Mr. Hubbard is in no sort of danger; and I know thatit would be extremely offensive to him if I stayed. "

"Then you must go, " she answered promptly, and opened the door, which shehad closed for fear he might escape. "I will send for a doctor. "

"No; _don't_ send for a doctor, don't send for anybody don't speak ofthe matter to any one: it would be very mortifying to him. It's merelya--a--kind of--seizure, that a great many people--men--are subject to; buthe wouldn't like to have it known. " He saw that his words were making animpression upon her; perhaps her innocence was beginning to divine thetruth. "Will you do what I say?"

"Yes, " she murmured. 

Her head began to droop, and her face to turn away in a dawning shame toocruel for him to see. 

"I--I will come back as soon as I get my breakfast, to make sure thateverything is right. "

She let him find his own way out, and Halleck issued upon the street, asmiserable as if the disgrace were his own. It was easy enough for himto get back into his own room without alarming the family. He ate hisbreakfast absently, and then went out while the others were still at table. 

"I don't think Ben seems very well, " said his mother, anxiously, and shelooked to her husband for the denial he always gave. 

"Oh, I guess he's all right. What's the matter with him?"

"It's nothing but his ridiculous, romantic way of taking the world toheart, " Olive interposed. "You may be sure he's troubled about somethingthat doesn't concern him in the least. It's what comes of the life-longconscientiousness of his parents. If Ben doesn't turn out a philanthropistof the deepest dye yet, you'll have me to thank for it. I see more andmore every day that I was providentially born wicked, so as to keep thisbesottedly righteous family's head above water. "

She feigned an angry impatience with the condition of things; but when herfather went out, she joined her mother in earnest conjectures as to whatBen had on his mind. 

Halleck wandered about till nearly ten o'clock, and then he went to thelittle house on Clover Street. The servant-girl answered his ring, and whenhe asked for Mrs. Hubbard, she said that Mr. Hubbard wished to see him, andplease would he step upstairs. 

He found Bartley seated at the window, with a wet towel round his head, andhis face pale with headache. 

"Well, old man, " he said, with an assumption of comradery that was nauseousto Halleck, "you've done the handsome thing by me. I know all about it. I knew something about it all the time. " He held out his hand, withoutrising, and Halleck forced himself to touch it. "I appreciate your delicacyin not telling my wife. Of course you _couldn't_ tell, " he said, withdepraved enjoyment of what he conceived of Halleck's embarrassment. "But Iguess she must have smelt a rat. As the fellow says, " he added, seeing thedisgust that Halleck could not keep out of his face, "I shall make a cleanbreast of it, as soon as she can bear it. She's pretty high-strung. Lyingdown, now, " he explained. "You see, I went out to get something to make mesleep, and the first thing I knew I had got too much. Good thing I turnedup on your doorstep; might have been waltzing into the police court aboutnow. How did you happen to hear me?"

Halleck briefly explained, with an air of abhorrence for the facts. 

"Yes, I remember most of it, " said Bartley. "Well, I want to thank you, Halleck. You've saved me from disgrace, --from ruin, for all I know. Whew!how my head aches!" he said, making an appeal to Halleck's pity, withclosed eyes. "Halleck, " he murmured, feebly, "I wish you would do me afavor. "

"Yes? What is it?" asked Halleck, dryly. 

"Go round to the Events office and tell old Witherby that I sha'n't be ableto put in an appearance to-day. I'm not up to writing a note, even; andhe'd feel flattered at your coming personally. It would make it all rightfor me. "

"Of course I will go, " said Halleck. 

"Thanks, " returned Bartley, plaintively, with his eyes closed. 

XXVI. 

Bartley would willingly have passed this affair over with Marcia, like someof their quarrels, and allowed a reconciliation to effect itself throughmere lapse of time and daily custom. But there were difficulties in the wayto such an end; his shameful escapade had given the quarrel a character ofits own, which could not be ignored. He must keep his word about making aclean breast of it to Marcia, whether he liked or not; but she facilitatedhis confession by the meek and dependent fashion in which she hoveredabout, anxious to do something or anything for him. If, as he suggested toHalleck, she had divined the truth, she evidently did not hold him whollyto blame for what had happened, and he was not without a self-righteoussense of having given her a useful and necessary lesson. He was inclined toa severity to which his rasped and shaken nerves contributed, when he spoketo her that night, as they sat together after tea; she had some sewing inher lap, little mysteries of soft muslin for the baby, which she was edgingwith lace, and her head drooped over her work, as if she could not confronthim with her swollen eyes. 

"Look here, Marcia, " he said, "do you know what was the matter with me thismorning?"

She did not answer in words; her hands quivered a moment; then she caughtup the things out of her lap, and sobbed into them. The sight unmannedBartley; he hated to see any one cry, --even his wife, to whose tears he wasaccustomed. He dropped down beside her on the sofa, and pulled her headover on his shoulder. 

"It was my fault! it was my fault, Bartley!" she sobbed. "Oh, how can Iever get over it?"

"Well, don't cry, don't cry! It wasn't altogether your fault, " returnedBartley. "We were both to blame. "

"No! I began it. If I hadn't broken my promise about speaking of HannahMorrison, it never would have happened. " This was so true that Bartleycould not gainsay it. "But I couldn't seem to help it; and you were--youwere--so quick with me; you didn't give me time to think; you--But I wasthe one to blame, I was to blame!"

"Oh, well, never mind about it; don't take on so, " coaxed Bartley. "It'sall over now, and it can't be helped. And I can promise you, " he added, "that it shall never happen again, no matter what you do, " and in makingthis promise he felt the glow of virtuous performance. "I think we've bothhad a lesson. I suppose, " he continued sadly, as one might from impersonalreflection upon the temptations and depravity of large cities, "that it's_common_ enough. I dare say it isn't the first time Ben Halleck has taken afellow home in a hack. " Bartley got so much comfort from the conjecture hehad thrown out for Marcia's advantage, that he felt a sort of self-approvalin the fact with which he followed it up. "And there's this consolationabout it, if there isn't any other: that it wouldn't have happened now, ifit had ever happened before. "

Marcia lifted her head and looked into his face: "What--what do you mean, Bartley?"

"I mean that I never was overcome before in my life by--wine. " Hedelicately avoided saying whiskey. 

"Well?" she demanded. 

"Why, don't you see? If I'd had the habit of drinking, I shouldn't havebeen affected by it. "

"I don't understand, " she said, anxiously. 

"Why, I knew I shouldn't be able to sleep, I was so mad at you--"

"Oh!"

"And I dropped into the hotel bar-room for a nightcap, --for something tomake me sleep. "

"Yes, yes!" she urged eagerly. 

"I took what wouldn't have touched a man that was in the habit of it. "

"Poor Bartley!"

"And the first thing I knew I had got too much. I was drunk, --wild drunk, "he said with magnanimous frankness. 

She had been listening intensely, exculpating him at every point, and nowhis innocence all flashed upon her. "I see! I see!" she cried. "And it wasbecause you had never tasted it before--"

"Well, I had tasted it once or twice, " interrupted Bartley, with heroicveracity. 

"No matter! It was because you had never more than hardly tasted it that avery little overcame you in an instant. I see!" she repeated, contemplatinghim in her ecstasy, as the one habitually sober man in a Boston full ofinebriates. "And now I shall never regret it; I shall never care for it;I never shall think about it again! Or, yes! I shall always rememberit, because it shows--because it _proves_ that you are always strictlytemperance. It was worth happening for that. I am _glad_ it happened!"

She rose from his side, and took her sewing nearer the lamp, and resumedher work upon it with shining eyes. 

Bartley remained in his place on the sofa, feeling, and perhaps looking, rather sheepish. He had made a clean breast of it, and the confessionhad redounded only too much to his credit. To do him justice, he had notintended to bring the affair to quite such a triumphant conclusion; andperhaps something better than his sense of humor was also touched when hefound himself not only exonerated, but transformed into an exemplar ofabstinence. 

"Well, " he said, "it isn't exactly a thing to be glad of, but it certainlyisn't a thing to worry yourself about. You know the worst of it, and youknow the best of it. It never happened before, and it never shall happenagain; that's all. Don't lament over it, don't accuse yourself; just letit go, and we'll both see what we can do after this in the way of behavingbetter. "

He rose from the sofa, and began to walk about the room. 

"Does your head still ache?" she asked, fondly. "I _wish_ I could dosomething for it!"

"Oh, I shall sleep it off, " returned Bartley. 

She followed him with her eyes. "Bartley!"

"Well?"

"Do you suppose--do you believe--that Mr. Halleck--that he was ever--"

"No, Marcia, I don't, " said Bartley, stopping. "I _know_ he never was. BenHalleck is slow; but he's good. I couldn't imagine his being drunk any morethan I could imagine your being so. I'd willingly sacrifice his reputationto console you, " added Bartley, with a comical sense of his own regret thatHalleck was not, for the occasion, an habitual drunkard, "but I cannot tella lie. " He looked at her with a smile, and broke into a sudden laugh. "No, my dear, the only person I think of just now as having suffered similarlywith myself is the great and good Andrew Johnson. Did you ever hear ofhim?"

"Was he the one they impeached?" she faltered, not knowing what Bartleywould be at, but smiling faintly in sympathy with his mirth. 

"He was the one they impeached. He was the one who was overcome by wine onhis inauguration day, because he had never been overcome before. It's aparallel case!" Bartley got a great deal more enjoyment out of the parallelcase than Marcia. The smile faded from her face. 

"Come, come, " he coaxed, "be satisfied with Andrew Johnson, and let Halleckgo. Ah, Marcia!" he added, seriously, "Ben Halleck is the kind of man youought to have married! Don't you suppose that I know I'm not good enoughfor you? I'm pretty good by fits and starts; but he would have been goodright straight along. I should never have had to bring _him_ home in a hackto you!"

His generous admission had the just effect. "Hush, Bartley! Don't talk so!You know that you're better for me than the best man in the world, dear, and even if you were not, I should love you the best. Don't talk, please, that way, of any one else, or it will make me hate you!"

He liked that; and after all he was not without an obscure pride in hislast night's adventure as a somewhat hazardous but decided assertion ofmanly supremacy. It was not a thing to be repeated; but for once in a wayit was not wholly to be regretted, especially as he was so well out of it. 

He pulled up a chair in front of her, and began to joke about the thingsshe had in her lap; and the shameful and sorrowful day ended in the blissof a more perfect peace between them than they had known since the troublesof their married life began. "I tell you, " said Bartley to Marcia, "I shallstick to tivoli after this, religiously. "

It was several weeks later that Halleck limped into Atherton's lodgings, and dropped into one of his friend's easy-chairs. The room had a bachelorcomfort of aspect, and the shaded lamp on the table shed a mellow light onthe green leather-covered furniture, wrinkled and creased, and worn full ofsuch hospitable hollows as that which welcomed Halleck. Some packages oflaw papers were scattered about on the table; but the hour of the night hadcome when a lawyer permits himself a novel. Atherton looked up from his asHalleck entered, and stretched out a hand, which the latter took on his wayto the easy-chair across the table. 

"How do you do?" said Atherton, after allowing him to sit for a certaintime in the silence, which expressed better than words the familiaritythat existed between them in spite of the lawyer's six or seven years ofseniority. 

Halleck leaned forward and tapped the floor with his stick; then he fellback again, and laid his cane across the arms of his chair, and drew along breath. "Atherton, " he said, "if you had found a blackguard of youracquaintance drunk on your doorstep early one morning, and had taken himhome to his wife, how would you have expected her to treat you the nexttime you saw her?"

The lawyer was too much used to the statement, direct and hypothetical, ofall sorts of cases, to be startled at this. He smiled slightly, and said, "That would depend a good deal upon the lady. "

"Oh, but generalize! From what you know of women as Woman, what should youexpect? Shouldn't you expect her to make you pay somehow for your privityto her disgrace, to revenge her misery upon you? Isn't there a theory thatwomen forgive injuries, but never ignominies?"

"That's what the novelists teach, and we bachelors get most of our doctrineabout women from them. " He closed his novel on the paper-cutter, and, laying the book upon the table, clasped his hands together at the back ofhis head. "We don't go to nature for our impressions; but neither do thenovelists, for that matter. Now and then, however, in the way of business, I get a glimpse of realities that make me doubt my prophets. Who had thisexperience?"

"I did. "

"I'm sorry for that, " said Atherton. 

"Yes, " returned Halleck, with whimsical melancholy; "I'm not particularlyadapted for it. But I don't know that it would be a very pleasantexperience for anybody. "

He paused drearily, and Atherton said, "And how did she actually treatyou?"

"I hardly know. I hadn't been at the pains to look them up since thething happened, and I had been carrying their squalid secret round for afortnight, and suffering from it as if it were all my own. "

Atherton smiled at the touch of self-characterization. 

"When I met her and her husband and her baby to-day, --a familyparty, --well, she made me ashamed of the melodramatic compassion I had beenfeeling for her. It seemed that I had been going about unnecessarily, notto say impertinently, haggard with the recollection of her face as I saw itwhen she opened the door for her blackguard and me that morning. She lookedas if nothing unusual had happened at our last meeting. I couldn't brace upall at once: I behaved like a sneak, in view of her serenity. "

"Perhaps nothing unusual _had_ happened, " suggested Atherton. 

"No, that theory isn't tenable, " said Halleck. "It was the one fact in theblackguard's favor that she had evidently never seen him in that statebefore, and didn't know what was the matter. She was wild at first; shewanted to send for a doctor. I think towards the last she began to suspect. But I don't know how she looked _then_: I couldn't look at her. " He stoppedas if still in the presence of the pathetic figure, with its sidelong, drooping head. 

Atherton respected his silence a moment before he again suggested, aslightly as before, "Perhaps she is magnanimous. "

"No, " said Halleck, with the effect of having also given that theoryconsideration. "She's not magnanimous, poor soul. I fancy she is rather anarrow-minded person, with strict limitations in regard to people who thinkill--or too well--of her husband. "

"Then perhaps, " said Atherton, with the air of having exhausted conjecture, "she's obtuse. "

"I have tried, to think that too, " replied Halleck, "but I can't manage it. No, there are only two ways out of it; the fellow has abused her innocenceand made her believe it's a common and venial affair to be brought home inthat state, or else she's playing a part. He's capable of telling her thatneither you nor I, for example, ever go to bed sober. But she isn't obtuse:I fancy she's only too keen in all the sensibilities that women sufferthrough; and I'd rather think that he had deluded her in that way, thanthat she was masquerading about it, or she strikes me as an uncommonlytruthful person. I suppose you know whom I'm talking about, Atherton?" hesaid, with a sudden look at his friend's face across the table. 

"Yes, I know, " said the lawyer. "I'm sorry it's come to this already. Though I suppose you're not altogether surprised. "

"No; something of the kind was to be expected, " Halleck sighed, and rolledhis cane up and down on the arms of his chair. "I hope we know the worst. "

"Perhaps we do. But I recollect a wise remark you made the first time wetalked of these people, " said Atherton, replying to the mood rather thanthe speech of his friend. "You suggested that we rather liked to grieveover the pretty girls that other fellows marry, and that we never thoughtof the plain ones as suffering. "

"Oh, I hadn't any data for my pity in this case, then, " replied Halleck. "I'm willing to allow that a plain woman would suffer under the samecircumstances; and I think I should be capable of pitying her. But I'llconfess that the notion of a pretty woman's sorrow is more intolerable;there's no use denying a fact so universally recognized by the maleconsciousness. I take my share of shame for it. I wonder why it is? Prettywomen always seem to appeal to us as more dependent and childlike. I daresay they're not. "

"Some of them are quite able to take care of themselves, " said Atherton. "I've known striking instances of the kind. How do you know but the objectof your superfluous pity was cheerful because fate had delivered herhusband, bound forever, into her hand, through this little escapade ofhis?"

"Isn't that rather a coarse suggestion?" asked Halleck. 

"Very likely. I suggest it; I don't assert it. But I fancy that wivessometimes like a permanent grievance that is always at hand, no matter whatthe mere passing occasion of the particular disagreement is. It seems tome that I have detected obscure appeals to such a weapon in domesticinterviews at which I've assisted in the way of business. "

"Don't, Atherton!" cried Halleck. 

"Don't how? In this particular case, or in regard to wives generally. Wecan't do women a greater injustice than not to account for a vast dealof human nature in them. You may be sure that things haven't come to thepresent pass with those people without blame on both sides. "

"Oh, do you defend a man for such beastliness, by that stale old plea ofblame on both sides?" demanded Halleck, indignantly. 

"No; but I should like to know what she had said or done to provoke it, before I excused her altogether. "

"You would! Imagine the case reversed. "

"It isn't imaginable. "

"You think there is a special code of morals for women, --sins and shamesfor them that are no sins and shames for us!"

"No, I don't think that! I merely suggest that you don't idealize thevictim in this instance. I dare say she hasn't suffered half as much as youhave. Remember that she's a person of commonplace traditions, and probablytook a simple view of the matter, and let it go as something that could notbe helped. "

"No, that would not do, either, " said Halleck. 

"You're hard to please. Suppose we imagine her proud enough to face youdown on the fact, for his sake; too proud to revenge her disgrace on you--"

"Oh, you come back to your old plea of magnanimity! Atherton, it makes mesick at heart to think of that poor creature. That look of hers haunts me!I can't get rid of it!"

Atherton sat considering his friend with a curious smile. "Well, I'm sorrythis has happened to _you_, Halleck. "

"Oh, why do you say that to me?" demanded Halleck, impatiently. "Am I anervous woman, that I must be kept from unpleasant sights and disagreeableexperiences? If there's anything of the man about me, you insult it! Whynot be a little sorry for _her_?"

"I'm sorry enough for her; but I suspect that, so far, you have been theprincipal sufferer. She's simply accepted the fact, and survived it. "

"So much the worse, so much the worse!" groaned Halleck. "She'd better havedied!"

"Well, perhaps. I dare say she thinks it will never happen again, and hasdismissed the subject; while you've had it happening ever since, wheneveryou've thought of her. "

Halleck struck the arms of his chair with his clinched hands. "Confound thefellow! What business has he to come back into my way, and make me thinkabout his wife? Oh, very likely it's quite as you say! I dare say she'sstupidly content with him; that she's forgiven it and forgotten all aboutit. Probably she's told him how I behaved, and they've laughed me overtogether. But does that make it any easier to bear?"

"It ought, " said Atherton. "What did the husband do when you met them?"

"Everything but tip me the wink, --everything but say, in so many words, 'You see I've made it all right with her: don't you wish you knew--how?'"Halleck dropped his head, with a wrathful groan. 

"I fancy, " said Atherton, thoughtfully, "that, if we really knew how, itwould surprise us. Married life is as much a mystery to us outsiders as thelife to come, almost. The ordinary motives don't seem to count; it's therealm of unreason. If a man only makes his wife suffer enough, she findsout that she loves him so much she _must_ forgive him. And then there's agreat deal in their being bound. They can't live together in enmity, andthey must live together. I dare say the offence had merely worn itself outbetween them. "

"Oh, I dare say, " Halleck assented, wearily. "That isn't my idea ofmarriage, though. "

"It's not mine, either, " returned Atherton. "The question is whether itisn't often the fact in regard to such people's marriages. "

"Then they are so many hells, " cried Halleck, "where self-respect perisheswith resentment, and the husband and wife are enslaved to each other. Theyought to be broken up!"

"I don't think so, " said Atherton, soberly. "The sort of men and women thatmarriage enslaves would be vastly more wretched and mischievous if theywere set free. I believe that the hell people make for themselves isn't atall a bad place for them. It's the best place for them. "

"Oh, I know your doctrine, " said Halleck, rising. "It's horrible! How a manwith any kindness in his heart can harbor such a cold-blooded philosophy_I_ don't understand. I wish you joy of it. Good night, " he added, gloomily, taking his hat from the table. "It serves me right for coming toyou with a matter that I ought to have been man enough to keep to myself. "

Atherton followed him toward the door. "It won't do you any harm toconsider your perplexity in the light of my philosophy. An unhappy marriageisn't the only hell, nor the worst. "

Halleck turned. "What could be a worse hell than marriage without love?" hedemanded, fiercely. 

"Love without marriage, " said Atherton. 

Halleck looked sharply at his friend. Then he shrugged his shoulders as heturned again and swung out of the door. "You're too esoteric for me. It'squite time I was gone. "

The way through Clover Street was not the shortest way home; but he climbedthe hill and passed the little house. He wished to rehabilitate in itspathetic beauty the image which his friend's conjectures had jarred, distorted, insulted; and he lingered for a moment before the door wherethis vision had claimed his pity for anguish that no after serenity couldrepudiate. The silence in which the house was wrapped was like another foldof the mystery which involved him. The night wind rose in a sudden gust, and made the neighboring lamp flare, and his shadow wavered across thepavement like the figure of a drunken man. This, and not that other, wasthe image which he saw. 

XXVII. 

"Of course, " said Marcia, when she and Bartley recurred to the subject ofher visit to Equity, "I have always felt as if I should like to have youwith me, so as to keep people from talking, and show that it's all rightbetween you and father. But if you don't wish to go, I can't ask it. "

"I understand what you mean, and I should like to gratify you, " saidBartley. "Not that I care a rap what all the people in Equity think. I'lltell you what I'll do, I'll go down there with you and hang round a day ortwo; and then I'll come after you, when your time's up, and stay a day ortwo there. I _couldn't_ stand three weeks in Equity. "

In the end, he behaved very handsomely. He dressed Flavia out to kill, ashe said, in lace hoods and embroidered long-clothes, for which he tossedover half the ready-made stock of the great dry-goods stores; and he madeMarcia get herself a new suit throughout, with a bonnet to match, which shethought she could not afford, but he said he should manage it somehow. In Equity he spared no pains to deepen the impression of his success inBoston, and he was affable with everybody. He hailed his friends acrossthe street, waving his hand to them, and shouting out a jolly greeting. He visited the hotel office and the stores to meet the loungers there; hestepped into the printing-office, and congratulated Henry Bird on havingstopped the Free Press and devoted himself to job-work. He said, "Hello, Marilla! Hello, Hannah!" and he stood a good while beside the latter at hercase, joking and laughing. He had no resentments. He stopped old Morrisonon the street and shook hands with him. "Well, Mr. Morrison, do you find itas easy to get Hannah's wages advanced nowadays as you used to?"

As for his relations with Squire Gaylord, he flattened public conjectureout like a pancake, as he told Marcia, by making the old gentleman walkarm-and-arm with him the whole length of the village street the morningafter his arrival. "And I never saw your honored father look as if heenjoyed a thing less, " added Bartley. "Well, what's the use? He couldn'thelp himself. " They had arrived on Friday evening, and, after spendingSaturday in this social way, Bartley magnanimously went with Marcia tochurch. He was in good spirits, and he shook hands, right and left, as hecame out of church. In the afternoon he had up the best team from the hotelstable, and took Marcia the Long Drive, which they had taken the dayof their engagement. He could not be contented without pushing theperambulator out after tea, and making Marcia walk beside it, to let peoplesee them with the baby. 

He went away the next morning on an early train, after a parting which hemade very cheery, and a promise to come down again as soon as he couldmanage it. Marcia watched him drive off toward the station in the hotelbarge, and then she went upstairs to their room, where she had been so longa young girl, and where now their child lay sleeping. The little one seemedthe least part of all the change that had taken place. In this room sheused to sit and think of him; she used to fly up thither when he cameunexpectedly, and order her hair or change a ribbon of her dress, that shemight please him better; at these windows she used to sit and watch, andlong for his coming; from these she saw him go by that day when she thoughtshe should see him no more, and took heart of her despair to risk the wildchance that made him hers. There was a deadly, unsympathetic stillness inthe room which seemed to leave to her all the responsibility for what shehad done. 

The days began to go by in a sunny, still, midsummer monotony. She pushedthe baby out in its carriage, and saw the summer boarders walking ordriving through the streets; she returned the visits that the neighborspaid her; indoors she helped her mother about the housework. An image ofher maiden life reinstated itself. At times it seemed almost as if shehad dreamed her marriage. When she looked at her baby in these moods, shethought she was dreaming yet. A young wife suddenly parted for the firsttime from her husband, in whose intense possession she has lost herindividual existence, and devolving upon her old separate personality, musthave strong fancies, strange sensations. Marcia's marriage had been full ofsuch shocks and storms as might well have left her dazed in their entirecessation. 

"She seems to be pretty well satisfied here, " said her father, one eveningwhen she had gone upstairs with her sleeping baby in her arms. 

"She seems to be pretty quiet, " her mother noncommittally assented. 

"M-yes, " snarled the Squire, and he fell into a long revery, while Mrs. Gaylord went on crocheting the baby a bib, and the smell of the petunia-bedunder the window came in through the mosquito netting. "M-yes, " he resumed, "I guess you're right. I guess it's only quiet. I guess she ain't any morelikely to be satisfied than the rest of us. "

"I don't see why she shouldn't be, " said Mrs. Gaylord, resenting thecompassion in the Squire's tone with that curious jealousy a wife feels forher husband's indulgence of their daughter. "She's had her way. "

"She's had her way, poor girl, --yes. But I don't know as it satisfiespeople to have their way, always. "

Doubtless Mrs. Gaylord saw that her husband wished to talk about Marcia, and must be helped to do so by a little perverseness. "I don't know butwhat most of folks would say 't she'd made out pretty well. I guess she'sgot a good provider. "

"She didn't need any provider, " said the Squire haughtily. 

"No; but so long as she would have something, it's well enough that sheshould have a provider. " Mrs. Gaylord felt that this was reasoning, and shesmoothed out so much of the bib as she had crocheted across her knees withan air of self-content. "You can't have everything in a husband, " sheadded, "and Marcia ought to know that, by this time. "

"I've no doubt she knows it, " said the Squire. 

"Why, what makes you think she's disappointed any?" Mrs. Gaylord came plumpto the question at last. 

"Nothing she ever said, " returned her husband promptly. "She'd die, first. When I was up there I thought she talked about him too much to be feelingjust right about him. It was Bartley this and Bartley that, the wholewhile. She was always wanting me to say that I thought she had done rightto marry him. I _did_ sort of say it, at last, --to please her. But I keptthinking that, if she felt sure of it, she wouldn't want to talk it into meso. Now, she never mentions him at all, if she can help it. She writes tohim every day, and she hears from him often enough, --postals, mostly; butshe don't talk about Bartley, Bartley!" The Squire stretched his lips backfrom his teeth, and inhaled a long breath, as he rubbed his chin. 

"You don't suppose anything's happened since you was up there, " said Mrs. Gaylord. 

"Nothing but what's happened from the start. _He's_ happened. He keepshappening right along, I guess. "

Mrs. Gaylord found herself upon the point of experiencing a painful emotionof sympathy, but she saved herself by saying: "Well, Mr. Gaylord, I don'tknow as you've got anybody but yourself to thank for it all. You got himhere, in the first _place_. " She took one of the kerosene lamps from thetable, and went upstairs, leaving him to follow at his will. 

Marcia sometimes went out to the Squire's office in the morning, carryingher baby with her, and propping her with law-books on a newspaper in themiddle of the floor, while she dusted the shelves, or sat down for one ofthe desultory talks in the satisfactory silences which she had with herfather. 

He usually found her there when he came up from the post-office, with themorning mail in the top of his hat: the last evening's Events, --whichBartley had said must pass for a letter from him when he did notwrite, --and a letter or a postal card from him. She read these, and gaveher lather any news or message that Bartley sent; and then she sat downat his table to answer them. But one morning, after she had been at homenearly a month, she received a letter for which she postponed Bartley'spostal. "It's from Olive Halleck!" she said, with a glance at thehandwriting on the envelope; and she tore it open, and ran it through. "Yes, and they'll come here, any time I let them know. They've been atNiagara, and they've come down the St. Lawrence to Quebec, and they will beat North Conway the last of next week. Now, father, I want to do somethingfor them!" she cried, feeling an American daughter's right to dispose ofher father, and all his possessions, for the behoof of her friends at anytime. "I want they should come to the house. "

"Well, I guess there won't be any trouble about that, if you think they canput up with our way of living. ' He smiled at her over his spectacles. 

"Our way of living! Put up with it! I should hope as much! They're justthe kind of people that will put up with anything, because they've hadeverything. And because they're all as sweet and good as they can be. Youdon't know them, father, you don't half know them! Now, just get rightaway, "--she pushed him out of the chair he had taken at the table, --"andlet me write to Bartley this instant. He's got to come when they're here, and I'll invite them to come over at once, before they get settled at NorthConway. "

He gave his dry chuckle to see her so fired with pleasure, and he enjoyedthe ardor with which she drove him up out of his chair, and dashed off herletters. This was her old way; he would have liked the prospect of theHallecks coming, because it made his girl so happy, if for nothing else. 

"Father, I will tell you about Ben Halleck, " she said, pounding her letterto Olive with the thick of her hand to make the envelope stick. "You knowthat lameness of his?"

"Yes. "

"Well, it came from his being thrown down by another boy when he was atschool. He knew the boy that did it; and the boy must have known that Mr. Halleck knew it, but he never said a word to show that he was sorry, or didanything to make up for it He's a man now, and lives there in Boston, andBen Halleck often meets him. He says that if the man can stand it he can. Don't you think that's grand? When I heard that, I made up my mind thatI wanted Flavia to belong to Ben Halleck's church, --or the church he didbelong to; he doesn't belong to any now!"

"He couldn't have got any damages for such a thing anyway, " the Squiresaid. 

Marcia paid no heed to this legal opinion of the case. She took off herfather's hat to put the letters into it, and, replacing it on his head, "Now don't you forget them, father, " she cried. 

She gathered up her baby and hurried into the house, where she began herpreparations for her guests. 

The elder Miss Hallecks had announced with much love, through Olive, thatthey should not be able to come to Equity, and Ben was to bring Olivealone. Marcia decided that Ben should have the guest-chamber, and Oliveshould have her room; she and Bartley could take the little room in the Lwhile their guests remained. 

But when the Hallecks came, it appeared that Ben had engaged quarters forhimself at the hotel, and no expostulation would prevail with him to cometo Squire Gaylord's house. 

"We have to humor him in such things, Mrs. Hubbard, " Olive explained, toMarcia's distress. "And most people get on very well without him. "

This explanation was of course given in Halleck's presence. His sisteradded, behind his back: "Ben has a perfectly morbid dread of giving troublein a house. He won't let us do anything to make him comfortable at home, and the idea that you should attempt it drove him distracted. You mustn'tmind it. I don't believe he'd have come if his bachelor freedom couldn'thave been respected; and we both wanted to come Very much. "

The Hallecks arrived in the forenoon, and Bartley was due in the evening. But during the afternoon Marcia had a telegram saying that he could notcome till two days later, and asking her to postpone the picnic she hadplanned. The Hallecks were only going to stay three days, and the suspicionthat Bartley had delayed in order to leave himself as little time aspossible with them rankled in her heart so that she could not keep it toherself when they met. 

"Was that what made you give me such a cool reception?" he asked, withcynical good-nature. "Well, you're mistaken; I don't suppose I mind theHallecks any more than they do me. I'll tell you why I stayed. Some peopledropped down on Witherby, who were a little out of his line, --fashionablepeople that he had asked to let him know if they ever came to Boston; andwhen they did come and let him know, he didn't know what to do aboutit, and he called on me to help him out. I've been almost boarding withWitherby for the last three days; and I've been barouching round all overthe moral vineyard with his friends: out to Mount Auburn and the WashingtonElm, and Bunker Hill, and Brookline, and the Art Museum, and Lexington;we've been down the harbor, and we haven't left a monumental stoneunturned. They were going north, and they came down here with me; and I gotthem to stop over a day for the picnic. "

"You got them to stop over for the picnic? Why, I don't want anybody butourselves, Bartley! This spoils everything. "

"The Hallecks are not ourselves, " said Bartley. "And these are jollypeople; they'll help to make it go off. "

"Who are they?" asked Marcia, with provisional self-control. 

"Oh, some people that Witherby met in Portland at Willett's, who used tohave the logging-camp out here. "

"That Montreal woman!" cried Marcia, with fatal divination. 

Bartley laughed. "Yes, Mrs. Macallister and her husband. She's a regularcase. She'll amuse you. "

Marcia's passionate eyes blazed. "She shall never come to my picnic in theworld!"

"No?" Bartley looked at her in a certain way. "She shall come to mine, then. There will be two picnics. The more the merrier. "

Marcia gasped, as if she felt the clutch in which her husband had hertightening on her heart. She said that she could only carry her pointagainst him at the cost of disgraceful division before the Hallecks, forwhich he would not care in the least. She moved her head a little from sideto side, like one that breathes a stifling air. "Oh, let her come, " shesaid quietly, at last. 

"Now you're talking business, " said Bartley. "I haven't forgotten thelittle snub Mrs. Macallister gave me, and you'll see me pay her off. "

Marcia made no answer, but went downstairs to put what face she could uponthe matter to Olive, whom she had left alone in the parlor, while she ranup with Bartley immediately upon his arrival to demand an explanation ofhim. In her wrathful haste she had forgotten to kiss him, and she nowremembered that he had not looked at the baby, which she had all the timehad in her arms. 

The picnic was to be in a pretty glen three or four miles north of thevillage, where there was shade on a bit of level green, and a springbubbling out of a fern-hung bluff: from which you looked down the glen overa stretch of the river. Marcia had planned that they were to drive thitherin a four-seated carryall, but the addition of Bartley's guests disarrangedthis. 

"There's only one way, " said Mrs. Macallister, who had driven up with herhusband from the hotel to the Squire's house in a buggy. "Mr. Halleck tellsme he doesn't know how to drive, and my husband doesn't know the way. Mr. Hubbard must get in here with me, and you must take Mr. Macallister in yourparty. " She looked authoritatively at the others. 

"First rate!" cried Bartley, climbing to the seat which Mr. Macallisterleft vacant. "We'll lead the way. "

Those who followed had difficulty in keeping their buggy in sight. Sometimes Bartley stopped long enough for them to come up, and then, aftera word or two of gay banter, was off again. 

They had taken possession of the picnic grounds, and Mrs. Macallister wasdisposing shawls for rugs and drapery, while Bartley, who had got the horseout, and tethered where he could graze, was pushing the buggy out of theway by the shafts, when the carryall came up. 

"Don't we look quite domestic?" she asked of the arriving company, in herneat English tone, and her rising English inflection. "You know I likethis, " she added, singling Halleck out for her remark, and making it as ifit were brilliant. "I like being out of doors, don't you know. But there'sone thing I don't like: we weren't able to get a drop of champagne at thatridiculous hotel. They told us they were not allowed to keep 'intoxicatingliquors. ' Now I call that jolly stupid, you know. I don't know whatever weshall do if you haven't brought something. "

"I believe this is a famous spring, " said Halleck. 

"How droll you are! Spring, indeed!" cried Mrs. Macallister. "Is _that_ theway you let your brother make game of people, Miss Halleck?" She directed agood deal of her rattle at Olive; she scarcely spoke to Marcia, but she wasnevertheless furtively observant of her. Mr. Macallister had his rattletoo, which, after trying it unsatisfactorily upon Marcia, he plied almostexclusively for Olive. He made puns; he asked conundrums; he had all theaccomplishments which keep people going in a lively, mirthful, colonialsociety; and he had the idea that he must pay attentions and promoterepartee. His wife and he played into each other's hands in their _jeuxd'esprit_; and kept Olive's inquiring Boston mind at work in the vainendeavor to account for and to place them socially. Bartley hung about Mrs. Macallister, and was nearly as obedient as her husband. He felt that theHallecks disapproved his behavior, and that made him enjoy it; he wasalmost rudely negligent of Olive. 

The composition of the party left Marcia and Halleck necessarily to eachother, and she accepted this arrangement in a sort of passive seriousness;but Halleck saw that her thoughts wandered from her talk with him, and thather eyes were always turning with painful anxiety to Bartley. After theirlunch, which left them with the whole afternoon before them, Marcia said, in a timid effort to resume her best leadership of the affair, "Bartley, don't you think they would like to see the view from the Devil's Backbone?"

"Would you like to see the view from the Devil's Backbone?" he asked inturn of Mrs. Macallister. 

"And _what_ is the Devil's Backbone?" she inquired. 

"It's a ridge of rocks on the bluff above here, " said Bartley, nodding hishead vaguely towards the bank. 

"And _how_ do you get to it?" asked Mrs. Macallister, pointing her prettychin at him in lifting her head to look. 

"Walk. "

"Thanks, then; I shall try to be satisfied with me own backbone, " said Mrs. Macallister, who had that freedom in alluding to her anatomy which marksthe superior civilization of Great Britain and its colonial dependencies. 

"Carry you, " suggested Bartley. 

"I dare say you'd be very sure-footed; but I'd quite enough of donkeys inthe hills at home. "

Bartley roared with the resolution of a man who will enjoy a joke at hisown expense. 

Marcia turned away, and referred her invitation, with a glance, to Olive. 

"I don't believe Miss Halleck wants to go, " said Mr. Macallister. 

"I couldn't, " said Olive, regretfully. "I've neither the feet nor the headfor climbing over high rocky places. "

Marcia was about to sink down on the grass again, from which she had risen, in the hopes that her proposition would succeed, when Bartley called out:"Why don't you show Ben the Devil's Backbone? The view is worth seeing, Halleck. "

"Would you like to go?" asked Marcia, listlessly. 

"Yes, I should, very much, " said Halleck, scrambling to his feet, "if itwon't tire you too much?"

"Oh, no, " said Marcia, gently, and led the way. She kept ahead of him inthe climb, as she easily could, and she answered briefly to all he said. When they arrived at the top, "There is the view, " she said coldly. Shewaved her hand toward the valley; she made a sound in her throat as if shewould speak again, but her voice died in one broken sob. 

Halleck stood with downcast eyes, and trembled. He durst not look at her, not for what he should see in her face, but for what she should see in his:the anguish of intelligence, the helpless pity. He beat the rock at hisfeet with the ferule of his stick, and could not lift his head again. Whenhe did, she stood turned from him and drying her eyes on her handkerchief. Their looks met, and she trusted her self-betrayal to him without anyattempt at excuse or explanation. 

"I will send Hubbard up to help you down, " said Halleck. 

"Well, " she answered, sadly. 

He clambered down the side of the bluff, and Bartley started to his feet inguilty alarm when he saw him approach. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. But I think you had better help Mrs. Hubbard down the bluff. "

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Macallister. "A panic! how interesting!"

Halleck did not respond. He threw himself on the grass, and left herto change or pursue the subject as she liked. Bartley showed more_savoir-faire_ when he came back with Marcia, after an absence long enoughto let her remove the traces of her tears. 

"Pretty rough on your game foot, Halleck. But Marcia had got it into herhead that it wasn't safe to trust you to help her down, even after you hadhelped her up. "

"Ben, " said Olive, when they were seated in the train the next day, "why_did_ you send Marcia's husband up there to her?" She had the effect of nothaving rested till she could ask him. 

"She was crying, " he answered. 

"What do you suppose could have been the matter?"

"What you do: she was miserable about his coquetting with that woman. "

"Yes. I could see that she hated terribly to have her come; and thatshe felt put down by her all the time. What kind of person _is_ Mrs. Macallister?"

"Oh, a fool, " replied Halleck. "All flirts are fools. "

"I think she's more wicked than foolish. "

"Oh, no, flirts are better than they seem, --perhaps because men are betterthan flirts think. But they make misery just the same. "

"Yes, " sighed Olive. "Poor Marcia, poor Marcia! But I suppose that, if itwere not Mrs. Macallister, it would be some one else. "

"Given Bartley Hubbard, --yes. "

"And given Marcia. Well, --I don't like being mixed up with other people'sunhappiness, Ben. It's dangerous. "

"I don't like it either. But you can't very well keep out of people'sunhappiness in this world. "

"No, " assented Olive, ruefully. 

The talk fell, and Halleck attempted to read a newspaper, while Olivelooked out of the window. She presently turned to him. "Did you ever fancyany resemblance between Mrs. Hubbard and the photograph of that girl weused to joke about, --your lost love?"

"Yes, " said Halleck. 

"What's become of it, --the photograph? I can't find it any more; I wantedto show it to her one day. "

"I destroyed it. I burnt it the first evening after I had met Mrs. Hubbard. It seemed to me that it wasn't right to keep it. "

"Why, you don't think it was _her_ photograph!"

"I think it was, " said Halleck. He took up his paper again, and read ontill they left the cars. 

That evening, when Halleck came to his sister's room to bid her good night, she threw her arms round his neck, and kissed his plain, common face, inwhich she saw a heavenly beauty. 

"Ben, dear, " she said, "if you don't turn out the happiest man in theworld, I shall say there's no use in being good!"

"Perhaps you'd better say that after all I wasn't good, " he suggested, witha melancholy smile. 

"I shall know better, " she retorted. 

"Why, what's the matter, now?"

"Nothing. I was only thinking. Good night!"

"Good night, " said Halleck. "You seem to think my room is better than mycompany, good as I am. "

"Yes, " she said, laughing in that breathless way which means weeping next, with women. Her eyes glistened. 

"Well, " said Halleck, limping out of the room, "you're quite good-lookingwith your hair down, Olive. "

"All girls are, " she answered. She leaned out of her doorway to watchhim as he limped down the corridor to his own room. There was somethingpathetic, something disappointed and weary in the movement of his figure, and when she shut her door, and ran back to her mirror, she could not seethe good-looking girl there for her tears. 

XXVIII. 

"Hello!" said Bartley, one day after the autumn had brought back all thesummer wanderers to the city, "I haven't seen you for a month of Sundays. "He had Ricker by the hand, and he pulled him into a doorway to be a littleout of the rush on the crowded pavement, while they chatted. 

"That's because I can't afford to go to the White Mountains, and swellround at the aristocratic summer resorts like some people, " returnedRicker. "I'm a horny-handed son of toil, myself. "

"Pshaw!" said Bartley. "Who isn't? I've been here hard at it, except forthree days at one time and live at another. "

"Well, all I can say is that I saw in the Record personals, thatMr. Hubbard, of the Events, was spending the summer months with hisfather-in-law, Judge Gaylord, among the spurs of the White Mountains. Isupposed you wrote it yourself. You're full of ideas about journalism. "

"Oh, come! I wouldn't work that joke any more. Look here, Ricker, I'll tellyou what I want. I want you to dine with me. "

"Dines people!" said Ricker, in an awestricken aside. 

"No, --I mean business! You Ve never seen my kid yet: and you've never seenmy house. I want you to come. We've all got back, and we're in nice runningorder. What day are you disengaged?"

"Let me see, " said Ricker, thoughtfully. "So many engagements! Wait! Icould squeeze your dinner in some time next month, Hubbard. "

"All right. But suppose we say next Sunday. Six is the hour. "

"Six? Oh, I can't dine in the middle of the forenoon that way! Make itlater!"

"Well, we'll say one P. M. , then. I know your dinner hour. We shall expectyou. "

"Better not, till I come. " Bartley knew that this was Ricker's way ofaccepting, and he said nothing, but he answered his next question with easyjoviality. "How are you making it with old Witherby?"

"Oh, hand over hand! Witherby and I were formed for each other. By, by!"

"No, hold on! Why don't you come to the club any more?"

"We-e-ll! The club isn't what it used to be, " said Bartley, confidentially. 

"Why, of course! It isn't just the thing for a gentleman moving in theselect circles of Clover Street, as you do; but why not come, sometimes, inthe character of distinguished guest, and encourage your humble friends? Iwas talking with a lot of the fellows about you the other night. "

"Were they abusing me?"

"They were speaking the truth about you, and I stopped them. I told themthat sort of thing wouldn't do. Why, you're getting fat!"

"You're behind the times, Kicker, " said Bartley. "I began to get fat sixmonths ago. I don't wonder the Chronicle Abstract is running down on yourhands. Come round and try my tivoli on Sunday. That's what gives a mangirth, my boy. " He tapped Ricker lightly on his hollow waistcoat, and lefthim with a wave of his hand. 

Ricker leaned out of the doorway and followed him down the street with atroubled eye. He had taken stock in Bartley, as the saying is, and hisheart misgave him that he should lose on the investment; he could not havesold out to any of their friends for twenty cents on the dollar. Nothingthat any one could lay his finger on had happened, and yet there had beena general loss of confidence in that particular stock. Ricker himself hadlost confidence in it, and when he lightly mentioned that talk at the club, with a lot of the fellows, he had a serious wish to get at Bartley sometime, and see what it was that was beginning to make people mistrust him. The fellows who liked him at first and wished him well, and believed inhis talent, had mostly dropped him. Bartley's associates were now the mostraffish set on the press, or the green hands; and something had broughtthis to pass in less than two years. Ricker had believed that it wasWitherby; at the club he had contended that it was Bartley's associationwith Witherby that made people doubtful of him. As for those ideas thatBartley had advanced in their discussion of journalism, he had consideredit all mere young man's nonsense that Bartley would outgrow. But now, as helooked at Bartley's back, he had his misgivings; it struck him as the backof a degenerate man, and that increasing bulk seemed not to represent anincrease of wholesome substance, but a corky, buoyant tissue, materiallyresponsive to some sort of moral dry-rot. 

Bartley pushed on to the Events office in a blithe humor. Witherby hadrecently advanced his salary; he was giving him fifty dollars a week now;and Bartley had made himself necessary in more ways than one. He was notonly readily serviceable, but since he had volunteered to write thoseadvertising articles for an advance of pay, he was in possession ofbusiness facts that could be made very uncomfortable to Witherby in theevent of a disagreement. Witherby not only paid him well, but treated himwell; he even suffered Bartley to bully him a little, and let him foreseethe day when he must be recognized as the real editor of the Events. 

At home everything went on smoothly. The baby was well and growing fast;she was beginning to explode airy bubbles on her pretty lips that a fondsuperstition might interpret as papa and mamma. She had passed that stagein which a man regards his child with despair; she had passed out ofslippery and evasive doughiness into a firm tangibility that made it somepleasure to hold her. 

Bartley liked to take her on his lap, to feel the spring of her littlelegs, as she tried to rise on her feet; he liked to have her stretch outher arms to him from her mother's embrace. The innocent tenderness which heexperienced at these moments was satisfactory proof to him that he was avery good fellow, if not a good man. When he spent an evening at home, withFlavia in his lap for half an hour after dinner, he felt so domestic thathe seemed to himself to be spending all his evenings at home now. Once ortwice it had happened, when the housemaid was out, that he went to the doorwith the baby on his arm, and answered the ring of Olive and Ben Halleck, or of Olive and one or both of the intermediary sisters. 

The Hallecks were the only people at all apt to call in the evening, andBartley ran so little chance of meeting any one else, when he opened thedoor with Flavia on his arm, that probably he would not have thought itworth while to put her down, even if he had not rather enjoyed meetingthem in that domestic phase. He had not only long felt how intensely Olivedisliked him, but he had observed that somehow it embarrassed Ben Halleckto see him in his character of devoted young father. At those times he usedto rally his old friend upon getting married, and laughed at the confusionto which the joke put him. He said more than once afterwards, that he didnot see what fun Ben Halleck got out of coming there; it must bore evensuch a dull fellow as he was to sit a whole evening like that and notsay twenty words. "Perhaps he's livelier when I'm not here, though, " hesuggested. "I always did seem to throw a wet blanket on Ben Halleck. " Hedid not at all begrudge Halleck's having a better time in his absence if hecould. 

One night when the bell rung Bartley rose, and saying, "I wonder whichof the tribe it is this time, " went to the door. But when he opened it, instead of hearing the well-known voices, Marcia listened through ahesitating silence, which ended in a loud laugh from without, and a cryfrom her husband of "Well, I swear! Why, you infamous old scoundrel, comein out of the wet!" There ensued, amidst Bartley's voluble greetings, anoise of shy shuffling about in the hall, as of a man not perfectly masterof his footing under social pressure, a sound of husky, embarrassedwhispering, a dispute about doffing an overcoat, and question as to thedisposition of a hat, and then Bartley reappeared, driving before him thelank, long figure of a man who blinked in the flash of gaslight, as Bartleyturned it all up in the chandelier overhead, and rubbed his immense handsin cruel embarrassment at the beauty of Marcia, set like a jewel in thepretty comfort of the little parlor. 

"Mr. Kinney, Mrs. Hubbard, " said Bartley; and having accomplished theintroduction, he hit Kinney a thwack between the shoulders with the flat ofhis hand that drove him stumbling across Marcia's footstool into the seaton the sofa to which she had pointed him. "You old fool, where did you comefrom?"

The refined warmth of Bartley's welcome seemed to make Kinney feel at home, in spite of his trepidations at Marcia's presence. He bobbed his headforward, and stretched his mouth wide, in one of his vast, silent laughs. "Better ask where I'm goin' to. "

"Well, I'll ask that, if it'll be any accommodation. Where you going?"

"Illinois. "

"For a divorce?"

"Try again. "

"To get married?"

"Maybe, after I've made my pile. " Kinney's eyes wandered about the room, and took in its evidences of prosperity, with simple, unenvious admiration;he ended with a furtive glimpse of Marcia, who seemed to be a climax ofgood luck, too dazzling for contemplation; he withdrew his glance from heras if hurt by her splendor, and became serious. 

"Well, you're the _last_ man I ever expected to see again, " said Bartley, sitting down with the baby in his lap, and contemplating Kinney withdeliberation. Kinney was dressed in a long frock-coat of cheap diagonals, black cassimere pantaloons, a blue necktie, and a celluloid collar. He hadevidently had one of his encounters with a cheap clothier, in which the Jewhad triumphed; but he had not yet visited a barber, and his hair and beardwere as shaggy as they were in the logging-camp; his hands and face wereas brown as leather. "But I'm as glad, " Bartley added, "as if you hadtelegraphed you were coming. Of course, you're going to put up with us. " Hehad observed Kinney's awe of Marcia, and he added this touch to letKinney see that he was master in his house, and lord even of that radiantpresence. 

Kinney started in real distress. 'Oh, no! I couldn't do it! I've got all mythings round at the Quincy House. "

"Trunk or bag?" asked Bartley. 

"Well, it's a bag; but--"

"All right. We'll step round and get it together. I generally take a littlestroll out, after dinner, " said Bartley, tranquilly. 

Kinney was beginning again, when Marcia, who had been stealing some covertlooks at him under her eye lashes, while she put together the sewing shewas at work on, preparatory to going upstairs with the baby, joined Bartleyin his invitation. 

"You wont make us the least trouble, Mr. Kinney, " she said. "Theguest-chamber is all ready, and we shall be glad to have you stay. "

Kinney must have felt the note of sincerity in her words. He hesitated, andBartley clinched his tacit assent with a quotation: "'The chief ornament ofa house is the guests who frequent it. ' Who says that?"

Kinney's little blue eyes twinkled. "Old Emerson. "

"Well, I agree with him. We don't care anything about your company, Kinney;but we want you for decorative purposes. "

Kinney opened his mouth for another noiseless laugh, and said, "Well, fixit to suit yourselves. "

"I'll carry her up for you, " said Bartley to Marcia, who was stoopingforward to take the baby from him, "if Mr. Kinney will excuse us a moment. "

"All right, " said Kinney. 

Bartley ventured upon this bold move, because he had found that it wasalways best to have things out with Marcia at once, and, if she was goingto take his hospitality to Kinney in bad part, he wanted to get through thetrouble. "That was very nice of you, Marcia, " he said, when they were intheir own room. "My invitation rather slipped out, and I didn't know howyou would like it. "

"Oh, I'm very glad to have him stay. I never forget about his wanting tolend you money that time, " said Marcia, opening the baby's crib. 

"You're a mighty good fellow, Marcia!" cried Bartley, kissing her over thetop of the baby's head as she took it from him. "And I'm not half goodenough for you. You never forget a benefit. Nor an injury either, " headded, with a laugh. "And I'm afraid that I forget one about as easily asthe other. "

Marcia's eyes suffused themselves at this touch of self-analysis which, coming from Bartley, had its sadness; but she said nothing, and he waseager to escape and get back to their guest. He told her he should go outwith Kinney, and that she was not to sit up, for they might be out late. 

In his pride, he took Kinney down to the Events office, and unlocked it, and lit the gas, so as to show him the editorial rooms; and then he passedhim into one of the theatres, where they saw part of an Offenbach opera;after that they went to the Parker House, and had a New York stew. Kinneysaid he must be off by the Sunday-night train, and Bartley thought it wellto concentrate as many dazzling effects upon him as he could in the singleevening at his disposal. He only regretted that it was not the club night, for he would have liked to take Kinney round, and show him some of thefellows. 

"But never mind, " he said. "I'm going to have one of them dine with usto-morrow, and you'll see about the best of the lot. "

"Well, sir, " observed Kinney, when they had got back into Bartley's parlor, and he was again drinking in its prettiness in the subdued light of theshaded argand burner, "I hain't seen anything yet that suits me much betterthan this. "

"It isn't bad, " said Bartley. He had got up a plate of crackers and twobottles of tivoli, and was opening the first. He offered the beaded gobletto Kinney. 

"Thank you, " said Kinney. "Not any. I never do. "

Bartley quaffed half of it in tolerant content. "I _always_ do. Find ittakes my nerves down at the end of a hard week's work. Well, now, tell mesome thing about yourself. What are you going to do in Illinois?"

"Well, sir, I've got a friend out there that's got a coal mine, and hethinks he can work me in somehow. I guess he can: I've tried pretty mucheverything. Why don't you come out there and start a newspaper? We've got atown that's bound to grow. "

It amused Bartley to hear Kinney bragging already of a town that he hadnever seen. He winked a good-natured disdain over the rim of the gobletwhich he tilted on his lips. "And give up my chances here?" he said, as heset the goblet down. 

"Well, that's so!" said Kinney, responding to the sense of the wink. "I'lltell you what, Bartley, I didn't know as you'd speak to me when I rung yourbell to-night. But thinks I to myself, 'Dumn it! look here! He can't more'nslam the door in your face, anyway. And you've hankered after him solong, --go and take your chances, you old buzzard!' And so I got youraddress at the Events office pretty early this morning; and I went roundall day screwing my courage up, as old Macbeth says, --or Ritchloo, _I_don't know which it was, --and at last I _did_ get myself so that I toed themark like a little man. "

Bartley laughed so that he could hardly get the cork out of the secondbottle. 

"You see, " said Kinney, leaning forward, and taking Bartley's plump, softknee between his thumb and forefinger, "I felt awfully about the way weparted that night. I felt _bad_. I hadn't acted well, just to my own mind, and it cut me to have you refuse my money; it cut me all the worse becauseI saw that you was partly right; I _hadn't_ been quite fair with you. But Ialways did admire you, and you know it. Some them little things you used toget off in the old Free Press--well, I could see 't you was _smart_. And Iliked you; and it kind o' hurt me when I thought you'd been makin' fun o'me to that woman. Well, I could see 't I was a dumned old fool, afterwards. And I always wanted to tell you so. And I always did hope that I should beable to offer you that money again, twice over, and get you to take it justto show that you didn't bear malice. " Bartley looked up, with quickenedinterest. "But I can't do it now, sir, " added Kinney. 

"Why, what's happened?" asked Bartley, in a disappointed tone, pouring outhis second glass from his second bottle. 

"Well, sir, " said Kinney, with a certain reluctance, "I undertook toprovision the camp on spec, last winter, and--well, you know, I always runa little on food for the brain, "--Bartley broke into a reminiscent cackle, and Kinney smiled forlornly, --"and thinks I, 'Dumn it, I'll give 'em thereal thing, every time. ' And I got hold of a health-food circular; and Isent on for a half a dozen barrels of their crackers and half a dozenof their flour, and a lot of cracked cocoa, and I put the camp on ahealth-food basis. I calculated to bring those fellows out in the springphysically vigorous and mentally enlightened. But my goodness! After thefirst bakin' o' that flour and the first round o' them crackers, it was allup! Fellows got so mad that I suppose if I hadn't gone back to doughnuts, and sody biscuits, and Japan tea, they'd 'a' burnt the camp down. Of courseI yielded. But it ruined me, Bartley; it bu'st me. "

Bartley dropped his arms upon the table, and, hiding his face upon them, laughed and laughed again. 

"Well, sir, " said Kinney, with sad satisfaction, "I'm glad to see that youdon't need any money from me. " He had been taking another survey of theparlor and the dining-room beyond. "I don't know as I ever saw anybody muchbetter fixed. I should say that you was a success; and you deserve it. You're a smart fellow, Bart, and you're a good fellow. You're a generousfellow. " Kinney's voice shook with emotion. 

Bartley, having lifted his wet and flushed face, managed to say: "Oh, there's nothing mean about _me_, Kinney, " as he felt blindly for the beerbottles, which he shook in succession with an evident surprise at findingthem empty. 

"You've acted like a brother to me, Bartley Hubbard, " continued Kinney, "and I sha'n't forget it in a hurry. I guess it would about broke my heart, if you hadn't taken it just the way you did to-night. I should like to seethe man that didn't use you well, or the woman, either!" said Kinney, withvague defiance. "Though _they_ don't seem to have done so bad by you, "he added, in recognition of Marcia's merit. "I should say _that_ was thebiggest part of your luck She's a lady, sir, every inch of her. Mightydifferent stripe from that Montreal woman that cut up so that night. "

"Oh, Mrs. Macallister wasn't such a scamp, after all, " said Bartley, withmagnanimity. 

"Well, sir, _you_ can say so. I ain't going to be too strict with a _girl_;but I like to see a married woman _act_ like a married woman. Now, I don'tthink you'd catch Mrs. Hubbard flirting with a young fellow the way thatwoman went on with you that night?" Bartley grinned. "Well, sir, you'regetting along and you're happy. "

"Perfect clam, " said Bartley. 

"Such a position as you've got, --such a house, such a wife, _and_ such ababy! Well, " said Kinney, rising, "it's a little too much for _me_. "

"Want to go to bed?" asked Bartley. 

"Yes, I guess I better turn in, " returned Kinney, despairingly. 

"Show you the way. "

Bartley tripped up stairs with Kinney's bag, which they had left standingin the hall, while Kinney creaked carefully after him; and so led the wayto the guest-chamber, and turned up the gaslight, which had been leftburning low. 

Kinney stood erect, dwarfing the room, and looked round on the pinkchintzing, and soft carpet, and white coverleted bed, and lace-hoodeddressing-mirror, with meek veneration. "Well, I swear!" He said no more, but sat hopelessly down, and began to pull off his boots. 

He was in the same humble mood the next morning, when, having got upinordinately early, he was found trying to fix his mind on a newspaper byBartley, who came down late to the Sunday breakfast, and led his guest intothe dining-room. Marcia, in a bewitching morning-gown, was already there, having put the daintier touches to the meal herself; and the baby, in afresh white dress, was there tied into its arm-chair with a napkin, andbeating on the table with a spoon. Bartley's nonchalance amidst all thisimpressed Kinney with a yet more poignant sense of his superiority, andalmost deprived him of the powers of speech. When after breakfast Bartleytook him out to Cambridge on the horse-cars, and showed him the Collegebuildings, and Memorial Hall, and the Washington Elm, and Mount Auburn, Kinney fell into such a cowed and broken condition, that something had tobe specially done to put him in repair against Ricker's coming to dinner. Marcia luckily thought of asking him if he would like to see her kitchen. In this region Kinney found himself at home, and praised its neatperfection with professional intelligence. Bartley followed them round withFlavia on his arm, and put in a jocose word here and there, when he sawKinney about to fall a prey to his respect for Marcia, and so kept himgoing till Ricker rang. He contrived to give Ricker a hint of the sort ofman he had on his hands, and by their joint effort they had Kinney talkingabout himself at dinner before he knew what he was about. He could not helptalking well upon this theme, and he had them so vividly interested, as hepoured out adventure after adventure in his strange career, that Bartleybegan to be proud of him. 

"Well, sir, " said Ricker, when he came to a pause, "you've lived aromance. "

"Yes, " replied Kinney, looking at Bartley for his approval, "and I'vealways thought that, if I ever got run clean ashore, high and dry, I'dmake a stagger to write it out and do something with it. Do you suppose Icould?"

"I promise to take it for the Sunday edition of the Chronicle Abstract, whenever you get it ready, " said Ricker. 

Bartley laid his hand on his friend's arm. "It's bought up, old fellow. That narrative--'Confessions of an Average American'--belongs to theEvents. "

They had their laugh at this, and then Ricker said to Kinney: "But lookhere, my friend! What's to prevent our interviewing you on this littlepersonal history of yours, and using your material any way we like? Itseems to me that you've put your head in the lion's mouth. "

"Oh, I'm amongst gentlemen, " said Kinney, with an innocent swagger. "Iunderstand that. "

"Well, I don't know about it, " said Ricker. "Hubbard, here, is used to allsorts of hard names; but I've never had that epithet applied to me before. "

Kinney doubled himself up over the side of his chair in recognition ofRicker's joke; and when Bartley rose and asked him if he would come intothe parlor and have a cigar, he said, with a wink, no, he guessed he wouldstay with the ladies. He waited with great mystery till the folding-doorswere closed, and Bartley had stopped peeping through the crevice betweenthem, and then he began to disengage from his watch-chain the goldennugget, shaped to a rude sphere, which hung there. This done, he askedif he might put it on the little necklace--a christening gift from Mrs. Halleck--which the baby had on, to see how it looked. It looked very well, like an old Roman _bolla_, though neither Kinney nor Marcia knew it. "Guesswe'll let it stay there, " he suggested, timidly. 

"Mr. Kinney!" cried Marcia, in amaze, "I can't let you!"

"Oh, _do_ now, ma'am!" pleaded the big fellow, simply. "If you knew howmuch good it does me, you would. Why, it's been like heaven to me to getinto such a home as this for a day, --it has indeed. "

"Like heaven?" said Marcia, turning pale. "Oh, my!"

"Well, I don't mean any harm. What I mean is, I've knocked about the worldso much, and never had any home of my own, that to see folks as happy asyou be makes me happier than I've been since I don't know when. Now, youlet it stay. It was the first piece of gold I picked up in Californy whenI went out there in '50, and it's about the last; I didn't have very goodluck. Well, of course! I know I ain't fit to give it; but I want to do it. I think Bartley's about the greatest fellow and he's the best fellow thisworld can show. That's the way I feel about him. And I want to do it. Sho!the thing wa'n't no use to me!"

Marcia always gave her maid off all work Sunday afternoon, and she wouldnot trespass upon her rule because she had guests that day. Except for theconfusion to which Kinney's unexpected gift had put her, she would havewaited for him to join the others before she began to clear away thedinner; but now she mechanically began, and Kinney, to whom these domesticoccupations were a second nature, joined her in the work, equallyabsent-minded in the fervor of his petition. 

Bartley suddenly flung open the doors. "My dear, Mr. Ricker says he mustbe go--" He discovered Marcia with the dish of potatoes in her hand, andKinney in the act of carrying off the platter of turkey. "Look here, Ricker!"

Kinney came to himself, and, opening his mouth above the platter wideenough to swallow the remains of the turkey, slapped his leg with thehand that he released for the purpose, and shouted, "The ruling passion, Bartley, the ruling passion!"

The men roared; but Marcia, even while she took in the situation, did notsee anything so ridiculous in it as they. She smiled a little in sympathywith their mirth, and then said, with a look and tone which he had not seenor heard in her since the day of their picnic at Equity, "Come, see whatMr. Kinney has given baby, Bartley. "

They sat up talking Kinney over after he was gone; but even at ten o'clockBartley said he should not go to bed; he felt like writing. 

XXIX. 

Bartley lived well now. He felt that he could afford it, on fifty dollars aweek; and yet somehow he had always a sheaf of unpaid bills on hand. Rentwas so much, the butcher so much, the grocer so much; these were the greatoutlays, and he knew just what they were; but the sum total was always muchlarger than he expected. At a pinch, he borrowed; but he did not let Marciaknow of this, for she would have starved herself to pay the debt; what wasworse, she would have wished him to starve with her. He kept the purse, andhe kept the accounts; he was master in his house, and he meant to be so. 

The pinch always seemed to come in the matter of clothes, and then Marciagave up whatever she wanted, and said she must make the old things do. Bartley hated this; in his position he must dress well, and, as there wasnothing mean about him, he wished Marcia to dress well to. Just at thistime he had set his heart on her having a certain sacque which they hadnoticed in a certain window one day when they were on Washington Streettogether. He surprised her a week later by bringing the sacque home to her, and he surprised himself with a seal-skin cap which he had long coveted: itwas coming winter, now, and for half a dozen days of the season he wouldreally need the cap. There would be many days when it would be comfortable, and many others when it would be tolerable, and he looked so handsome in itthat Marcia herself could not quite feel that it was an extravagance. Sheasked him how they could afford both of the things at once, but he answeredwith easy mystery that he had provided the funds; and she went gayly roundwith him to call on the Hallecks that evening and show off her sacque. Itwas so stylish and pretty that it won her a compliment from Ben Halleck, which she noticed because it was the first compliment, or anything likeit, that he had ever paid her. She repeated it to Bartley. "He said that Ilooked like a Hungarian princess that he saw in Vienna. "

"Well, I suppose it has a hussar kind of look with that fur trimming andthat broad braid. Did anybody say anything about my cap?" asked Bartleywith burlesque eagerness. 

"Oh, poor Bartley!" she cried in laughing triumph. "I don't believe any ofthem noticed it; and you kept twirling it round in your hands all the timeto make them look. "

"Yes, I did my level best, " said Bartley. 

They had a jolly time about that. Marcia was proud of her sacque; when shetook it off and held it up by the loop in the neck, so as to realize itsprettiness, she said she should make it last three winters at least; andshe leaned over and gave Bartley a sweet kiss of gratitude and affection, and told him not to try to make up for it by extra work, but to help herscrimp for it. 

"I'd rather do the extra work, " he protested. In fact he already had theextra work done. It was something that he felt he had the right to selloutside of the Events, and he carried his manuscript to Ricker and offeredit to him for his Sunday edition. 

Ricker read the title and ran his eye down the first slip, and then glancedquickly at Hubbard. "You don't mean it?"

"Yes I do, " said Bartley. "Why not?"

"I thought he was going to use the material himself some time. "

Bartley laughed. "He use the material! Why, he can't write, any more than ahen; he can make tracks on paper, but nobody would print 'em, much lessbuy 'em. I know him, he's all right. It wouldn't hurt the material for hispurpose, any way; and he'll be tickled to death when he sees it. If heever does. Look here, Ricker!" added Bartley, with a touch of anger atthe hesitation in his friend's face, "if you're going to spring anyconscientious scruples on me, I prefer to offer my manuscript elsewhere. Igive you the first chance at it; but it needn't go begging. Do you supposeI'd do this if I didn't understand the man, and know just how he'd takeit?"

"Why, of course, Hubbard! I beg your pardon. If you say it's all right, Iam bound to be satisfied. What do you want for it?"

"Fifty dollars. "

"That's a good deal, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. But I can't afford to do a dishonorable thing for less money, "said Bartley, with a wink. 

The next Sunday, when Marcia came home from church, she went into theparlor a moment to speak to Bartley before she ran upstairs to the baby. Hewas writing, and she put her left hand on his back while with her right sheheld her sacque slung over her shoulder by the loop, and leaned forwardwith a wandering eye on the papers that strewed the table. In that attitudehe felt her pause and grow absorbed, and then rigid; her light caresstightened into a grip. "Why, how base! How shameful! That man shall neverenter my doors again! Why, it's stealing!"

"What's the matter? What are you talking about?" Bartley looked up with afrown of preparation. 

"This!" cried Marcia, snatching up the Chronicle-Abstract, at which she hadbeen looking. "Haven't you seen it? Here's Mr. Kinney's life all writtenout! And when he said that he was going to keep it and write it outhimself. That thief has stolen it!"

"Look out how you talk, " said Bartley. "Kinney's an old fool, and he nevercould have written it out in the world--"

"That makes no difference. He said that he told the things because he knewhe was among gentlemen. A great gentleman Mr. Ricker is! And I thought hewas so nice!" The tears sprang to her eyes, which flashed again. "I wantyou to break off with him. Bartley; I don't want you to have anything todo with such a _thief_! And I shall be proud to tell everybody that you'vebroken off with him _because_ he was a thief. Oh, Bartley--"

"Hold your tongue!" shouted her husband. 

"I _won't_ hold my tongue! And if you defend--"

"Don't you say a word against Ricker. It's all right, I tell you. You don'tunderstand such things. You don't know what you're talking about. I--I--Iwrote the thing myself. "

He could face her, but she could not face him. There was a subsidencein her proud attitude, as if her physical strength had snapped with herbreaking spirit. 

"There's no theft about it. " Bartley went on. "Kinney would never write itout, and if he did, I've put the material in better shape for him here thanhe could ever have given it. Six weeks from now nobody will remember a wordof it; and he could tell the same things right over again, and they wouldbe just as good as new. " He went on to argue the point. 

She seemed not to have listened to him. When he stopped, she said, in aquiet, passionless voice, "I suppose you wrote it to get money for thissacque. "

"Yes; I did, " replied Bartley. 

She dropped it on the floor at his feet. "I shall never wear it again, " shesaid in the same tone, and a little sigh escaped her. 

"Use your pleasure about that, " said Bartley, sitting down to his writingagain, as she turned and left the room. 

She went upstairs and came down immediately, with the gold nugget, whichshe had wrenched from the baby's necklace, and laid it on the paper beforehim. "Perhaps you would like to spend it for tivoli beer, " she suggested. "Flavia shall not wear it. "

"I'll get it fitted on to my watch-chain. " Bartley slipped it into hiswaistcoat pocket. 

The sacque still lay on the floor at his feet; he pulled his chair a littleforward and put his feet on it. He feigned to write awhile longer, and thenhe folded up his papers, and went out, leaving Marcia to make her Sundaydinner alone. When he came home late at night, he found the sacque whereshe had dropped it, and with a curse he picked it up and hung it on thehat-rack in the hall. 

He slept in the guest-chamber, and at times during the night the childcried in Marcia's room and waked him; and then he thought he heard a soundof sobbing which was not the child's. In the morning, when he came down tobreakfast, Marcia met him with swollen eyes. 

"Bartley, " she said tremulously, "I wish you would tell me how you feltjustified in writing out Mr. Kinney's life in that way. "

"My dear, " said Bartley, with perfect amiability, for he had slept off hisanger, and he really felt sorry to see her so unhappy, "I would tell youalmost anything you want on any other subject; but I think we had betterremand that one to the safety of silence, and go upon the generalsupposition that I know what I'm about. "

"I can't, Bartley!"

"Can't you? Well, that's a pity. " He pulled his chair to thebreakfast-table. "It seems to me that girl's imagination always fails heron Mondays. Can she never give us anything but hash and corn-bread whenshe's going to wash? However, the coffee's good. I suppose _you_ made it?"

"Bartley!" persisted Marcia, "I want to believe in everything you do, --Iwant to be proud of it--"

"That will be difficult, " suggested Bartley, with an air of thoughtfulimpartiality, "for the wife of a newspaper man. "

"No, no! It needn't be! It mustn't be! If you will only tell me--" Shestopped, as if she feared to repeat her offence. 

Bartley leaned back in his chair and looked at her intense face with asmile. "Tell you that in some way I had Kinney's authority to use hisfacts? Well, I should have done that yesterday if you had let me. In thefirst place, Kinney's the most helpless ass in the world. He could neverhave used his own facts. In the second place, there was hardly anything inhis rigmarole the other day that he hadn't told me down there in the lumbercamp, with full authority to use it in any way I liked; and I don't see howhe could revoke that authority. That's the way I reasoned about it. "

"I see, --I see!" said Marcia, with humble eagerness. 

"Well, that's all there is about it. What I've done can't hurt Kinney. Ifhe ever does want to write his old facts out, he'll be glad to take myreport of them, and--spoil it, " said Bartley, ending with a laugh. 

"And if--if there had been anything wrong about it, " said Marcia, anxiousto justify him to herself, "Mr. Ricker would have told you so when youoffered him the article. "

"I don't think Mr. Ricker would have ventured on any impertinence with me, "said Bartley, with grandeur. But he lapsed into his wonted, easy wayof taking everything. "What are you driving at, Marsh? I don't careparticularly for what happened yesterday. We've had rows enough before, andI dare say we shall have them again. You gave me a bad quarter of an hour, and you gave yourself"--he looked at her tear-stained eyes--"a bad night, apparently. That's all there is about it. "

"Oh, no, that isn't all! It isn't like the other quarrels we've had. When Ithink how I've felt toward you ever since, it _scares_ me. There can't beanything sacred in our marriage unless we trust each other in everything. "

"Well, _I_ haven't done any of the mistrusting, " said Bartley, withhumorous lightness. "But isn't sacred rather a strong word to use in regardto our marriage, anyway?"

"Why--why--what do you mean, Bartley? We were married by a minister. "

"Well, yes, by what was left of one, " said Bartley. "He couldn't seemto shake himself together sufficiently to ask for the proof that we haddeclared our intention to get married. "

Marcia looked mystified. "Don't you remember his saying there was somethingelse, and my suggesting to him that it was the fee?"

Marcia turned white. "Father said the certificate was all right--"

"Oh, he asked to see it, did he? He is a prudent old gentleman. Well, it isall right. "

"And what difference did it make about our not proving that we had declaredour intention?" asked Marcia, as if only partly reassured. 

"No difference to us; and only a difference of sixty dollars fine to him, if it was ever found out. "

"And you let the poor old man run that risk?"

"Well, you see, it couldn't be helped. We hadn't declared our intention, and the lady seemed very anxious to be married. You needn't be troubled. Weare married, right and tight enough; but I don't know that there's anything_sacred_ about it. "

"No, " Marcia wailed out, "its tainted with fraud from the beginning. "

"If you like to say so, " Bartley assented, putting his napkin into itsring. 

Marcia hid her face in her arms on the table; the baby left off drummingwith its spoon, and began to cry. 

Witherby was reading the Sunday edition of the Chronicle-Abstract, whenBartley got down to the Events office; and he cleared his throat witha premonitory cough as his assistant swung easily into the room. "Goodmorning, Mr. Hubbard, " he said. "There is quite an interesting article inyesterday's Chronicle-Abstract. Have you seen it?"

"Yes, " said Bartley. "What article?"

"This Confessions of an Average American. " Witherby held out the paper, where Bartley's article, vividly head-lined and sub-headed, filled half apage. "What is the reason _we_ cannot have something of this kind?"

"Well, I don't know, " Bartley began. 

"Have you any idea who wrote this?"

"Oh, yes, I wrote it. "

Witherby had the task before him of transmuting an expression of rather lowcunning into one of wounded confidence, mingled with high-minded surprise. "I thought it had your ear-marks, Mr. Hubbard: but I preferred not tobelieve it till I heard the fact from your own lips. I supposed that ourcontract covered such contributions as this. "

"I wrote it out of time, and on Sunday night. You pay me by the week, andall that I do throughout the week belongs to you. The next day after thatSunday I did a full day's work on the Events. I don't see what you have tocomplain of. You told me when I began that you would not expect more than acertain amount of work from me. Have I ever done less?"

"No, but--"

"Haven't I always done more?"

"Yes, I have never complained of the amount of work. But upon this theoryof yours, what you did in your summer vacation would not belong to theEvents, or what you did on legal holidays. "

"I never have any summer vacation or holidays, legal or illegal. Even whenI was down at Equity last summer I sent you something for the paper everyday. "

This was true, and Witherby could not gainsay it. "Very well, sir. If thisis to be your interpretation of our understanding for the future, I shallwish to revise our contract, " he said pompously. 

"You can tear it up if you like, " returned Bartley. "I dare say Rickerwould jump at a little study of the true inwardness of counting-roomjournalism. Unless you insist upon having it for the Events. " Bartleygave a chuckle of enjoyment as he sat down at his desk; Witherby rose andstalked away. 

He returned in half an hour and said, with an air of frank concession, touched with personal grief: "Mr. Hubbard, I can see how, from your pointof view, you were perfectly justifiable in selling your article to theChronicle-Abstract. My point of view is different, but I shall not insistupon it; and I wish to withdraw--and--and apologize for--any hastyexpressions I may have used. "

"All right, " said Bartley, with a wicked grin. He had triumphed; but histriumph was one to leave some men with an uneasy feeling, and there was notaltogether a pleasant taste in Bartley's mouth. After that his position inthe Events office was whatever he chose to make it, but he did not abusehis ascendency, and he even made a point of increased deference towardsWitherby. Many courtesies passed between them; each took some trouble toshow the other that he had no ill feeling. 

Three or four weeks later Bartley received a letter with an Illinoispostmark which gave him a disagreeable sensation, at first, for he knew itmust be from Kinney. But the letter was so amusingly characteristic, so helplessly ill-spelled and ill-constructed, that he could not helplaughing. Kinney gave an account of his travels to the mining town, and ofhis present situation and future prospects; he was full of affectionatemessages and inquiries for Bartley's family, and he said he should neverforget that Sunday he had passed with them. In a postscript he added: "Theycopied that String of lies into our paper, here, out of the Chron. -Ab. Itwas pretty well done, but if your friend Mr. Ricker done it, I'me not goento Insult him soon again by calling him a gentleman. "

This laconic reference to the matter in a postscript was delicious toBartley; he seemed to hear Kinney saying the words, and imagined his air ofineffective sarcasm. He carried the letter about with him, and the firsttime he saw Ricker he showed it to him. Ricker read it without appearinggreatly diverted; when he came to the postscript he flushed, and demanded, "What have you done about it?"

"Oh, I haven't done anything. It wasn't necessary. You see, now, whatKinney could have done with his facts if we had left them to him. It wouldhave been a wicked waste of material I thought the sight of some of hisliterature would help you wash up your uncleanly scruples on that point. "

"How long have you had this letter?" pursued Ricker. 

"_I_ don't know. A week or ten days. "

Ricker folded it up and returned it to him. "Mr. Hubbard, " he said, "thenext time we meet, will you do me the favor to cut my acquaintance?"

Bartley stared at him; he thought he must be joking. "Why, Ricker, what'sthe matter? I didn't suppose you'd care anything about old Kinney. Ithought it would amuse you. Why, confound it! I'd just as soon write outand tell him that I did the thing. " He began to be angry. "But I can cutyour acquaintance fast enough, or any man's, if you're really on your ear!"

"I'm on my ear, " said Ricker. He left Bartley standing where they had met. 

It was peculiarly unfortunate, for Bartley had occasion within that weekto ask Ricker's advice, and he was debarred from doing so by this absurddispleasure. Since their recent perfect understanding, Witherby hadslighted no opportunity to cement their friendship, and to attach Bartleymore and more firmly to the Events. He now offered him some of the Eventsstock on extremely advantageous terms, with the avowed purpose of attachinghim to the paper. There seemed nothing covert in this, and Bartley hadnever heard any doubts of the prosperity of the Events, but he would haveespecially liked to have Ricker's mind upon this offer of stock. Witherbyhad urged him not to pay for the whole outright, but to accept a somewhatlower salary, and trust to his dividends to make up the difference. Theshares had paid fifteen per cent the year before, and Bartley could judgefor himself of the present chances from that showing. Witherby advised himto borrow only fifteen hundred dollars on the three thousand of stock whichhe offered him, and to pay up the balance in three years by dropping fivehundred a year from his salary. It was certainly a flattering proposal;and under his breath, where Bartley still did most of his blaspheming, hecursed Ricker for an old fool; and resolved to close with Witherby on hisown responsibility. After he had done so he told Marcia of the step he hadtaken. 

Since their last quarrel there had been an alienation in her behaviortoward him, different from any former resentment. She was submissive andquiescent; she looked carefully after his comfort, and was perfect inher housekeeping; but she held aloof from him somehow, and left him to asolitude in her presence in which he fancied, if he did not divine, hercontempt. But in this matter of common interest, something of theircommunity of feeling revived; they met on a lower level, but they met, forthe moment, and Marcia joined eagerly in the discussion of ways and means. 

The notion of dropping five hundred from his salary delighted her, becausethey must now cut down their expenses as much; and she had long grievedover their expenses without being able to make Bartley agree to theirreduction. She went upstairs at once and gave the little nurse-maid aweek's warning; she told the maid of all work that she must take threedollars a week hereafter instead of four, or else find another place; shementally forewent new spring dresses for herself and the baby, and arrangedto do herself all of the wash she had been putting out; she put a note inthe mouth of the can at the back door, telling the milkman to leave onlytwo quarts in future; and she came radiantly back to tell Bartley that shehad saved half of the lost five hundred a year already. But her countenancefell. "Why, where are you to get the other fifteen hundred dollars, Bartley?"

"Oh, I Ve thought of that, " said Bartley, laughing at her swiftalternations of triumph and despair. "You trust to me for that. "

"You're not--not going to ask father for it?" she faltered. 

"Not very much, " said Bartley, as he took his hat to go out. 

He meant to make a raise out of Ben Halleck, as he phrased it to himself. He knew that Halleck had plenty of money; he could make the stock itselfover to him as security; he did not see why Halleck should hesitate. Butwhen he entered Halleck's room, having asked Cyrus to show him directlythere, Halleck gave a start which seemed ominous to Bartley. He hadscarcely the heart to open his business, and Halleck listened with changingcolor, and something only too like the embarrassment of a man who intends arefusal. He would not look Bartley in the face, and when Bartley had madean end he sat for a time without speaking. At last he said with a quicksigh, as if at the close of an internal conflict, "I will lend you themoney!"

Bartley's heart gave a bound, and he broke out into an immense laugh ofrelief, and clapped Halleck on the shoulder. "You looked deucedly as it'you _wouldn't_, old man! By George, you had on such a dismal, hang-dogexpression that I didn't know but _you'd_ come to borrow money of _me_, andI'd made up my mind not to let you have it! But I'm everlastingly obligedto you, Halleck, and I promise you that you won't regret it. "

"I shall have to speak to my father about this, " said Halleck, respondingcoldly to Bartley's robust pressure of his hand. 

"Of course, --of course. "

"How soon shall you want the money?"

"Well, the sooner the better, now. Bring the check round--can'tyou?--to-morrow night, --and take dinner with us, you and Olive; and we'llcelebrate a little. I know it will please Marcia when she finds out who myhard-hearted creditor is!"

"Well, " assented Halleck with a smile so ghastly that Bartley noticed iteven in his joy. 

"Curse me, " he said to himself, "if ever I saw a man so ashamed of doing agood action!"

XXX. 

The Presidential canvas of the summer--which, followed upon these events inBartley's career was not very active. Sometimes, in fact, it languished somuch that people almost forgot it, and a good field was afforded the Eventsfor the practice of independent journalism. To hold a course of strictimpartiality, and yet come out on the winning side was a theory ofindependent journalism which Bartley illustrated with cynical enjoyment. Hedeveloped into something rather artistic the gift which he had always shownin his newspaper work for ironical persiflage. Witherby was not a man tofeel this burlesque himself; but when it was pointed out to him by others, he came to Bartley in some alarm from its effect upon the fortunes of thepaper. "We can't afford, Mr. Hubbard, " he said, with virtuous trepidation, "we can't _afford_ to make fun of our friends!"

Bartley laughed at Witherby's anxiety. "They're no more our friends thanthe other fellows are. We are independent journalists; and this way oftreating the thing leaves us perfectly free hereafter to claim, just as wechoose, that we were in fun or in earnest on any particular question ifwe're ever attacked. See?"

"I see, " said Witherby, with not wholly subdued misgiving. But after duetime for conviction no man enjoyed Bartley's irony more than Witherby whenonce he had mastered an instance of it. Sometimes it happened that Bartleyfound him chuckling over a perfectly serious paragraph, but he did not mindthat; he enjoyed Witherby's mistake even more than his appreciation. 

In these days Bartley was in almost uninterrupted good humor, as he hadalways expected to be when he became fairly prosperous. He was at no timean unamiable fellow, as he saw it; he had his sulks, he had his moments ofanger; but generally he felt good, and he had always believed, and he hadpromised Marcia, that when he got squarely on his legs he should feel goodperpetually. This sensation he now agreeably realized; and he was also nowin that position in which he had proposed to himself some little moralreforms. He was not much in the habit of taking stock; but no man whollyescapes the contingencies in which he is confronted with himself, and seescertain habits, traits, tendencies, which he would like to change for thesake of his peace of mind hereafter. To some souls these contingencies arefull of anguish, of remorse for the past, of despair; but Bartley had neveryet seen the time when he did not feel himself perfectly able to turn overa new leaf and blot the old one. There were not many things in his lifewhich he really cared to have very different; but there were two or threeshady little corners which he always intended to clean up. He had meantsome time or other to have a religious belief of some sort, he did not muchcare what; since Marcia had taken to the Hallecks' church, he did not seewhy he should not go with her, though he had never yet done so. He was notquite sure whether he was always as candid with her as he might be, or askind; though he maintained against this question that in all their quarrelsit was six of one and half a dozen of the other. He had never been tipsybut once in his life, and he considered that he had repented and atoned forthat enough, especially as nothing had ever come of it; but sometimes hethought he might be over-doing the beer; yes, he thought he must cut downon the tivoli; he was getting ridiculously fat. If ever he met Kinney againhe should tell him that it was he and not Ricker who had appropriated hisfacts and he intended to make it up with Ricker somehow. 

He had not found just the opportunity yet; but in the mean time he did notmind telling the real cause of their alienation to good fellows whocould enjoy a joke. He had his following, though so many of his brotherjournalists had cooled toward him, and those of his following consideredhim as smart as chain-lightning and bound to rise. These young men and notvery wise elders roared over Bartley's frank declaration of the situationBetween himself and Ricker, and they contended that, if Ricker had takenthe article for the Chronicle-Abstract, he ought to take the consequences. Bartley told them that, of course, he should explain the facts to Kinney;but that he meant to let Ricker enjoy his virtuous indignation awhile. Once, after a confidence of this kind at the club, where Ricker had refusedto speak to him, he came away with a curious sense of moral decay. It didnot pain him a great deal, but it certainly surprised him that now, withall these prosperous conditions, so favorable for cleaning up, he had solittle disposition to clean up. He found himself quite willing to letthe affair with Ricker go, and he suspected that he had been needlesslyvirtuous in his intentions concerning church-going and beer. As to Marcia, it appeared to him that he could not treat a woman of her dispositionotherwise than as he did. At any rate, if he had not done everything hecould to make her happy, she seemed to be getting along well enough, andwas probably quite as happy as she deserved to be. They were getting onvery quietly now; there had been no violent outbreak between them since thetrouble about Kinney, and then she had practically confessed herself inthe wrong, as Bartley looked at it. She had appeared contented with hisexplanation; there was what might be called a perfect business amitybetween them. If her life with him was no longer an expression of thatintense devotion which she used to show him, it was more like what marriedlife generally comes to, and he accepted her tractability and what seemedher common-sense view of their relations as greatly preferable. With hisgrowth in flesh, Bartley liked peace more and more. 

Marcia had consented to go down to Equity alone, that summer, for he hadconvinced her that during a heated political contest it would not do forhim to be away from the paper. He promised to go down for her when shewished to come home; and it was easily arranged for her to travel as far asthe Junction under Halleck's escort, when he went to join his sisters inthe White Mountains. Bartley missed her and the baby at first. But hesoon began to adjust himself with resignation to his solitude. They haddetermined to keep their maid over this summer, for they had so muchtrouble in replacing her the last time after their return; and Bartley saidhe should live very economically. It was quiet, and the woman kept thehouse cool and clean; she was a good cook, and when Bartley brought a manhome to dinner she took an interest in serving it well. Bartley let herorder the things from the grocer and butcher, for she knew what they wereused to getting, and he had heard so much talk from Marcia about billssince he bought that Events stock that he was sick of the prices of things. There was no extravagance, and vet he seemed to live very much better afterMarcia went. There is no doubt but he lived very much more at his ease. Onelittle restriction after another fell away from him; he went and came withabsolute freedom, not only without having to account for his movements, butwithout having a pang for not doing so. He had the sensation of stretchinghimself after a cramping posture; and he wrote Marcia the cheerfulestletters, charging her not to cut short her visit from anxiety on hisaccount. He said that he was working hard, but hard work evidently agreedwith him, for he was never better in his life. In this high content hemaintained a feeling of loyalty by going to the Hallecks, where Mrs. Halleck often had him to tea in pity of his loneliness. They were dullcompany, certainly; but Marcia liked them, and the cooking was always good. Other evenings he went to the theatres, where there were amusing varietybills; and sometimes he passed the night at Nantasket, or took a run fora day to Newport; he always reported these excursions to Marcia, withexpressions of regret that Equity was too far away to run down to for aday. 

Marcia's letters were longer and more regular than his; but he could haveforgiven some want of constancy for the sake of a less searching anxiety onher part. She was anxious not only for his welfare, which was natural andproper, but she was anxious about the housekeeping and the expenses, thingsBartley could not afford to let trouble him, though he did what he could ina general way to quiet her mind. She wrote fully of the visit which OliveHalleck had paid her, but said that they had not gone about much, for BenHalleck had only been able to come for a day. She was very well, and so wasFlavia. 

Bartley realized Flavia's existence with an effort, and for the rest thisletter bored him. What could he care about Olive Halleck's coming, or BenHalleck's staying away? All that he asked of Ben Halleck was a littleextension of time when his interest fell due. The whole thing wasdisagreeable; and he resented what he considered Marcia's endeavor to clapthe domestic harness on him again. His thoughts wandered to conditions, tocontingencies, of which a man does not permit himself even to think withouta degree of moral disintegration. In these ill-advised reveries he musedupon his life as it might have been if he had never met her, or if they hadnever met after her dismissal of him. As he recalled the facts, he was atthat time in an angry and embittered mood, but he was in a mood of entireacquiescence; and the reconciliation had been of her own seeking. He couldnot blame her for it; she was very much in love with him, and he had beenfond of her. In fact, he was still very fond of her; when he thought oflittle ways of hers, it filled him with tenderness. He did justice to herfine qualities, too: her generosity, her truthfulness, her entire loyaltyto his best interests; he smiled to realize that he himself preferred hissecond-best interests, and in her absence he remembered that her virtueswere tedious, and even painful at times. He had his doubts whether therewas sufficient compensation in them. He sometimes questioned whether hehad not made a great mistake to get married; he expected now to stick itthrough; but this doubt occurred to him. A moment came in which he askedhimself, What if he had never come back to Marcia that night when shelocked him out of her room? Might it not have been better for both of them?She would soon have reconciled herself to the irreparable; he even thoughtof her happy in a second marriage; and the thought did not enrage him; hegenerously wished Marcia well. He wished--he hardly knew what he wished. Hewished nothing at all but to have his wife and child back again as soon aspossible; and he put aside with a laugh the fancies which really foundno such distinct formulation as I have given them; which were mere vagueimpulses, arrested mental tendencies, scraps of undirected revery. Theirrecurrence had nothing to do with what he felt to be his sane and wakingstate. But they recurred, and he even amused himself in turning them over. 

XXXI. 

One morning in September, not long before Marcia returned, Bartley foundWitherby at the office waiting for him. Witherby wore a pensive face, whichhad the effect of being studied. "Good morning, Mr. Hubbard, " he said, andwhen Bartley answered, "Good morning, " cheerfully ignoring his mood, headded, "What is this I hear, Mr. Hubbard, about a personal misunderstandingbetween you and Mr. Ricker?"

"I'm sure I don't know, " said Bartley; "but I suppose that if you haveheard anything _you_ know. "

"I have heard, " proceeded Witherby, a little dashed by Bartley's coolness, "that Mr. Ricker accuses you of having used material in that article yousold him which had been intrusted to you under the seal of confidence, andthat you had left it to be inferred by the party concerned--that Mr. Rickerhad written the article himself. "

"All right, " said Bartley. 

"But, Mr. Hubbard, " said Witherby, struggling to rise into virtuoussupremacy, "what am I to think of such a report?"

"I can't say; unless you should think that it wasn't your affair. Thatwould be the easiest thing. "

"But I _can't_ think that, Mr. Hubbard! Such a report reflects through youupon the Events; it reflects upon _me_!" Bartley laughed. "I can't approveof such a thing. If you admit the report, it appears to me that youhave--a--done a--a--wrong action, Mr. Hubbard. "

Bartley turned upon him with a curious look; at the same time he felt apang, and there was a touch of real anguish in the sarcasm of his demand, "Have I fallen so low as to be rebuked by _you_?"

"I--I don't know what you mean by such an expression as that, Mr. Hubbard, "said Witherby. "I don't know what I've done to forfeit your esteem, --tojustify you in using such language to me. "

"I don't suppose you really do, " said Bartley. "Go on. "

"I have nothing more to say, Mr. Hubbard, except--except to add that thishas given me a great blow, --a _great_ blow. I had begun to have my doubtsbefore as to whether we were quite adapted to each other, and thishas--increased them. I pass no judgment upon what you have done, but Iwill say that it has made me anxious and--a--unrestful. It has made me askmyself whether upon the whole we should not be happier apart. I don't saythat we should; but I only feel that nine out of ten business men wouldconsider you, in the position you occupy on the Events, --a--a--dangerousperson. "

Bartley got up from his desk, and walked toward Witherby, with his hands inhis pockets; he halted a few paces from him, and looked down on him with asinister smile. "I don't think they'd consider you a dangerous person inany position. "

"May be not, may be not, " said Witherby, striving to be easy and dignified. In the effort he took up an open paper from the desk before him, and, lifting it between Bartley and himself, feigned to be reading it. 

Bartley struck it out of his trembling hands. "You impudent old scoundrel!Do you pretend to be reading when I speak to you? For half a cent--"

Witherby, slipping and sliding in his swivel chair, contrived to get to hisfeet "No violence, Mr. Hubbard, no violence _here_!"

"Violence!" laughed Bartley. "I should have to _touch_ you! Come! Don't beafraid! But don't you put on airs of any sort! I understand your game. You want, for some reason, to get rid of me, and you have seized theopportunity with a sharpness that does credit to your cunning. I don'tcondescend to deny this report, "--speaking in this lofty strain, Bartleyhad a momentary sensation of its being a despicable slander, --"but I seethat as far as you are concerned it answers all the purposes of truth. Youthink that with the chance of having this thing exploited against me Iwon't expose your nefarious practices, and you can get rid of me moresafely now than ever you could again. Well, you're right. I dare say youheard of this report a good while ago, and you've waited till you couldfill my place without inconvenience to yourself. So I can go at once. Drawyour check for all you owe me, and pay me back the money I put into yourstock, and I'll clear out at once. " He went about putting together a fewpersonal effects on his desk. 

"I must protest against any allusion to nefarious practices, Mr. Hubbard, "said Witherby, "and I wish you to understand that I part from you withoutthe slightest ill-feeling. I shall always have a high regard for yourability, and--and--your social qualities. " While he made these expressionshe hastened to write two checks. 

Bartley, who had paid no attention to what Witherby was saying, came up andtook the checks. "This is all right, " he said of one. But looking at theother, he added, "Fifteen hundred dollars? Where is the dividend?"

"That is not due till the end of the month, " said Witherby. "If youwithdraw your money now, you lose it. "

Bartley looked at the face to which Witherby did his best to give a highjudicial expression. "You old thief!" he said good-humoredly, almostaffectionately. "I _have_ a mind to tweak your nose!" But he went out ofthe room without saying or doing anything more. He wondered a little at hisown amiability; but with the decay of whatever was right-principled in him, he was aware of growing more and more incapable of indignation. Now, hisflash of rage over, he was not at all discontented. With these checks inhis pocket, with his youth, his health, and his practised hand, he couldhave faced the world, with a light heart, if he had not also had to facehis wife. But when he thought of the inconvenience of explaining to her, ofpacifying her anxiety, of clearing up her doubts on a thousand points, andof getting her simply to eat or sleep till he found something else to do, it dismayed him. "Good Lord!" he said to himself, "I wish I was dead--orsome one. " That conclusion made him smile again. 

He decided not to write to Marcia of the change in his affairs, but to takethe chance of finding something better before she returned. There was verylittle time for him to turn round, and he was still without a place or anyprospect when she came home. It had sufficed with his acquaintance when hesaid that he had left the Events because he could not get on with Witherby;but he was very much astonished when it seemed to suffice with her. 

"Oh, well, " she said, "I am glad of it. You will do better by yourself; andI know you can earn just as much by writing on the different papers. "

Bartley knew better than this, but he said, "Yes, I shall not be in a hurryto take another engagement just yet. But, Marsh, " he added, "I was afraidyou would blame me, --think I had been reckless, or at fault--"

"No, " she answered after a little pause, "I shall not do that any more. Ihave been thinking all these things over, while I was away from you, andI'm going to do differently, after this. I shall believe that you've actedfor the best, --that you've not meant to do wrong in anything, --and I shallnever question you or doubt you any more. "

"Isn't that giving me rather too _much_ rope?" asked Bartley, withlightness that masked a vague alarm lest the old times of exaction shouldbe coming back with the old times of devotion. 

"No; I see where my mistake has always been. I've always asked too much, and expected too much, even when I didn't ask it. Now, I shall be satisfiedwith what you don't do, as well as what you do. "

"I shall try to live up to my privileges, " said Bartley, with a sigh ofrelief. He gave her a kiss, and then he unclasped Kinney's nugget from hiswatch-chain, and fastened it on the baby's necklace, which lay in a boxMarcia had just taken from her trunk. She did not speak; but Bartley feltbetter to have the thing off him; Marcia's gentleness, the tinge of sadnessin her tone, made him long to confess himself wrong in the whole matter, and justly punished by Ricker's contempt and Witherby's dismissal. But hedid not believe that he could trust her to forgive him, and he felt himselfunable to go through all that without the certainty of her forgiveness. 

As she took the things out of her trunk, and laid them away in this drawerand that, she spoke of events in the village, and told who was dead, whowas married, and who had gone away. "I stayed longer than I expected, alittle, because father seemed to want me to. I don't think mother's so wellas she used to be, I--I'm afraid she seems to be failing, somehow. "

Her voice dropped to a lower key, and Bartley said, "I'm sorry to hearthat. I guess she isn't failing. But of course she's getting on, and everyyear makes a difference. "

"Yes, that must be it, " she answered, looking at a bundle of collars shehad in her hand, as if absorbed in the question as to where she should putthem. 

Before they slept that night she asked, "Bartley, did you hear about HannahMorrison?"

"No. What about her?"

"She's gone--gone away. The last time she was seen was in Portland. They don't know what's become of her. They say that Henry Bird is aboutheart-broken; but everybody knows she never cared for him. I hated to writeto you about it. "

Bartley experienced so disagreeable a sensation that he was silent for atime. Then he gave a short, bitter laugh. "Well, that's what it was boundto come to, sooner or later, I suppose. It's a piece of good luck forBird. "

Bartley went about picking up work from one paper and another, but notsecuring a basis on any. In that curious and unwholesome leniency whichcorrupt natures manifest, he and Witherby met at their next encounter onquite amicable terms. Bartley reported some meetings for the Events, andexperienced no resentment when Witherby at the office introduced him to thegentleman with whom he had replaced him. Of course Bartley expected thatWitherby would insinuate things to his disadvantage, but he did not mindthat. He heard of something of the sort being done in Ricker's presence, and of Ricker's saying that in any question of honor and veracity betweenWitherby and Hubbard he should decide for Hubbard. Bartley was not verygrateful for this generous defence; he thought that if Ricker had not beensuch an ass in the first place there would have been no trouble betweenthem, and Witherby would not have had that handle against him. 

He was enjoying himself very well, and he felt entitled to the comparativerest which had not been of his seeking. He wished that Halleck would comeback, for he would like to ask his leave to put that money into some otherenterprise. His credit was good, and he had not touched the money to payany of his accumulated bills; he would have considered it dishonorable todo so. But it annoyed him to have the money lying idle. In his leisure hestudied the stock market, and he believed that he had several points whichwere infallible. He put a few hundreds--two or three--of Halleck's moneyinto a mining stock which was so low that it _must_ rise. In the mean timehe tried a new kind of beer, --Norwegian beer, which he found a littlelighter even than tivoli. It was more expensive, but it was _very_ light, and it was essential to Bartley to drink the lightest beer he could find. 

He stayed a good deal at home, now, for he had leisure, and it was a muchmore comfortable place since Marcia had ceased to question or reproachhim. She did not interfere with some bachelor habits he had formed, inher absence, of sleeping far into the forenoon; he now occasionally didnight-work on some of the morning papers, and the rest was necessary; hehad his breakfast whenever he got up, as if he had been at a hotel. Hewondered upon what new theory she was really treating him; but he hadalways been apt to accept what was comfortable in life without muchquestion, and he did not wonder long. He was immensely good-natured now. In his frequent leisure he went out to walk with Marcia and Flavia, andsometimes he took the little girl alone. He even went to church with themone Sunday, and called at the Hallecks as often as Marcia liked. The youngladies had returned, but Ben Halleck was still away. It made Bartley smileto hear his wife talking of Halleck with his mother and sisters, andfalling quite into the family way of regarding him as if he were somehow asaint and martyr. 

Bartley was still dabbling in stocks with Halleck's money; some of it hadlately gone to pay an assessment which had unexpectedly occurred in placeof a dividend. He told Marcia that he was holding the money ready to returnto Halleck when he came back, or to put it into some other enterprise whereit would help to secure Bartley a new basis. They were now together morethan they had been since the first days of their married life in Boston;but the perfect intimacy of those days was gone; he had his reserves, andshe her preoccupations, --with the house, with the little girl, with heranxiety about her mother. Sometimes they sat a whole evening together, withalmost nothing to say to each other, he reading and she sewing. After anevening of this sort, Bartley felt himself worse bored than if Marcia hadspent it in taking him to task as she used to do. Once he looked at herover the top of his paper, and distinctly experienced that he was tired ofthe whole thing. 

But the political canvass was growing more interesting now. It was almostthe end of October, and the speech-making had become very lively. TheDemocrats were hopeful and the Republicans resolute, and both parties wereactive in getting out their whole strength, as the saying is, at suchtimes. This was done not only by speech-making, but by long nocturnalprocessions of torch-lights; by day, as well as by night, drums throbbedand horns brayed, and the feverish excitement spread its contagion throughthe whole population. But it did not affect Bartley. He had cared nothingabout the canvass from the beginning, having an equal contempt forthe bloody shirt of the Republicans and the reform pretensions of theDemocrats. The only thing that he took an interest in was the betting; helaid his wagers with so much apparent science and sagacity that he hada certain following of young men who bet as Hubbard did. Hubbard, theybelieved, had a long head; he disdained bets of hats, and of barrels ofapples, and ordeals by wheelbarrow; he would bet only with people who couldput up their money, and his followers honored him for it; when asked wherehe got his money, being out of place, and no longer instant to do work thatfell in his way, they answered from a ready faith that he had made a goodthing in mining stocks. 

In her heart, Marcia probably did not share this faith. But she faithfullyforbore to harass Bartley with her doubts, and on those evenings when hefound her such dull company she was silent because if she spoke she mustexpress the trouble in her mind. Women are more apt to theorize theirhusbands than men in their stupid self-absorption ever realize. When a manis married, his wife almost ceases to be exterior to his consciousness; sheafflicts or consoles him like a condition of health or sickness; sheis literally part of him in a spiritual sense, even when he is ratherindifferent to her; but the most devoted wife has always a corner ofher soul in which she thinks of her husband as _him_; in which shephilosophizes him wholly aloof from herself. In such an obscure fastnessof her being, Marcia had meditated a great deal upon Bartley during herabsence at Equity, --meditated painfully, and in her sort prayerfully, uponhim. She perceived that he was not her young dream of him; and since itappeared to her that she could not forego that dream and live, she couldbut accuse herself of having somehow had a perverse influence upon him. Sheknew that she had never reproached him except for his good, but she saw toothat she had always made him worse, and not better. She recurred to what hesaid the first night they arrived in Boston: "I believe that, if you havefaith in me, I shall get along; and when you don't, I shall go to the bad. "She could reason to no other effect, than that hereafter, no matter whathappened, she must show perfect faith in him by perfect patience. It washard, far harder than she had thought. But she did forbear; she did usepatience. 

The election day came and went. Bartley remained out till the news ofTilden's success could no longer be doubted, and then came home jubilant. Marcia seemed not to understand. "I didn't know you cared so much forTilden, " she said, quietly. "Mr. Halleck is for Hayes; and Ben Halleck wascoming home to vote. "

"That's all right: a vote in Massachusetts makes no difference. I'm forTilden, because I have the most money up on him. The success of thatnoble old reformer is worth seven hundred dollars to me in bets. " Bartleylaughed, rubbed her cheeks with his chilly hands, and went down intothe cellar for some beer. He could not have slept without that, in hisexcitement; but he was out very early the next morning, and in the raw dampof the rainy November day he received a more penetrating chill when he sawthe bulletins at the newspaper offices intimating that a fair count mightgive the Republicans enough Southern States to elect Hayes. This appearedto Bartley the most impudent piece of political effrontery in the wholehistory of the country, and among those who went about denouncingRepublican chicanery at the Democratic club-rooms, no one took a loftiertone of moral indignation than he. The thought that he might lose so muchof Halleck's money through the machinations of a parcel of carpet-baggingtricksters filled him with a virtue at which he afterwards smiled when hefound that people were declaring their bets off. "I laid a wager on thepopular result, not on the decision of the Returning Boards, " he said inreclaiming his money from the referees. He had some difficulty in gettingit back, but he had got it when he walked homeward at night, after havingbeen out all day; and there now ensued in his soul a struggle as to what heshould do with this money. He had it all except the three hundred he hadventured on the mining stock, which would eventually he worth everything hehad paid for it. After his frightful escape from losing half of it onthose bets, he had an intense longing to be rid of it, to give it backto Halleck, who never would ask him for it, and then to go home and tellMarcia everything, and throw himself on her mercy. Better poverty, betterdisgrace before Halleck and her, better her condemnation, than this lifeof temptation that he had been leading. He saw how hideous it was in theretrospect, and he shuddered; his good instincts awoke, and put forth theirstrength, such as it was; tears came into his eyes; he resolved to write toKinney and exonerate Ricker, he resolved humbly to beg Ricker's pardon. Hemust leave Boston; but if Marcia would forgive him, he would go back withher to Equity, and take up the study of the law in her father's officeagain, and fulfil all her wishes. He would have a hard time to overcome theold man's prejudices, but he deserved a hard time, and he knew he shouldfinally succeed. It would be bitter, returning to that stupid little town, and he imagined the intrusive conjecture and sarcastic comment that wouldattend his return; but he believed that he could live this down, and hetrusted himself to laugh it down. He already saw himself there, settled inthe Squire's office, reinstated in public opinion, a leading lawyer of theplace, with Congress open before him whenever he chose to turn his facethat way. 

He had thought of going first to Halleck, and returning the money, but hewas willing to give himself the encouragement of Marcia's pleasure, of herforgiveness and her praise in an affair that had its difficulties andwould require all his manfulness. The maid met him at the door with littleFlavia, and told him that Marcia had gone out to the Hallecks', but hadleft word that she would soon return, and that then they would have suppertogether. Her absence dashed his warm impulse, but he recovered himself, and took the little one from the maid. He lighted the gas in the parlor, and had a frolic with Flavia in kindling a fire in the grate, and makingthe room bright and cheerful. He played with the child and made her laugh;he already felt the pleasure of a good conscience, though with a faintnether ache in his heart which was perhaps only his wish to have thedisagreeable preliminaries to his better life over as soon as possible. Hedrew two easy-chairs up at opposite corners of the hearth, and sat down inone, leaving the other for Marcia; he had Flavia standing on his knees, andclinging fast to his fingers, laughing and crowing while he danced her upand down, when he heard the front door open, and Marcia burst into theroom. 

She ran to him and plucked the child from him, and then went back as far asshe could from him in the room, crying, "Give _me_ the child!" and facinghim with the look he knew. Her eyes were dilated, and her visage white withthe transport that had whirled her far beyond the reach of reason. Thefrail structure of his good resolutions dropped to ruin at the sight, buthe mechanically rose and advanced upon her till she forbade him with amuffled shriek of "Don't _touch_ me! So!" she went on, gasping and catchingher breath, "it was _you_! I might have known it! I might have guessed itfrom the first! _You_! Was _that_ the reason why you didn't care to have mehurry home this summer? Was that--was that--" She choked, and convulsivelypressed her face into the neck of the child, which began to cry. 

Bartley closed the doors, and then, with his hands in his pockets, confronted her with a smile of wicked coolness. "Will you be good enough totell me what you're talking about?"

"Do you pretend that you don't know? I met a woman at the bottom of thestreet just now. Do you know who?"

"No; but it's very dramatic. Go on!"

"It was Hannah Morrison! She reeled against me; and when I--such a fool asI was!--pitied her, because I was on my way home to you, and was thinkingabout you and loving you, and was so happy in it, and asked her how shecame to that, she _struck_ me, and told me to--to--ask my--husband!"

The transport broke in tears; the denunciation had turned to entreaty ineverything but words; but Bartley had hardened his heart now past allentreaty. The idiotic penitent that he had been a few moments ago, thesoft, well-meaning dolt, was so far from him now as to be scarce within thereach of his contempt. He was going to have this thing over once for all;he would have no mercy upon himself or upon her; the Devil was in him, anduppermost in him, and the Devil is fierce and proud, and knows how to makemany base emotions feel like a just self-respect. "And did you believe awoman like that?" he sneered. 

"Do I believe a man like this?" she demanded, with a dying flash of herfury. "You--you don't dare to deny it. "

"Oh, no, I don't deny it. For one reason, it would be of no use. For allpractical purposes, I admit it. What then?"

"What then?" she asked, bewildered. "Bartley; You don't mean it!"

"Yes, I do. I mean it. I _don't_ deny it. What then? What are you going todo about it?" She gazed at him in incredulous horror. "Come! I mean what Isay. What will you do?"

"Oh, merciful God! what shall I do?" she prayed aloud. 

"That's just what I'm curious to know. When you leaped in here, just now, you must have meant to do something, if I couldn't convince you that thewoman was lying. Well, you see that I don't try. I give you leave tobelieve whatever she said. What then?"

"Bartley!" she besought him in her despair. "Do you drive me from you?"

"Oh, no, certainly not. That isn't my way. You have driven me from you, andI might claim the right to retaliate, but I don't. I've no expectation thatyou'll go away, and I want to see what else you'll do. You would have me, before we were married; you were tolerably shameless in getting me; whenyour jealous temper made you throw me away, you couldn't live till you gotme back again; you ran after me. Well, I suppose you've learnt wisdom, now. At least you won't try _that_ game again. But what _will_ you do?" Helooked at her smiling, while he dealt her these stabs one by one. 

She set down the child, and went out to the entry where its hat and cloakhung. She had not taken off her own things, and now she began to put on thelittle one's garments with shaking hands, kneeling before it. "I will neverlive with you again, Bartley, " she said. 

"Very well. I doubt it, as far as you're concerned; but if you go away now, you certainly _won't_ live with me again, for I shall not let you comeback. Understand that. "

Each had most need of the other's mercy, but neither would have mercy. 

"It isn't for what you won't deny. I don't believe that. It's for whatyou've said now. " She could not make the buttons and the button-holes ofthe child's sack meet with her quivering fingers; he actually stooped downand buttoned the little garment for her, as if they had been going to takethe child out for a walk between them. She caught it up in her arms, and, sobbing "Good by, Bartley!" ran out of the room. 

"Recollect that if you go, you don't come back, " he said. The outer doorcrashing to behind her was his answer. 

He sat down to think, before the fire he had built for her. It was blazingbrightly now, and the whole room had a hideous cosiness. He could notthink, he must act. He went up to their room, where the gas was burninglow, as if she had lighted it and then frugally turned it down as her wontwas. He did not know what his purpose was, but it developed itself. Hebegan to pack his things in a travelling-bag which he took out of thecloset, and which he had bought for her when she set out for Equity in thesummer; it had the perfume of her dresses yet. 

When this was finished, he went down stairs again and being now strangelyhungry he made a meal of such things as he found set out on the tea-table. Then he went over the papers in his secretary; he burnt some of them, andput others into his bag. 

After all this was done he sat down by the fire again, and gave Marcia aquarter of an hour longer in which to return. He did not know whether hewas afraid that she would or would not come. But when the time ended, hetook up his bag and went out of the house. It began to rain, and he wentback for an umbrella: he gave her that one chance more, and he ran up intotheir room. But she had not come back. He went out again, and hurried awaythrough the rain to the Albany Depot, where he bought a ticket for Chicago. There was as yet nothing definite in his purpose, beyond the fact that hewas to be rid of her: whether for a long or short time, or forever, he didnot yet know; whether he meant ever to communicate with her, or seek orsuffer a reconciliation, the locomotive that leaped westward into the darkwith him knew as well as he. 

Yet all the mute, obscure forces of habit, which are doubtless thestrongest forces in human nature, were dragging him back to her. Becausetheir lives had been united so long, it seemed impossible to sever them, though their union had been so full of misery and discord; the custom ofmarriage was so subtile and so pervasive, that his heart demanded hersympathy for what he was suffering in abandoning her. The solitude intowhich he had plunged stretched before him so vast, so sterile and hopeless, that he had not the courage to realize it; he insensibly began to give itlimits: he would return after so many months, weeks, days. 

He passed twenty-four hours on the train, and left it at Cleveland for thehalf-hour it stopped for supper. But he could not eat; he had to own tohimself that he was beaten, and that he must return, or throw himself intothe lake. He ran hastily to the baggage-car, and effected the removal ofhis bag; then he went to the ticket-office, and waited at the end of a longqueue for his turn at the window. His turn came at last, and he confrontedthe nervous and impatient ticket-agent, without speaking. 

"Well, sir, what do you want?" demanded the agent. Then, with risingtemper, "What is it? Are you deaf? Are you dumb? You can't expect to standthere all night!"

The policeman outside the rail laid his hand on Bartley's shoulder: "Moveon, my friend. "

He obeyed, and reeled away in a fashion that confirmed the policeman'ssuspicions. He searched his pockets again and again; but his porte-monnaiewas in none of them. It had been stolen, and Halleck's money with the rest. Now he could not return; nothing remained for him but the ruin he hadchosen. 

XXXII. 

Halleck prolonged his summer vacation beyond the end of October. He hadbeen in town from time to time and then had set off again on some newabsence; he was so restless and so far from well during the last of theseflying visits, that the old people were glad when he wrote them thathe should stay as long as the fine weather continued. He spoke of aninteresting man whom he had met at the mountain resort where he wasstaying; a Spanish-American, attached to one of the Legations atWashington, who had a scheme for Americanizing popular education in his owncountry. "He has made a regular set at me, " Halleck wrote, "and if I hadnot fooled away so much time already on law and on leather, I should liketo fool away a little more on such a cause as this. " He did not mention thematter again in his letters; but the first night after his return, whenthey all sat together in the comfort of having him at home again, he askedhis father, "What should you think of my going to South America?"

The old man started up from the pleasant after-supper drowse into which hewas suffering himself to fall, content with Halleck's presence, and willingto leave the talk to the women folk. "I don't know what you mean, Ben?"

"I suppose it's my having the matter so much in mind that makes me feel asif we had talked it over. I mentioned it in one of my letters. "

"Yes, " returned his father; "but I presumed you were joking. "

Halleck frowned impatiently; he would not meet the gaze of his mother andsisters, but he addressed himself again to his father. "I don't know that Iwas in earnest. " His mother dropped her eyes to her mending, with a faintsigh of relief. "But I can't say, " he added, "that I was joking, exactly. The man himself was very serious about it. " He stopped, apparently togovern an irritable impulse, and then he went on to set the project of hisSpanish-American acquaintance before them, explaining it in detail. 

At the end, "That's good, " said his father, "but why need _you_ have gone, Ben?"

The question seemed to vex Halleck; he did not answer at once. His mothercould not bear to see him crossed, and she came to his help against herselfand his father, since it was only supposing the case. "I presume, " shesaid, "that we could have looked at it as a missionary work. "

"It isn't a missionary work, mother, " answered Halleck, severely, "in anysense that you mean. I should go down there to teach, and I should bepaid for it. And I want to say at once that they have no yellow-fever norearthquakes, and that they have not had a revolution for six years. Thecountry's perfectly safe every way, and so wholesome that it will be a goodthing for me. But I shouldn't expect to convert anybody. "

"Of course not, Ben, " said his mother, soothingly. 

"I hope you wouldn't object to it if it _were_ a missionary work, " said oneof the elder sisters. 

"No, Anna, " returned Ben. 

"I merely wanted to know, " said Anna. 

"Then I hope you're satisfied, Anna, " Olive cut in. "Ben won't refuse toconvert the Uruguayans if they apply in a proper spirit. "

"I think Anna had a right to ask, " said Miss Louisa, the eldest. 

"Oh, undoubtedly, Miss Halleck, " said Olive. "I like to see Ben reprovedfor misbehavior to his mother, myself. "

Her father laughed at Olive's prompt defence. "Well, it's a cause thatwe've all got to respect; but I don't see why _you_ should go, Ben, as Isaid before. It would do very well for some young fellow who had no settledprospects, but you've got your duties here. I presume you looked at it inthat light. As you said in your letter, you've fooled away so much time onleather and law--"

"I shall never amount to anything in the law!" Ben broke out. His motherlooked at him in anxiety; his father kept a steady smile on his face; Olivesat alert for any chance that offered to put down her elder sisters, whodrew in their breath, and grew silently a little primmer. "I'm not well--"

"Oh, I know you're not, dear, " interrupted his mother, glad of anotherchance to abet him. 

"I'm not strong enough to go on with the line of work I've marked out, andI feel that I'm throwing away the feeble powers I have. "

His father answered with less surprise than Halleck had evidently expected, for he had thrown out his words with a sort of defiance; probably the oldman had watched him closely enough to surmise that it might come to thiswith him at last. At any rate, he was able to say, without seeming toassent too readily, "Well, well, give up the law, then, and come back intoleather, as you call it. Or take up something else. We don't wish to makeanything a burden to you; but take up some useful work at home. There areplenty of things to be done. "

"Not for me, " said Halleck, gloomily. 

"Oh, yes, there are, " said the old man. 

"I see you are not willing to have me go, " said Halleck, rising inuncontrollable irritation. "But I wish you wouldn't all take this tone withme!"

"We haven't taken any tone with you, Ben, " said his mother, with pleadingtenderness. 

"I think Anna has decidedly taken a tone, " said Olive. 

Anna did not retort, but "What tone?" demanded Louisa, in her behalf. 

"Hush, children, " said their mother. 

"Well, well, " suggested his father to Ben. "Think it over, think it over. There's no hurry. "

"I've thought it over; there _is_ hurry, " retorted Halleck. "If I go, Imust go at once. "

His mother arrested her thread, half drawn through the seam, letting herhand drop, while she glanced at him. 

"It isn't so much a question of your giving up the law, Ben, as of yourgiving up your family and going so far away from us all, " said his father. "That's what I shouldn't like. "

"I don't like that, either. But I can't help it. " He added, "Of course, mother, I shall not go without your full and free consent. You and fathermust settle it between you. " He fetched a quick, worried sigh as he put hishand on the door. 

"Ben isn't himself at all, " said Mrs. Halleck, with tears in her eyes, after he had left the room. 

"No, " said her husband. "He's restless. He'll get over this idea in a fewdays. " He urged this hope against his wife's despair, and argued himselfinto low spirits. 

"I don't believe but what it _would_ be the best thing for his health, maybe, " said Mrs. Halleck, at the end. 

"I've always had my doubts whether he would ever come to anything in thelaw, " said the father. 

The elder sisters discussed Halleck's project apart between themselves, astheir wont was with any family interest, and they bent over a map of SouthAmerica, so as to hide what they were doing from their mother. 

Olive had left the room by another door, and she intercepted Halleck beforehe reached his own. 

"What is the matter, Ben?" she whispered. 

"Nothing, " he answered, coldly. But he added, "Come in, Olive. "

She followed him, and hovered near after he turned up the gas. 

"I can't stand it here, I must go, " he said, turning a dull, weary lookupon her. 

"Who was at the Elm House that you knew this last time?" she asked, quickly. 

"Laura Dixmore isn't driving me away, if you mean that, " replied Halleck. 

"I _couldn't_ believe it was she! I should have despised you if it was. ButI shall hate her, whoever it was. "

Halleck sat down before his table, and his sister sank upon the corner of achair near it, and looked wistfully at him. "I know there is some one!"

"If you think I've been fool enough to offer myself to any one, Olive, you're very much mistaken. "

"Oh, it needn't have come to that, " said Olive, with indignant pity. 

"My life's a failure here, " cried Halleck, moving his head uneasily fromside to side. "I feel somehow as if I could go out there and pick up thetime I've lost. Great Heaven!" he cried, "if I were only running away fromsome innocent young girl's rejection, what a happy man I should be!"

"It's some horrid married thing, then, that's been flirting with you!"

He gave a forlorn laugh. "I'd almost confess it to please you, Olive. ButI'd prefer to get out of the matter without lying, if I could. Why need yousuppose any reason but the sufficient one I've given?--Don't afflict me!don't imagine things about me, don't make a mystery of me! I've been bluntand awkward, and I've bungled the business with father and mother; but Iwant to get away because I'm a miserable fraud here, and I think I mightrub on a good while there before I found myself out again. "

"Ben, " demanded Olive, regardless of his words, "what have you been doing?"

"The old story, --nothing. "

"Is that true, Ben?"

"You used to be satisfied with asking once, Olive. "

"You _haven't_ been so wicked, so careless, as to get some poor creature inlove with, you, and then want to run away from the misery you've made?"

"I suppose if I look it there's no use denying it, " said Halleck, lettinghis sad eyes meet hers, and smiling drearily. "You insist upon having alady in the case?"

"Yes. But I see you won't tell me anything; and I _won't_ afflict you. OnlyI'm afraid it's just some silly thing, that you've got to brooding over, and that you'll let drive you away. "

"Well, you have the comfort of reflecting that I can't get away, whateverthe pressure is. "

"You know better than that, Ben; and so do I. You know that, if you haven'tgot father and mother's consent already, it's only because you haven't hadthe heart to ask for it. As far as that's concerned, you're gone already. But I hope you won't go without thinking it over, as father says, --andtalking it over. I hate to have you seem unsteady and fickle-minded, whenI know you're not; and I'm going to set myself against this project tillI know what's driving you from us, --or till I'm sure that it's somethingworth while. You needn't expect that I shall help to make it easy for you;I shall help to make it hard. "

Her loving looks belied her threats; if the others could not resist Benwhen any sort of desire showed itself through his habitual listlessness, how could she, who understood him best and sympathized with him most?"There was something I was going to talk to you about, to-night, if youhadn't scared us all with this ridiculous scheme, and ask you whether youcouldn't do something. " She seemed to suggest the change of interest withthe hope of winning his thoughts away from the direction they had taken;but he listened apathetically, and left her to go further or not as shechose. "I think, " she added abruptly, "that some trouble is hanging overthose wretched Hubbards. "

"Some new one?" asked Halleck, with sad sarcasm, turning his eyes towardsher, as if with the resolution of facing her. 

"You know he's left his place on that newspaper. "

"Yes, I heard that when I was at home before. "

"There are some very disagreeable stories about it. They say he was turnedaway by Mr. Witherby for behaving badly, --for printing something heoughtn't to have done. "

"That was to have been expected, " said Halleck. 

"He hasn't found any other place, and Marcia says he gets very little workto do. He must be running into debt, terribly. I feel very anxious aboutthem. I don't know what they're living on. "

"Probably on some money I lent him, " said Halleck, quietly. "I lent himfifteen hundred in the spring. It ought to make him quite comfortable forthe present. "

"Oh, Ben! Why did you lend him money? You might have known he wouldn't doany good with it. "

Halleck explained how and why the loan had been made, and added: "If he'ssupporting his family with it, he's doing some good. I lent it to him forher sake. "

Halleck looked hardily into his sister's face, but he dropped his eyeswhen she answered, simply: "Yes, of course. But I don't believe she knowsanything about it; and I'm glad of it: it would only add to her trouble. She worships you, Ben!"

"Does she?"

"She seems to think you are perfect, and she never comes here but she askswhen you're to be home. I suppose she thinks you have a good influence onthat miserable husband of hers. He's going from bad to worse, I guess. Father heard that he is betting on the election. That's what he's doingwith your money. "

"It would be somebody else's money if it wasn't mine, " said Halleck. "Bartley Hubbard must live, and he must have the little excitements thatmake life agreeable. "

"Poor thing!" sighed Olive, "I don't know what she would do if she heardthat you were going away. To hear her talk, you would think she had beencounting the days and hours till you got back. It's ridiculous, the way shegoes on with mother; asking everything about you, as if she expected tomake Bartley Hubbard over again on your pattern. I should hate to haveanybody think me such a saint as she does you. But there isn't much danger, thank goodness! I could laugh, sometimes, at the way she questions us allabout you, and is so delighted when she finds that you and that wretch haveanything in common. But it's all too miserably sad. She certainly _is_the most single-hearted creature alive, " continued Olive, reflectively. "Sometimes she _scares_ me with her innocence. I don't believe that evenher jealousy ever suggested a wicked idea to her: she's furious because shefeels the injustice of giving so much more than he does. She hasn't reallya thought for anybody else: I do believe that if she were free to choosefrom now till doomsday she would always choose Bartley Hubbard, bad as sheknows him to be. And if she were a widow, and anybody else proposed to her, she would be utterly shocked and astonished. "

"Very likely, " said Halleck, absently. 

"I feel very unhappy about her, " Olive resumed. I know that she's anxiousand troubled all the time. _Can't_ you do something, Ben? Have a talkwith that disgusting thing, and see if you can't put him straight again, somehow?"

"No!" exclaimed Halleck, bursting violently from his abstraction. "I shallhave nothing to do with them! Let him go his own way and the sooner he goesto the--I won't interfere, --I can't, I mustn't! I wonder at you, Olive!" Hepushed away from the table, and went limping about the room, searching hereand there for his hat and stick, which were on the desk where he had putthem, in plain view. As he laid hand on them at last, he met his sister'sastonished eyes. "If I interfered, I should not interfere because I caredfor _him_ at all!" he cried. 

"Of course not, " said Olive. "But I don't see anything to make you _wonder_at me about that. "

"It would be because I cared for her--"

"Certainly! You didn't suppose I expected you to interfere from any othermotive?"

He stood looking at her in stupefaction, with his hand on his hat andstick, like a man who doubts whether he has heard aright. Presently ashiver passed over him, another light came into his eyes, and he saidquietly, "I'm going out to see Atherton. "

"To-night?" said his sister, accepting provisionally, as women do, theapparent change of subject. "Don't go to-night, Ben! You're too tired. "

"I'm not tired. I intended to see him to-night, at any rate. I want to talkover this South American scheme with him. " He put on his hat, and movedquickly toward the door. 

"Ask him about the Hubbards, " said Olive. "Perhaps he can tell yousomething. "

"I don't want to know anything. I shall ask him nothing. "

She slipped between him and the door. "Ben, you haven't heard anythingagainst poor Marcia, have you?"

"No!"

"You don't think she's to blame in any way for his going wrong, do you?

"How could I?"

"Then I don't understand why you won't do anything to help her. "

He looked at her again, and opened his lips to speak once, but closed thembefore he said, "I've got my own affairs to worry me. Isn't that reasonenough for not interfering in theirs?"

"Not for you, Ben. "

"Then I don't choose to mix myself up in other people's misery. I don'tlike it, as you once said. "

"But you can't help it sometimes, as _you_ said. "

"I can this time, Olive. Don't you see, --" he began. 

"I see there's something you won't tell me. But I shall find it out. " Shethreatened him half playfully. 

"I wish you could, " he answered. "Then perhaps you'd let me know. " Sheopened the door for him now, and as he passed out he said gently, "I _am_tired, but I sha'n't begin to rest till I have had this talk with Atherton. I had better go. "

"Yes, " Olive assented, "you'd better. " She added in banter, "You'realtogether too mysterious to be of much comfort at home. "

The family heard him close the outside door behind him after Olive cameback to them, and she explained, "He's gone out to talk it over with Mr. Atherton. "

His father gave a laugh of relief. "Well, if he leaves it to Atherton, Iguess we needn't worry about it. "

"The child isn't at all well, " said his mother. 

XXXIII. 

Halleck met Atherton at the door of his room with his hat and coat on. "Why, Halleck! I was just going to see if you had come home!"

"You needn't now, " said Halleck, pushing by him into the room. "I want tosee you, Atherton, on business. "

Atherton took off his hat, and closed the door with one hand, while heslipped the other arm out of his overcoat sleeve. "Well, to tell the truth, I was going to mingle a little business myself with the pleasure of seeingyou. " He turned up the gas in his drop-light, and took the chair from whichhe had looked across the table at Halleck, when they talked there before. "It's the old subject, " he said, with a sense of repetition in thesituation. "I learn from Witherby that Hubbard has taken that money ofyours out of the Events, and from what I hear elsewhere he is making ducksand drakes of it on election bets. What shall you do about it?"

"Nothing, " said Halleck. 

"Oh! Very well, " returned Atherton, with the effect of being a littlesnubbed, but resolved to take his snub professionally. He broke out, however, in friendly exasperation: "Why in the world did you lend thefellow that money?"

Halleck lifted his brooding eyes, and fixed them half pleadingly, halfdefiantly upon his friend's face. "I did it for his wife's sake. "

"Yes, I know, " returned Atherton. "I remember how you felt. I couldn'tshare your feeling, but I respected it. However, I doubt if your loan was abenefit to either of them. It probably tempted him to count upon money thathe hadn't earned, and that's always corrupting. "

"Yes, " Halleck replied. "But I can't say that, so far as he's concerned, I'm very sorry. I don't suppose it would do her any good if I forced him todisgorge any balance he may have left from his wagers?"

"No, hardly. "

"Then I shall let him alone. "

The subject was dismissed, and Atherton waited for Halleck to speak ofthe business on which he had come. But Halleck only played with the papercutter which his left hand had found on the table near him, and, with hischin sunk on his breast, seemed lost in an unhappy reverie. 

"I hope you won't accuse yourself of doing him an injury, " said Atherton, at last, with a smile. 

"Injury?" demanded Halleck, quickly. "What injury? How?"

"By lending him that money. "

"Oh! I had forgotten that; I wasn't thinking of it, " returned Halleckimpatiently. "I was thinking of something different. I'm aware of dislikingthe man so much, that I should be willing to have greater harm than thathappen to him, --the greatest, for what I know. Though I don't know, afterall, that it would be harm. In another life, if there is one, he mightstart in a new direction; but that isn't imaginable of him here; he canonly go from bad to worse; he can only make more and more sorrow and shame. Why shouldn't one wish him dead, when his death could do nothing but good?"

"I suppose you don't expect me to answer such a question seriously. "

"But suppose I did?"

"Then I should say that no man ever wished any such good as that, exceptfrom the worst motive; and the less one has to do with such questions, evenas abstractions, the better. "

"You're right, " said Halleck. "But why do you call it an abstraction?"

"Because, in your case, nothing else is conceivable. "

"I told you I was willing the worst should happen to him. "

"And I didn't believe you. "

Halleck lay back in his chair, and laughed wearily. "I wish I couldconvince somebody of my wickedness. But it seems to be useless to try. Isay things that ought to raise the roof, both to you here and to Olive athome, and you tell me you don't believe me, and she tells me that Mrs. Hubbard thinks me a saint. I suppose now, that if I took you by thebutton-hole and informed you confidentially that I had stopped long enoughat 129 Clover Street to put Bartley Hubbard quietly out of the way, youwouldn't send for a policeman. "

"I should send for a doctor, " said Atherton. 

"Such is the effect of character! And yet out of the fulness of the heart, the mouth speaketh. Out of the heart proceed all those unpleasant thingsenumerated in Scripture; but if you bottle them up there, and keep yourlabel fresh, it's all that's required of you, by your fellow-beings, atleast. What an amusing thing morality would be if it were not--otherwise. Atherton, do you believe that such a man as Christ ever lived?"

"I know you do, Halleck, " said Atherton. 

"Well, that depends upon what you call _me_. It what I was--if my wellSunday-schooled youth--is I, I do. But if I, poising dubiously on themomentary present, between the past and future, am I, I'm afraid I don't. And yet it seems to me that I have a fairish sort of faith. I know that, ifChrist never lived on earth, some One lived who imagined him, and that Onemust have been a God. The historical fact oughtn't to matter. Christ beingimagined, can't you see what a comfort, what a rapture, it must have beento all these poor souls to come into such a presence and be looked throughand through? The relief, the rest, the complete exposure of Judgment Day--"

"Every day is Judgment Day, " said Atherton. 

"Yes, I know your doctrine. But I mean the Last Day. We ought to havesomething in anticipation of it, here, in our social system. Character is asuperstition, a wretched fetish. Once a year wouldn't be too often to seizeupon sinners whose blameless life has placed them above suspicion, and turnthem inside out before the community, so as to show people how the smokeof the Pit had been quietly blackening their interior. That would destroycharacter as a cult. " He laughed again. "Well, this isn't business, --thoughit isn't pleasure, either, exactly. What I came for was to ask yousomething. I've finished at the Law School, and I'm just ready to beginhere in the office with you. Don't you think it would be a good time forme to give up the law? Wait a moment!" he said, arresting in Atherton animpulse to speak. "We will take the decent surprise, the friendly demur, the conscientious scruple, for granted. Now, honestly, do you believe I'vegot the making of a lawyer in me?"

"I don't think you're very well, Halleck, " Atherton began. 

"Ah, _you're_ a lawyer! You won't give me a direct answer!"

"I will if you wish, " retorted Atherton. 

"Well. "

"Do you want to give it up?"

"Yes. "

"Then do it. No man ever prospered in it yet who wanted to leave it. Andnow, since it's come to this, I'll tell you what I really _have_ thought, all along. I've thought that, if your heart was really set on the law, youwould overcome your natural disadvantages for it; but if the time ever camewhen you were tired of it, your chance was lost: you never would make alawyer. The question is, whether that time has come. "

"It has, " said Halleck. 

"Then stop, here and now. You've wasted two years' time, but you can't getit back by throwing more after it. I shouldn't be your friend, I shouldn'tbe an honest man, if I let you go on with me, after this. A bad lawyer issuch a very bad thing. This isn't altogether a surprise to me, but it willbe a blow to your father, " he added, with a questioning look at Halleck, after a moment. 

"It might have been, if I hadn't taken the precaution to deaden the placeby a heavier blow first. "

"Ah! you've spoken to him already?"

"Yes, I've had it out in a sneaking, hypothetical way. But I could seethat, so far as the law was concerned it was enough; it served. Not thathe's consented to the other thing; there's where I shall need your help, Atherton. I'll tell you what my plan is. " He stated it bluntly at first;and then went over the ground and explained it fully, as he had done athome. Atherton listened without permitting any sign of surprise to escapehim; but he listened with increasing gravity, as if he heard something notexpressed in Halleck's slow, somewhat nasal monotone, and at the end hesaid, "I approve of any plan that will take you away for a while. Yes, I'llspeak to your father about it. "

"If you think you need any conviction, I could use arguments to bringit about in you, " said Halleck, in recognition of his friend's readyconcurrence. 

"No, I don't need any arguments to convince me, I believe, " returnedAtherton. 

"Then I wish you'd say something to bring me round! Unless argument is usedby somebody, the plan always produces a cold chill in me. " Halleck smiled, but Atherton kept a sober face. "I wish my Spanish American was here! Whatmakes you think it's a good plan? Why should I disappoint my father's hopesagain, and wring my mother's heart by proposing to leave them for any suchuncertain good as this scheme promises?" He still challenged his friendwith a jesting air, but a deeper and stronger feeling of some sort trembledin his voice. 

Atherton would not reply to his emotion; he answered, with obvious evasion:"It's a good cause; in some sort--the best sort--it's a missionary work. "

"That's what my mother said to me. "

"And the change will be good for your health. "

"That's what I said to my mother!"

Atherton remained silent, waiting apparently for Halleck to continue, or toend the matter there, as he chose. 

It was some moments before Halleck went on; "You would say, wouldn't you, that my first duty was to my own undertakings, and to those who had a rightto expect their fulfilment from me? You would say that it was an enormityto tear myself away from the affection that clings to me in that home ofmine, yonder, and that nothing but some supreme motive, could justify me?And yet you pretend to be satisfied with the reasons I've given you. You'renot dealing honestly with me, Atherton!"

"No, " said Atherton, keeping the same scrutiny of Halleck's face which hehad bent upon him throughout, but seeming now to hear his thoughts ratherthan his words. "I knew that you would have some supreme motive; and if Ihave pretended to approve your scheme on the reasons you have given me, Ihaven't dealt honestly with you. But perhaps a little dishonesty is thebest thing under the circumstances. You haven't told me your real motive, and I can't ask it"

"But you imagine it?"

"Yes. "

"And what do you imagine? That I have been disappointed in love? ThatI have been rejected? That the girl who had accepted me has broken herengagement? Something of that sort?" demanded Halleck, scornfully. 

Atherton did not answer. 

"Oh, how far you are from the truth! How blest and proud and happy I shouldbe if it were the truth!" He looked into his friend's eyes, and addedbitterly: "You're not curious, Atherton; you don't ask me what my troublereally is! Do you wish me to tell you what it is without asking?"

Atherton kept turning a pencil end for end between his fingers, while acompassionate smile slightly curved his lips. "No, " he said, finally, "Ithink you had better not tell me your trouble. I can believe very wellwithout knowing it that it's serious--"

"Oh, tragic!" said Halleck, self-contemptuously. 

"But I doubt if it would help you to tell it. I've too much respect foryour good sense to suppose that it's an unreality; and I suspect thatconfession would only weaken you. If you told me, you would feel that youhad made me a partner in your responsibility, and you would be tempted toleave the struggle to me. If you're battling with some temptation, someself-betrayal, you must make the fight alone: you would only turn to anally to be flattered into disbelief of your danger or your culpability. "

Halleck assented with a slight nod to each point that the lawyer made. "You're right, " he said, "but a man of your subtlety can't pretend that hedoesn't know what the trouble is in such a simple case as mine. "

"I don't know anything certainly, " returned Atherton, "and as far as I canI refuse to imagine anything. If your trouble concerns some one besidesyourself, --and no great trouble can concern one man alone, --you've no rightto tell it. "

"Another Daniel come to judgment!"

"You must trust to your principles, your self-respect, to keep you right--"

Halleck burst into a harsh laugh, and rose from his chair: "Ah, there youabdicate the judicial function! Principles, self-respect! Against_that_? Don't you suppose I was approached _through_ my principles andself-respect? Why, the Devil always takes a man on the very highest plane. He knows all about our principles and self-respect, and what they're madeof. How the noblest and purest attributes of our nature, with which we trapeach other so easily, must amuse him! Pity, rectitude, moral indignation, ablameless life, --he knows that they're all instruments for him. No, sir! Nomore principles and self-respect for me, --I've had enough of them; there'snothing for me but to run, and that's what I'm going to do. But you'requite right about the other thing, Atherton, and I give you a beggar'sthanks for telling me that my trouble isn't mine alone, and I've no rightto confide it to you. It is mine in the sense that no other soul is defiledwith the knowledge of it, and I'm glad you saved me from the ghastlyprofanation, the sacrilege, of telling it. I was sneaking round for yoursympathy; I did want somehow to shift the responsibility on to you; to getyou--God help me!--to flatter me out of my wholesome fear and contempt ofmyself. Well! That's past, now, and--Good night!" He abruptly turned awayfrom Atherton and swung himself on his cane toward the door. 

Atherton took up his hat and coat. "I'll walk home with you, " he said. 

"All right, " returned Halleck, listlessly. 

"How soon shall you go?" asked the lawyer, when they were in the street. 

"Oh, there's a ship sailing from New York next week, " said Halleck, in thesame tone of weary indifference. "I shall go in that. "

They talked desultorily of other things. 

When they came to the foot of Clover Street, Halleck plucked his handout of Atherton's arm. "I'm going up through here!" he said, with sullenobstinacy. 

"Better not, " returned his friend, quietly. 

"Will it hurt her if I stop to look at the outside of the house where shelives?"

"It will hurt you, " said Atherton. 

"I don't wish to spare myself!" retorted Halleck. He shook off the touchthat Atherton had laid upon his shoulder, and started up the hill; theother overtook him, and, like a man who has attempted to rule a drunkard bythwarting his freak, and then hopes to accomplish his end by humoring it, he passed his arm through Halleck's again, and went with him. But when theycame to the house, Halleck did not stop; he did not even look at it; butAtherton felt the deep shudder that passed through him. 

In the week that followed, they met daily, and Halleck's broken pride nolonger stayed him from the shame of open self-pity and wavering purpose. Atherton found it easier to persuade the clinging reluctance of the fatherand mother, than to keep Halleck's resolution for him: Halleck could nolonger keep it for himself. "Not much like the behavior of people we readof in similar circumstances, " he said once. "_They_ never falter when theysee the path of duty: they push forward without looking to either hand; orelse, " he added, with a hollow laugh at his own satire, "they turn theirbacks on it, --like men! Well!"

He grew gaunt and visibly feeble. In this struggle the two men changedplaces. The plan for Halleck's flight was no longer his own, butAtherton's; and when he did not rebel against it, he only passivelyacquiesced. The decent pretence of ignorance on Atherton's part necessarilydisappeared: in all but words the trouble stood openly confessed betweenthem, and it came to Atherton's saying, in one of Halleck's lapses ofpurpose, from which it had required all the other's strength to lift him:"Don't come to me any more, Halleck, with the hope that I shall somehowjustify your evil against your good. I pitied you at first; but I blame younow. "

"You're atrocious, " said Halleck, with a puzzled, baffled look. "What doyou mean?"

"I mean that you secretly think you have somehow come by your evilvirtuously; and you want me to persuade you that it is different fromother evils of exactly the same kind, --that it is beautiful and sweet andpitiable, and not ugly as hell and bitter as death, to be torn out of youmercilessly and flung from you with abhorrence. Well, I tell you that youare suffering guiltily, for no man suffers innocently from such a cause. You must _go_, and you can't go too soon. Don't suppose that I findanything noble in your position. I should do you a great wrong if I didn'tdo all I could to help you realize that you're in disgrace, and that you'reonly making a choice of shames in running away. Suppose the truth wasknown, --suppose that those who hold you dear could be persuaded ofit, --could you hold up your head?"

"Do I hold up my head as it is?" asked Halleck. "Did you ever see a moreabject dog than I am at this moment? Your wounds are faithful, Atherton;but perhaps you might have spared me this last stab. If you want to know, I can assure you that I don't feel any melodramatic vainglory. I know thatI'm running away because I'm beaten, but no other man can know the battleI've fought. Don't you suppose I know how hideous this thing is? No oneelse can know it in all its ugliness!" He covered his face with his hands. "You are right, " he said, when he could find his voice. "I suffer guiltily. I must have known it when I seemed to be suffering for pity's sake; I knewit before, and when you said that love without marriage was a worse hellthan any marriage without love, you left me without refuge: I had beentrying not to face the truth, but I had to face it then. I came away inhell, and I have lived in hell ever since. I had tried to think it was acrazy fancy, and put it on my failing health; I used to make believe thatsome morning I should wake and find the illusion gone. I abhorred it fromthe beginning as I do now; it has been torment to me; and yet somewherein my lost soul--the blackest depth, I dare say!--this shame has been sosweet, --it is so sweet, --the one sweetness of life--Ah!" He dashed the weaktears from his eyes, and rose and buttoned his coat about him. "Well, Ishall go. And I hope I shall never come back. Though you needn't mentionthis to my father as an argument for my going when you talk me over withhim, " he added, with a glimmer of his wonted irony. He waited a moment, andthen turned upon his friend, in sad upbraiding: "When I came to you a yearand a half ago, after I had taken that ruffian home drunk to her--Whydidn't you warn me then, Atherton? Did you see any danger?"

Atherton hesitated: "I knew that, with your habit of suffering for otherpeople, it would make you miserable; but I couldn't have dreamed this wouldcome of it. But you've never been out of your own keeping for a moment. Youare responsible, and you are to blame if you are suffering now, and canfind no safety for yourself but in running away. "

"That's true, " said Halleck, very humbly, "and I won't trouble you anymore. I can't go on sinning against her belief in me here, and live. Ishall go on sinning against it there, as long as I live; but it seems to methe harm will be a little less. Yes, I will go. "

But the night before he went, he came to Atherton's lodging to tell himthat he should not go; Atherton was not at home, and Halleck was sparedthis last dishonor. He returned to his father's house through the rainthat was beginning to fall lightly, and as he let himself in with his keyOlive's voice said, "It's Ben!" and at the same time she laid her hand uponhis arm with a nervous, warning clutch. "Hush! Come in here!" She drew himfrom the dimly lighted hall into the little reception-room near the door. The gas was burning brighter there, and in the light he saw Marcia whiteand still, where she sat holding her baby in her arms. They exchanged nogreeting: it was apparent that her being there transcended all usage, andthat they need observe none. 

"Ben will go home with you, " said Olive, soothingly. "Is it raining?" sheasked, looking at her brother's coat. "I will get my water-proof. "

She left them a moment. "I have been--been walking--walking about, " Marciapanted. "It has got so dark--I'm--afraid to go home. I hate to--take youfrom them--the last--night. "

Halleck answered nothing; he sat staring at her till Olive came back withthe water-proof and an umbrella. Then, while his sister was putting thewaterproof over Marcia's shoulders, he said, "Let me take the little one, "and gathered it, with or without her consent, from her arms into his. Thebaby was sleeping; it nestled warmly against him with a luxurious quiverunder the shawl that Olive threw round it. "You can carry the umbrella, " hesaid to Marcia. 

They walked fast, when they got out into the rainy dark, and it was hard toshelter Halleck as he limped rapidly on. Marcia ran forward once, to seeif her baby were safely kept from the wet, and found that Halleck had itslittle face pressed close between his neck and cheek. "Don't be afraid, " hesaid. "I'm looking out for it. "

His voice sounded broken and strange, and neither of them spoke again tillthey came in sight of Marcia's door. Then she tried to stop him. She puther hand on his shoulder. "Oh, I'm afraid--afraid to go in, " she pleaded. 

He halted, and they stood confronted in the light of a street lamp; herface was twisted with weeping. "Why are you afraid?" he demanded, harshly. 

"We had a quarrel, and I--I ran away--I said that I would never come back. I left him--"

"You must go back to him, " said Halleck. "He's your husband!" He pushed onagain, saying over and over, as if the words were some spell in which hefound safety, "You must go back, you must go back, you must go back!"

He dragged her with him now, for she hung helpless on his arm, which shehad seized, and moaned to herself. At the threshold, "I can't go in!" shebroke out. "I'm afraid to go in! What will he say? What will he do? Oh, come in with me! You are good, --and then I shall not be afraid!"

"You must go in alone! No man can be your refuge from your husband! Here!"He released himself, and, kissing the warm little face of the sleepingchild, he pressed it into her arms. His fingers touched hers under theshawl; he tore his hand away with a shiver. 

She stood a moment looking at the closed door; then she flung it open, and, pausing as if to gather her strength, vanished into the brightness within. 

He turned, and ran crookedly down the street, wavering from side to side inhis lameness, and flinging up his arms to save himself from falling as heran, with a gesture that was like a wild and hopeless appeal. 

XXXIV. 

Marcia pushed into the room where she had left Bartley. She had no escapefrom her fate; she must meet it, whatever it was. The room was empty, and she began doggedly to search the house for him, up stairs and down, carrying the child with her. She would not have been afraid now to callhim; but she had no voice, and she could not ask the servant anything whenshe looked into the kitchen. She saw the traces of the meal he had made inthe dining-room, and when she went a second time to their chamber to laythe little girl down in her crib, she saw the drawers pulled open, and thethings as he had tossed them about in packing his bag. She looked at theclock on the mantel--an extravagance of Bartley's, for which she hadscolded him--and it was only half past eight; she had thought it must bemidnight. 

She sat all night in a chair beside the bed; in the morning she drowsed anddreamed that she was weeping on Bartley's shoulder, and he was joking herand trying to comfort her, as he used to do when they were first married;but it was the little girl, sitting up in her crib, and crying loudly forher breakfast. She put on the child a pretty frock that Bartley liked, andwhen she had dressed her own tumbled hair she went down stairs, feigning toherself that they should find him in the parlor. The servant was settingthe table for breakfast, and the little one ran forward: "Baby's chair;mamma's chair; papa's chair!"

"Yes, " answered Marcia, so that the servant might hear too. "Papa will soonbe home. "

She persuaded herself that he had gone as before for the night, and in thispretence she talked with the child at the table, and she put aside some ofthe breakfast to be kept warm for Bartley. "I don't know just when he maybe in, " she explained to the girl. The utterance of her pretence that sheexpected him encouraged her, and she went about her work almost cheerfully. 

At dinner she said, "Mr. Hubbard must have been called away, somewhere. We must get his dinner for him when he comes: the things dry up so in theoven. "

She put Flavia to bed early, and then trimmed the fire, and made the parlorcosey against Bartley's coming. She did not blame him for staying away thenight before; it was a just punishment for her wickedness, and she shouldtell him so, and tell him that she knew he never was to blame for anythingabout Hannah Morrison. She enacted over and over in her mind the scene oftheir reconciliation. In every step on the pavement he approached the door;at last all the steps died away, and the second night passed. 

Her head was light, and her brain confused with loss of sleep. When thechild called her from above, and woke her out of her morning drowse, shewent to the kitchen and begged the servant to give the little one itsbreakfast, saying that she was sick and wanted nothing herself. She did notsay anything about Bartley's breakfast, and she would not think anything;the girl took the child into the kitchen with her, and kept it there allday. 

Olive Halleck came during the forenoon, and Marcia told her that Bartleyhad been unexpectedly called away. "To New York, " she added, withoutknowing why. 

"Ben sailed from there to-day, " said Olive sadly. 

"Yes, " assented Marcia. 

"We want you to come and take tea with us this evening, " Olive began. 

"Oh, I can't, " Marcia broke in. "I mustn't be away when Bartley gets back. "The thought was something definite in the sea of uncertainty on which shewas cast away; she never afterwards lost her hold of it; she confirmedherself in it by other inventions; she pretended that he had told her wherehe was going, and then that he had written to her. She almost believedthese childish fictions as she uttered them. At the same time, in all herlonging for his return, she had a sickening fear that when he came back hewould keep his parting threat and drive her away: she did not know how hecould do it, but this was what she feared. 

She seldom left the house, which at first she kept neat and pretty, andthen let fall into slatternly neglect. She ceased to care for her dress orthe child's; the time came when it seemed as if she could scarcely move inthe mystery that beset her life, and she yielded to a deadly lethargy whichparalyzed all her faculties but the instinct of concealment. 

She repelled the kindly approaches of the Hallecks, sometimes sending wordto the door when they came, that she was sick and could not see them;or when she saw any of them, repeating those hopeless lies concerningBartley's whereabouts, and her expectations of his return. 

For the time she was safe against all kindly misgivings; but there weresome of Bartley's creditors who grew impatient of his long absence, andrefused to be satisfied with her fables. She had a few dollars left fromsome money that her father had given her at home, and she paid these allout upon the demand of the first-comer. Afterwards, as other bills werepressed, she could only answer with incoherent promises and evasions thatscarcely served for the moment. The pursuit of these people dismayed her. It was nothing that certain of them refused further credit; she would haveknown, both for herself and her child, how to go hungry and cold; but therewas one of them who threatened her with the law if she did not pay. She didnot know what he could do; she had read somewhere that people who did notpay their debts were imprisoned, and if that disgrace were all she wouldnot care. But if the law were enforced against her, the truth would comeout; she would be put to shame before the world as a deserted wife; andthis when Bartley had _not_ deserted her. The pride that had bidden herheart break in secret rather than suffer this shame even before itself, wasbaffled: her one blind device had been concealment, and this poor refugewas possible no longer. If all were not to know, some one must know. 

The law with which she had been threatened might be instant in itsoperation; she could not tell. Her mind wavered from fear to fear. Evenwhile the man stood before her, she perceived the necessity that was uponher, and when he left her she would not allow herself a moment's delay. 

She reached the Events building, in which Mr. Atherton had his office, justas a lady drove away in her coupé. It was Miss Kingsbury, who made a pointof transacting all business matters with her lawyer at his office, and ofkeeping her social relations with him entirely distinct, as she fancied, by this means. She was only partially successful, but at least she nevertalked business with him at her house, and doubtless she would not havetalked anything else with him at his office, but for that increasingdependence upon him in everything which she certainly would not havepermitted herself if she had realized it. As it was, she had now come tohim in a state of nervous exaltation, which was not business-like. She hadbeen greatly shocked by Ben Halleck's sudden freak; she had sympathizedwith his family till she herself felt the need of some sort of condolence, and she had promised herself this consolation from Atherton's habitualserenity. She did not know what to do when he received her with what sheconsidered an impatient manner, and did not seem at all glad to seeher. There was no reason why he should be glad to see a lady calling onbusiness, and no doubt he often found her troublesome, but he had nevershown it before. She felt like crying at first; then she passed through anepoch of resentment, and then through a period of compassion for him. Sheended by telling him with dignified severity that she wanted some money:they usually made some jokes about her destitution when she came upon thaterrand. He looked surprised and vexed, and "I have spent what you gave melast month, " she explained. 

"Then you wish to anticipate the interest on your bonds?"

"Certainly not, " said Clara, rather sharply. "I wish to have the interestup to the present time. "

"But I told you, " said Atherton, and he could not, in spite of himself, help treating her somewhat as a child, "I told you then that I was payingyou the interest up to the first of November. There is none due now. Didn'tyou understand that?"

"No, I didn't understand, " answered Clara. She allowed herself to add, "It is very strange!" Atherton struggled with his irritation, and made noreply. "I can't be left without money, " she continued. "What am I to dowithout it?" she demanded with an air of unanswerable argument. "Why, I_must_ have it!"

"I felt that I ought to understand you fully, " said Atherton, with coldpoliteness. "It's only necessary to know what sum you require. "

Clara flung up her veil and confronted him with an excited face. "Mr. Atherton, I don't wish a _loan_; I can't _permit_ it; and you know that myprinciples are entirely against anticipating interest. "

Atherton, from stooping over his table, pencil in hand, leaned back in hischair, and looked at her with a smile that provoked her: "Then may I askwhat you wish me to do?"

"No! I can't instruct you. My affairs are in your hands. But I must_say_--" She bit her lip, however, and did not say it. On the contrary sheasked, rather feebly, "Is there nothing due on anything?"

"I went over it with you, last month, " said Atherton patiently, "andexplained all the investments. I could sell some stocks, but this electiontrouble has disordered everything, and I should have to sell at a heavyloss. There are your mortgages, and there are your bonds. You can have anyamount of money you want, but you will have to borrow it. "

"And that you know I won't do. There should always be a sum of money in thebank, " said Clara decidedly. 

"I do my very best to keep a sum there, knowing your theory; but yourpractice is against me. You draw too many checks, " said Atherton, laughing. 

"Very well!" cried the lady, pulling down her veil. "Then I'm to havenothing?"

"You won't allow yourself to have anything, " Atherton began. But sheinterrupted him haughtily. 

"It is certainly very odd that my affairs should be in such a state that Ican't have all the money of my own that I want, whenever I want it. "

Atherton's thin face paled a little more than usual. "I shall be glad toresign the charge of your affair Miss Kingsbury. "

"And I shall accept your resignation, " cried Clara, magnificently, "whenever you offer it. " She swept out of the office, and descended to hercoupé like an incensed goddess. She drew the curtains and began to cry. At her door, she bade the servant deny her to everybody, and went tobed, where she was visited a little later by Olive Halleck, whom no banexcluded. Clara lavishly confessed her sin and sorrow. "Why, I _went_there, more than half, to sympathize with him about Ben; I don't needany money, just yet; and the first thing I knew, I was accusing him ofneglecting my interests, and I don't know what all! Of course he had to sayhe wouldn't have anything more to do with them, and I should have despisedhim if he hadn't. And now I don't care what becomes of the property: it'snever been anything but misery to me ever since I had it, and I always knewit would get me into trouble sooner or later. " She whirled her face overinto her pillow, and sobbed, "But I _didn't_ suppose it would ever make meinsult and outrage the best friend I ever had, --and the truest man, --andthe noblest gentleman! Oh, _what_ will he think of me?"

Olive remained sadly quiet, as if but superficially interested in thesetransports, and Clara lifted her face again to say in her handkerchief, "It's a shame, Olive, to burden you with all this at a time when you'vecare enough of your own. "

"Oh, I'm rather glad of somebody else's care; it helps to take my mindoff, " said Olive. 

"Then what would you do?" asked Clara, tempted by the apparent sympathywith her in the effect of her naughtiness. 

"You might make a party for him, Clara, " suggested Olive, with lack-lustreirony. 

Clara gave way to a loud burst of grief. "Oh, Olive Halleck! I didn'tsuppose you could be so cruel!"

Olive rose impatiently. "Then write to him, or go to him and tell him thatyou're ashamed of yourself, and ask him to take your property back again. "

"Never!" cried Clara, who had listened with fascination. "What would hethink of me?"

"Why need you care? It's purely a matter of business!"

"Yes. "

"And you needn't mind what he thinks. "

"Of course, " admitted Clara, thoughtfully. 

"He will naturally despise you, " added Olive, "but I suppose he does that, now. "

Clara gave her friend as piercing a glance as her soft blue eyes couldemit, and, detecting no sign of jesting in Olive's sober face, she answeredhaughtily, "I don't see what right Mr. Atherton has to despise me!"

"Oh, no! He must admire a girl who has behaved to him as you've done. "

Clara's hauteur collapsed, and she began to truckle to Olive. "If he were_merely_ a business man, I shouldn't mind it; but knowing him socially, asI do, and as a--friend, and--an acquaintance, that way, I don't see how Ican do it. "

"I wonder you didn't think of that before you accused him of fraud andpeculation, and all those things. "

"I _didn't_ accuse him of fraud and peculation!" cried Clara, indignantly. 

"You said you didn't know what all you'd called him, " said Olive, with herhand on the door. 

Clara followed her down stairs. "Well, I shall never do it in the world, "she said, with reviving hope in her voice. 

"Oh, I don't expect you to go to him this morning, " said Olive dryly. "Thatwould be a little _too_ barefaced. "

Her friend kissed, her. "Olive Halleck, you're the strangest girl that everwas. I do believe you'd joke at the point of death! But I'm _so_ glad youhave been perfectly frank with me, and of course it's worth worlds to knowthat you think I've behaved horridly, and ought to make _some_ reparation. "

"I'm glad you value my opinion, Clara. And if you come to me for frankness, you can always have all you want; it's a drug in the market with me. " Shemeagrely returned Clara's embrace, and left her in a reverie of tactlessscheming for the restoration of peace with Mr. Atherton. 

Marcia came in upon the lawyer before he had thought, after parting withMiss Kingsbury, to tell the clerk in the outer office to deny him; but shewas too full of her own trouble to see the reluctance which it tasked allhis strength to quell, and she sank into the nearest chair unbidden. Atsight of her, Atherton became the prey of one of those fantastic repulsionsin which men visit upon women the blame of others' thoughts about them: hecensured her for Halleck's wrong; but in another instant he recognizedhis cruelty, and atoned by relenting a little in his intolerance of herpresence. She sat gazing at him with a face of blank misery, to which hecould not refuse the charity of a prompting question: "Is there something Ican do for you, Mrs. Hubbard?"

"Oh, I don't know, --I don't know!" She had a folded paper in her hands, which lay helpless in her lap. After a moment she resumed, in a hoarse, lowvoice: "They have all begun to come for their money, and this one--this onesays he will have the law of me--I don't know what he means--if I don't payhim. "

Marcia could not know how hard Atherton found it to govern the professionalsuspicion which sprung up at the question of money. But he overruled hissuspicion by an effort that was another relief to the struggle in which hewas wrenching his mind from Miss Kingsbury's outrageous behavior. "Whathave you got there?" he asked gravely, and not unkindly, and being used toprompt the reluctance of lady clients, he put out his hand for the papershe held. It was the bill of the threatening creditor, for indefinitelyrepeated dozens of tivoli beer. 

"Why do they come to _you_ with this?"

"Mr. Hubbard is away. "

"Oh, yes. I heard. When do you expect him home?"

"I don't know. "

"Where is he?"

She looked at him piteously without speaking. 

Atherton stepped to his door, and gave the order forgotten before. Thenhe closed the door, and came back to Marcia. "Don't you know where yourhusband is, Mrs. Hubbard?"

"Oh, he will come back! He _couldn't_ leave me! He's dead, --I know he'sdead; but he will come back! He only went away for the night, and somethingmust have happened to him. "

The whole tragedy of her life for the past fortnight was expressed in thesewild and inconsistent words; she had not been able to reason beyond thepathetic absurdities which they involved; they had the effect of assertionsconfirmed in the belief by incessant repetition, and doubtless she hadsaid them to herself a thousand times. Atherton read in them, not only theconfession of her despair, but a prayer for mercy, which it would havebeen inhuman to deny, and for the present he left her to such refuge fromherself as she had found in them. He said, quietly, "You had better give methat paper, Mrs. Hubbard, " and took the bill from her. "If the others comewith their accounts again, you must send them to me. When did you say Mr. Hubbard left home?"

"The night after the election, " said Marcia. 

"And he didn't say how long he should be gone?" pursued the lawyer, in thefeint that she had known he was going. 

"No, " she answered. 

"He took some things with him?"

"Yes. "

"Perhaps you could judge how long he meant to be absent from thepreparation he made?"

"I've never looked to see. I couldn't!"

Atherton changed the line of his inquiry. "Does any one else know of this?"

"No, " said Marcia, quickly, "I told Mrs. Halleck and all of them thathe was in New York, and I said that I had heard from him. I came to youbecause you were a lawyer, and you would not tell what I told you. "

"Yes, " said Atherton. 

"I want it kept a secret. Oh, do you think he's dead?" she implored. 

"No, " returned Atherton, gravely, "I don't think he's dead. "

"Sometimes it seems to me I could bear it better if I knew he was dead. Ifhe isn't dead, he's out of his mind! He's out of his mind, don't you think, and he's wandered off somewhere?"

She besought him so pitifully to agree with her, bending forward and tryingto read the thoughts in his face, that he could not help saying, "Perhaps. "

A gush of grateful tears blinded her, but she choked down her sobs. 

"I said things to him that night that were enough to drive him crazy. I wasalways the one in fault, but he was always the one to make up first, and henever would have gone away from me if he had known what he was doing! Buthe will come back, I know he will, " she said, rising. "And oh, you won'tsay anything to anybody, will you? And he'll get back before they find out. I will send those men to you, and Bartley will see about it as soon as hecomes home--"

"Don't go, Mrs. Hubbard, " said the lawyer. "I want to speak with youa little longer. " She dropped again in her chair, and looked at himinquiringly. "Have you written to your father about this?"

"Oh, no, " she answered quickly, with an effect of shrinking back intoherself. 

"I think you had better do so. You can't tell when your husband willreturn, and you can't go on in this way. "

"I will never tell _father_, " she replied, closing her lips inexorably. 

The lawyer forbore to penetrate the family trouble he divined. "Are you allalone in the house?" he asked. 

"The girl is there. And the baby. "

"That won't do, Mrs. Hubbard, " said Atherton, with a compassionate shake ofthe head. "You can't go on living there alone. "

"Oh, yes, I can. I'm not afraid to be alone, " she returned with the air ofhaving thought of this. 

"But he may be absent some time yet, " urged the lawyer; "he may be absentindefinitely. You must go home to your father and wait for him there. "

"I can't do that. He must find me here when he comes, " she answered firmly. 

"But how will you stay?" pleaded Atherton; he had to deal with anunreasonable creature who could not be driven, and he must plead. "You haveno money, and how can you live?"

"Oh, " replied Marcia, with the air of having thought of this too, "I willtake boarders. "

Atherton smiled at the hopeless practicality, and shook his head; but hedid not oppose her directly. "Mrs. Hubbard, " he said earnestly, "you havedone well in coming to me, but let me convince you that this is a matterwhich can't be kept. It must be known. Before you can begin to helpyourself, you must let others help you. Either you must go home to yourfather and let your husband find you there--"

"He must find me here, in our own house. "

"Then you must tell your friends here that you don't know where he is, norwhen he will return, and let them advise together as to what can be done. You must tell the Hallecks--"

"I will _never_ tell them!" cried Marcia. "Let me go! I can starve thereand freeze, and if he finds me dead in the house, none of them shall havethe right to blame him, --to say that he left me, --that he deserted hislittle child! Oh! oh! oh! oh! What shall I do?"

The hapless creature shook with the thick-coming sobs that overpowered hernow, and Atherton refrained once more. She did not seem ashamed beforehim of the sorrows which he felt it a sacrilege to know, and in a blindinstinctive way he perceived that in proportion as he was a stranger it waspossible for her to bear her disgrace in his presence. He spoke at lastfrom the hint he found in this fact: "Will you let me mention the matter toMiss Kingsbury?"

She looked at him with sad intensity in the eyes, as if trying to fathomany nether thought that he might have. It must have seemed to her at firstthat he was mocking her, but his words brought her the only relief from herself-upbraiding she had known. To suffer kindness from Miss Kingsbury wouldbe in some sort an atonement to Bartley for the wrong her jealousy had donehim; it would be self-sacrifice for his sake; it would be expiation. "Yes, tell her, " she answered with a promptness whose obscure motive was notillumined by the flash of passionate pride with which she added, "I shallnot care for _her_. "

She rose again, and Atherton did not detain her; but when she had left himhe lost no time in writing to her father the facts of the case as her visithad revealed them. He spoke of her reluctance to have her situation knownto her family, but assured the Squire that he need have no anxiety abouther for the present. He promised to keep him fully informed in regard toher, and to telegraph the first news of Mr. Hubbard. He left the Squire toform his own conjectures, and to take whatever action he thought best. Forhis own part, he had no question that Hubbard had abandoned his wife, andhad stolen Halleck's money; and the detectives to whom he went were clearthat it was a case of European travel. 

XXXV. 

Atherton went from the detectives to Miss Kingsbury, and boldly resistedthe interdict at her door, sending up his name with the message that hewished to see her immediately on business. She kept him waiting while shemade a frightened toilet, and leaving the letter to him which she hadbegun half finished on her desk, she came down to meet him in a flutter ofdespondent conjecture. He took her mechanically yielded hand, and seatedhimself on the sofa beside her. "I sent word that I had come on business, "he said, "but it is no affair of yours, "--she hardly knew whether to feelrelieved or disappointed, --"except as you make all unhappy people's affairsyour own. "

"Oh!" she murmured in meek protest, and at the same time she remotelywondered if these affairs were his. 

"I came to you for help, " he began again, and again she interrupted him indeprecation. 

"You are very good, after--after--what I--what happened, --I'm sure. " Sheput up her fan to her lips, and turned her head a little aside. "Of courseI shall be glad to help you in anything, Mr. Atherton; you know I alwaysam. "

"Yes, and that gave me courage to come to you, even after the way in whichwe parted this morning. I knew you would not misunderstand me"--

"No, " said Clara softly, doing her best to understand him. 

"Or think me wanting in delicacy--"

"Oh, no, no!"

"If I believed that we need not have any embarrassment in meeting in behalfof the poor creature who came to see me just after you left me. The factis, " he went on, "I felt a little freer to promise your interest since Ihad no longer any business relation to you, and could rely on your kindnesslike--like--any other. "

"Yes, " assented Clara, faintly; and she forbore to point out to him, as shemight fitly have done, that he had never had the right to advise or directher at which he hinted, except as she expressly conferred it from time totime. "I shall be only too glad--"

"And I will have a statement of your affairs drawn up to-morrow, and sentto you. " Her heart sank; she ceased to move the fan which she had beenslowly waving back and forth before her face. "I was going to set about itthis morning, but Mrs. Hubbard's visit--"

"Mrs. Hubbard!" cried Clara, and a little air of pique qualified herdespair. 

"Yes; she is in trouble, --the greatest: her husband has deserted her. "

"_Oh_, Mr. Atherton!" Clara's mind was now far away from any concern forherself. The woman whose husband has deserted her supremely appeals to allother women. "I can't believe it! What makes you think so?"

"What she concealed, rather than what she told me, I believe, " answeredAtherton. He ran over the main points of their interview, and summed up hisown conjectures. "I know from things Halleck has let drop that they haven'talways lived happily together; Hubbard has been speculating with borrowedmoney, and he's in debt to everybody. She's been alone in her house for afortnight, and she only came to me because people had begun to press herfor money. She's been pretending to the Hallecks that she hears from herhusband, and knows where he is. "

"Oh, poor, poor thing!" said Clara, too shocked to say more. "Then theydon't know?"

"No one knows but ourselves. She came to me because I was a comparativestranger, and it would cost her less to confess her trouble to me than tothem, and she allowed me to speak to you for very much the same reason. "

"But I know she dislikes me!"

"So much the better! She can't doubt your goodness--"

"Oh!"

"And if she dislikes you, she can keep her pride better with you. "

Clara let her eyes fall, and fingered the edges of her fan. There wasreason in this, and she did not care that the opportunity of usefulness waspersonally unflattering, since he thought her capable of rising above thefact. "What do you want me to do?" she asked, lifting her eyes docilely tohis. 

"You must find some one to stay with her, in her house, till she can bepersuaded to leave it, and you must lend her some money till her father cancome to her or write to her. I've just written to him, and I've told her tosend all her bills to me; but I'm afraid she may be in immediate need. "

"Terrible!" sighed Clara to whom the destitution of an acquaintance wasappalling after all her charitable knowledge of want and suffering. "Ofcourse, we mustn't lose a moment, " she added; but she lingered in hercorner of the sofa to discuss ways and means with him, and to fathom thatsad enjoyment which comfortable people find in the contemplation of aliensorrows. It was not her fault if she felt too kindly toward the disasterthat had brought Atherton back to her on the old terms; or if she arrangedher plans for befriending Marcia in her desolation with too buoyant acheerfulness. But she took herself to task for the radiant smile she foundon her face, when she ran up stairs and looked into her glass to see howshe looked in parting with Atherton: she said to herself that he wouldthink her perfectly heartless. 

She decided that it would be indecent to drive to Marcia's under thecircumstances, and she walked; though with all the time this gave her forreflection she had not wholly banished this smile when she lookedinto Marcia's woe-begone eyes. But she found herself incapable ofthe awkwardnesses she had deliberated, and fell back upon the nativemotherliness of her heart, into which she took Marcia with sympathy thatignored everything but her need of help and pity. Marcia's bruised pridewas broken before the goodness of the girl she had hated, and sheperformed her sacrifice to Bartley's injured memory, not with the haughtyself-devotion which she intended should humiliate Miss Kingsbury, but withthe prostration of a woman spent with watching and fasting and despair. Sheheld Clara away for a moment of scrutiny, and then submitted to the embracein which they recognized and confessed all. 

It was scarcely necessary for Clara to say that Mr. Atherton had told her;Marcia already knew that; and Clara became a partisan of her theory ofBartley's absence almost without an effort, in spite of the facts thatAtherton had suggested to the contrary. "Of _course_! He has wandered offsomewhere, and at soon as he comes to his senses he will hurry home. Why Iwas reading of such a case only the other day, --the case of a minister whowandered off in just the same way, and found himself out in Western NewYork somewhere, after he had been gone three mouths. "

"Bartley won't be gone three months, " protested Marcia. 

"Certainly not!" cried Clara, in severe self-rebuke. Then she talked ofhis return for a while as if it might be expected any moment. "In the meantime, " she added, "you must stay here; you're quite right about that, too, but you mustn't stay here alone: he'd be quite as much shocked at that asif he found you gone when he came back. I'm going to ask you to let myfriend Miss Strong stay with you; and she must pay her board; and you mustlet me lend you all the money you need. And, dear, "--Clara dropped hervoice to a lower and gentler note, --"you mustn't try to keep this from yourfriends. You must let Mr. Atherton write to your father; you must let metell the Hallecks: they'll be hurt if you don't. You needn't be troubled;of _course_ he wandered off in a temporary hallucination, and nobody willthink differently. "

She adopted the fiction of Bartley's aberration with so much fervor thatshe even silenced Atherton's injurious theories with it when he came in theevening to learn the result of her intervention. She had forgotten, orshe ignored, the facts as he had stated them in the morning; she was nowBartley's valiant champion, as well as the tender protector of Marcia: shewas the equal friend of the whole exemplary Hubbard family. 

Atherton laughed, and she asked what he was laughing at. 

"Oh, " he answered, "at something Ben Halleck once said: a real woman canmake righteousness delicious and virtue piquant. "

Clara reflected. "I don't know whether I like that, " she said finally. 

"No?" said Atherton. "Why not?"

She was serving him with an after-dinner cup of tea, which she had broughtinto the drawing-room, and in putting the second lump of sugar into hissaucer she paused again, thoughtfully, holding the little cube in thetongs. She was rather elaborately dressed for so simple an occasion, andher silken train coiled itself far out over the mossy depth of the moquettecarpet; the pale blue satin of the furniture, and the delicate white andgold of the decorations, became her wonderfully. 

"I can't say, exactly. It seems depreciatory, somehow, as a generalization. But a man might say it of the woman he was in love with, " she concluded. 

"And you wouldn't approve of a man's saying it of the woman his friend wasin love with?" pursued Atherton, taking his cup from her. 

"If they were very close friends. " She did not know why, but she blushed, and then grew a little pale. 

"I understand what you mean, " he said, "and I shouldn't have liked thespeech from another kind of man. But Halleck's innocence characterized it. "He stirred his tea, and then let it stand untasted in his abstraction. 

"Yes, he is good, " sighed Clara. "If he were not so good, it would be hardto forgive him for disappointing all their hopes in the way he's done. "

"It's the best thing he could have done, " said Atherton gravely, evenseverely. 

"I know you advised it, " asserted Clara. "But it's a great blow to them. How strange that Mr. Hubbard should have disappeared the last night Ben wasat home! I'm glad that he got away without knowing anything about it. "

Atherton drank off his tea, and refused a second cup with a gesture of hishand. "Yes, so am I, " he said. "I'm glad of every league of sea he putsbehind him. " He rose, as if eager to leave the subject. 

Clara rose too, with the patient acquiescence of a woman, and took his handproffered in parting. They had certainly talked out, but there seemed noreason why he should go. He held her hand, while he asked, "How shall Imake my peace with you?"

"My peace? What for?" She flushed joyfully. "I was the one in fault. "

He looked at her mystified. "Why, surely, _you_ didn't repeat Halleck'sremark?"

"Oh!" she cried indignantly, withdrawing her hand. "I meant _this morning_. It doesn't matter, " she added. "If you still wish to resign the charge ofmy affairs, of course I must submit. But I thought--I thought--" She didnot go on, she was too deeply hurt. Up to this moment she had imagined thatshe had befriended Marcia, and taken all that trouble upon herself forgoodness' sake; but now she was ready to upbraid him for ingratitude in notseeing that she had done it for his sake. "You can send me the statement, and then--and then--I don't know what I _shall_ do! _Why_ do you mind whatI said? I've often said quite as much before, and you know that I didn'tmean it. I want you to take my property back again, and never to mindanything I say: I'm not worth minding. " Her intended upbraiding had cometo this pitiful effect of self-contempt, and her hand somehow was in hisagain. "Do take it back!"

"If I do that, " said Atherton, gravely, "I must make my conditions, " andnow they sat down together on the sofa from which he had risen. "I can't besubjected again to your--disappointments, "--he arrested with a motion ofhis hand the profuse expression of her penitence and good intentions, --"andI've felt for a long time that this was no attitude for your attorney. Youought to have the right to question and censure; but I confess I can'tgrant you this. I've allowed myself to make your interests too much my ownin everything to be able to bear it. I've thought several times that Iought to give up the trust; but it seemed like giving up so much more, thatI never had the courage to do it in cold blood. This morning you gave me mychance to do it in hot blood, and if I resume it, I must make my terms. "

It seemed a long speech to Clara, who sometimes thought she knew whither ittended, and sometimes not. She said in a low voice, "Yes. "

"I must be relieved, " continued Atherton, "of the sense I've had thatit was indelicate in me to keep it, while I felt as I've grown tofeel--towards you. " He stopped: "If I take it back, you must come with it!"he suddenly concluded. 

The inconsistency of accepting these conditions ought to have struck awoman who had so long imagined herself the chase of fortune-hunters. ButClara apparently found nothing alarming in the demand of a man who openlyacted upon his knowledge of what could only have been matter of conjectureto many suitors she had snubbed. She found nothing incongruous in thetransaction, and she said, with as tremulous breath and as swift a pulse asif the question had been solely of herself, "I accept--the conditions. "

In the long, happy talk that lasted till midnight, they did not fail torecognize that, but for their common pity of Marcia, they might haveremained estranged, and they were decently ashamed of their bliss when theythought of misery like hers. When Atherton rose to bid Clara good night, Marcia was still watching for Bartley, indulging for the last time thefolly of waiting for him as if she definitely expected him that night. 

Every night since he disappeared, she had kept the lights burning in theparlor and hall, and drowsed before the fire till the dawn drove her to afew hours of sleep in bed. But with the coming of the stranger who was tobe her companion, she must deny herself even this consolation, and openlyaccept the fact that she no longer expected Bartley at any given time. She bitterly rebelled at the loss of her solitude, in which she could bemiserable in whatever way her sorrow prompted, and the pangs with which shehad submitted to Miss Kingsbury's kindness grew sharper hour by hourtill she maddened in a frenzy of resentment against the cruelty of herexpiation. She longed for the day to come that she might go to her, and take back her promises and her submission, and fling her insultinggood-will in her face. She said to herself that no one should enter herdoor again till Bartley opened it; she would die there in the house, sheand her baby, and as she stood wringing her hands and moaning over thesleeping little one, a hideous impulse made her brain reel; she wished tolook if Bartley had left his pistol in its place; a cry for help againstherself broke from her; she dropped upon her knees. 

The day came, and the hope and strength which the mere light so strangelybrings to the sick in spirit as well as the sick in body visited Marcia. She abhorred the temptation of the night like the remembrance of a wickeddream, and she went about with a humble and grateful prayer--to something, to some one--in her heart. Her housewifely pride stirred again: that girlshould not think she was a slattern; and Miss Strong, when she precededher small trunk in the course of the forenoon, found the parlor and theguest-chamber, which she was to have, swept, and dusted, and set in perfectorder by Marcia's hands. She had worked with fury, and kept her heart-achestill, but it began again at sight of the girl. Fortunately, theconservatory pupil had embraced with even more than Miss Kingsbury's ardorthe theory of Bartley's aberration, and she met Marcia with a sympathy inher voice and eyes that could only have come from sincere conviction. Shewas a simple country thing, who would never be a prima donna; but theoverflowing sentimentality which enabled her to accept herself at theestimate of her enthusiastic fellow-villagers made her of far greatercomfort to Marcia than the sublimest musical genius would have done. Sheworshipped the heroine of so tragic a fact, and her heart began to go outto her in honest helpfulness from the first. She broke in upon the monotonyof Marcia's days with the offices and interests of wholesome commonplace, and exorcised the ghostly silence with her first stroke on thepiano, --which Bartley had bought on the instalment plan and had not yetpaid for. 

In fine, life adjusted itself with Marcia to the new conditions, as it doeswith women less wofully widowed by death, who promise themselves reunionwith their lost in another world, and suffer through the first weeks anddays in the hope that their parting will be for but days or weeks, and thengradually submit to indefinite delay. She prophesied Bartley's return, andfixed it in her own mind for this hour and that. "Now, in the morning, Ishall wake and find him standing by the bed. No, at night he will come inand surprise us at dinner. " She cheated herself with increasing faith ateach renewal of her hopes. When she ceased to formulate them at last, itwas because they had served their end, and left her established, if notcomforted, in the superstition by which she lived. His return at anyhour or any moment was the fetish which she let no misgiving blaspheme;everything in her of woman and of wife consecrated it. She kept the childin continual remembrance of him by talking of him, and by making herrecognize the photographs in which Bartley had abundantly perpetuatedhimself; at night, when she folded the little one's hands for prayer, shemade her pray God to take care of poor papa and send him home soon tomamma. She was beginning to canonize him. 

Her father came to see her as soon as he thought it best after Atherton'sletter; and the old man had to endure talk of Bartley to which all herformer praises were as refreshing shadows of defamation. She required himto agree with everything she said, and he could not refuse; she reproachedhim for being with herself the cause of all Bartley's errors, and he had tobear it without protest. At the end he could say nothing but "Better comehome with me, Marcia, " and he suffered in meekness the indignation withwhich she rebuked him: "I will stay in Bartley's house till he comes backto me. If he is dead, I will die here. "

The old man had satisfied himself that Bartley had absconded in his ownrascally right mind, and he accepted with tacit grimness the theory of thedetectives that he had not gone to Europe alone. He paid back the moneywhich Bartley had borrowed from Halleck, and he set himself as patientlyas he could to bear with Marcia's obstinacy. It was a mania which must beindulged for the time, and he could only trust to Atherton to keephim advised concerning her. When he offered her money at parting, shehesitated. But she finally took it, saying, "Bartley will pay it back, every cent, as soon as he gets home. And if, " she added, "he doesn't getback soon, I will take some other boarders and pay it myself. "

He could see that she was offended with him for asking her to go home. Butshe was his girl; he only pitied her. He shook hands with her as usual, andkissed her with the old stoicism; but his lips, set to fierceness by thelife-long habit of sarcasm, trembled as he turned away. She was eager tohave him go; for she had given him Miss Strong's room, and had taken thegirl into her own, and Bartley would not like it if he came back and foundher there. 

Bartley's disappearance was scarcely a day's wonder with people outsidehis own circle in that time of anxiety for a fair count in Louisiana andFlorida, and long before the Returning Boards had partially relieved thetension of the public mind by their decision he had quite dropped out ofit. The reporters who called at his house to get the bottom facts in thecase, adopted Marcia's theory, given them by Miss Strong, and whatever weretheir own suspicions or convictions, paragraphed him with merciful brevityas having probably wandered away during a temporary hallucination. Theyspoke of the depression of spirits which many of his friends had observedin him, and of pecuniary losses, as the cause. They mentioned his possiblesuicide only to give the report the authoritative denial of his family; andthey added, that the case was in the hands of the detectives, who believedthemselves in possession of important clews. The detectives in factremained constant to their original theory, that Bartley had gone toEurope, and they were able to name with reasonable confidence the personwith whom he had eloped. But these were matters hushed up among the forceand the press. In the mean time, Bartley had been simultaneously seen atMontreal and Cincinnati, at about the same time that an old friend hadcaught a glimpse of him on a train bound westward from Chicago. 

So far as the world was concerned, the surmise with which Marcia savedherself from final despair was the only impression that even vaguelyremained of the affair. Her friends, who had compassionately acquiesced init at first, waited for the moment when they could urge her to relinquishit and go home to her father; but while they waited, she gathered strengthto establish herself immovably in it, and to shape her life more and moreclosely about it. She had no idea, no instinct, but to stay where he hadleft her till he came back. She opposed this singly and solely againstall remonstrance, and treated every suggestion to the contrary as aninstigation to crime. Her father came from time to time during the winterto see her, but she would never go home with him even for a day. She puther plan in force; she took other boarders: other girl students like MissStrong, whom her friends brought her when they found that it was uselessto oppose her and so began to abet her; she worked hard, and she actuallysupported herself at last in a frugal independence. Her father consultedwith Atherton and the Hallecks; he saw that she was with good and faithfulfriends, and he submitted to what he could not help. When the summer came, he made a last attempt to induce her to go home with him. He told her thather mother wished to see her. She would not understand. "I'll come, " shesaid, "if mother gets seriously sick. But I can't go home for the summer. If I hadn't been at home last summer, _he_ would never have got into thatway, and _it_ would never have happened. "

She went home at last, in obedience to a peremptory summons; but her motherwas too far gone to know her when she came. Her quiet, narrow life hadgrown colder and more inward to the end, and it passed without any apparentrevival of tenderness for those once dear to her; the funeral publicitythat followed seemed a final touch of the fate by which all her preferenceshad been thwarted in the world. 

Marcia stayed only till she could put the house in order after they hadlaid her mother to rest among the early reddening sumacs under the hotglare of the August sun; and when she came away, she brought her fatherwith her to Boston, where he spent his days as he might, taking long andaimless walks, devouring heaps of newspapers, rusting in idleness, andaging fast, as men do in the irksomeness of disuse. 

Halleck's father was beginning to show his age, too; and Halleck's motherlived only in her thoughts of him, and her hopes of his return; but hedid not even speak of this in his letters to them. He said very little ofhimself, and they could merely infer that the experiment to which he haddevoted himself was becoming less and less satisfactory. Their sense ofthis added its pang to their unhappiness in his absence. 

One day Marcia said to Olive Halleck, "Has any one noticed that you arebeginning to look like your sisters?"

"_I've_ noticed it, " answered the girl. "I always _was_ an old maid, andnow I'm beginning to show it. "

Marcia wondered if she had not hurt Olive's feelings; but she would neverhave known how to excuse herself; and latterly she had been growing moreand more like her father in certain traits. Perhaps her passion for Bartleyhad been the one spring of tenderness in her nature, and, if ever it werespent, she would stiffen into the old man's stern aridity. 

XXXVI. 

It was nearly two years after Atherton's marriage that Halleck one dayopened the door of the lawyer's private office, and, turning the key in thelock, limped forward to where the latter was sitting at his desk. Halleckwas greatly changed: the full beard that he had grown scarcely hid thesavage gauntness of his face; but the change was not so much in lines andcontours as in that expression of qualities which we call looks. 

"Well, Atherton!"

"Halleck! _You_!"

The friends looked at each other; and Atherton finally broke from his amazeand offered his hand, with an effect, even then, of making conditions. Butit was Halleck who was the first to speak again. 

"How _is_ she? Is she well? Is she still here? Have they heard anythingfrom him yet?"

"No, " said Atherton, answering the last question with the same provisionaleffect as before. 

"Then he is _dead_. That's what I knew; that's what I _said_! And here Iam. The fight is over, and that's the end of it. I'm beaten. "

"You look it, " said Atherton, sadly. 

"Oh, yes; I look it. That's the reason I can afford to be frank, in comingback to my friends. I knew that with this look in my face I should make myown welcome; and it's cordial even beyond my expectations. "

"I'm not glad to see you, Halleck, " said Atherton. "For your own sake Iwish you were at the other end of the world. "

"Oh, I know that. How are my people? Have you seen my father lately? Or mymother? Or--Olive?" A pathetic tremor shook his voice. 

"Why, haven't _you_ seen them yet?" demanded Atherton. 

Halleck laughed cynically. "My dear friend, my steamer arrived thismorning, and I'm just off the New York train. I've hurried to your officein all the impatience of friendship. I'm very lucky to find you here solate in the day! You can take me home to dinner, and let your domestichappiness preach to me. Come, I rather like the notion of that!"

"Halleck, " said Atherton, without heeding his banter, "I wish you would goaway again! No one knows you are here, you say, and no one need ever knowit. "

Halleck set his lips and shook his head, with a mocking smile. "I'msurprised at you, Atherton, with your knowledge of human nature. I'vecome to stay; you must know that. You must know that I had gone througheverything before I gave up, and that I haven't the strength to begin thestruggle over again. I tell you I'm beaten, and I'm glad of it; for thereis rest in it. You would waste your breath, if you talked to me in the oldway; there's nothing in me to appeal to, any more. If I was wrong--But Idon't admit, any more, that I was wrong: by heaven, I was _right_!"

"You _are_ beaten, Halleck, " said Atherton sorrowfully. He pushed himselfback in his chair, and clasped his hands together behind his head, as hishabit was in reasoning with obstinate clients. "What do you propose to do?"

"I propose to stay. "

"What for?"

"What for? Till I can prove that he is dead. "

"And then?"

"Then I shall be free to ask her. " He added angrily, "You know what I'vecome back for: why do you torment me with these questions? I did what Icould; I ran away. And the last night I saw her, I thrust her back intothat hell she called her home, and I told her that no man could be herrefuge from that devil, her husband, --when she had begged me in hermortal terror to go in with her, and save her from him. _That_ was therecollection I had to comfort me when I tried to put her out of mymind, --out of my soul! When I heard that he was gone, I respected her daysof mourning. God knows how I endured it, now it's over; but I did endureit. I waited, and here I am. And you ask me to go away again! Ah!" Hefetched his breath through his set teeth, and struck his fist on his knee. "He is _dead_! And now, if she will, she can marry me. Don't look at me asif I had killed him! There hasn't been a time in these two infernal yearswhen I wouldn't have given my life to save his--for _her_ sake. I knowthat, and that gives me courage, it gives me hope. "

"But if he isn't dead?"

"Then he has abandoned her, and she has the right to be free: she can get adivorce!"

"Oh, " said Atherton, compassionately, "has that poison got into you, Halleck? You might ask her, if she were a widow, to marry you; but how willyou ask her, if she's still a wife, to get a divorce and then marry you?How will you suggest that to a woman whose constancy to her mistake hasmade her sacred to you?" Halleck seemed about to answer; but he onlypanted, dry-lipped and open-mouthed, and Atherton continued: "You wouldhave to corrupt her soul first. I don't know what change you've made inyourself during these two years; you look like a desperate and defeatedman, but you don't look like _that_. You don't _look_ like one of thosescoundrels who lure women from their duty, ruin homes, and destroy society, not in the old libertine fashion in which the seducer had at least thegrace to risk his life, but safely, smoothly, under the shelter of ourinfamous laws. Have you really come back here to give your father's honestname, and the example of a man of your own blameless life, in support ofconditions that tempt people to marry with a mental reservation, and thatweaken every marriage bond with the guilty hope of escape whenever a ficklemind, or secret lust, or wicked will may dictate? Have you come to joinyourself to those miserable spectres who go shrinking through the world, afraid of their own past, and anxious to hide it from those they hold dear;or do you propose to defy the world, to help form within it the communityof outcasts with whom shame is not shame, nor dishonor, dishonor? How willyou like the society of those uncertain men, those certain women?"

"You are very eloquent, " said Halleck, "but I ask you to observe that theselittle abstractions don't interest me. I've a concrete purpose, and Ican't contemplate the effect of other people's actions upon Americancivilization. When you ask me to believe that I oughtn't to try to rescue awoman from the misery to which a villain has left her, simply because somejustice of the peace consecrated his power over her, I decline to be such afool. I use my reason, and I see who it was that defiled and destroyed thatmarriage, and I know that she is as free in the sight of God as if he hadnever lived. If the world doesn't like my open shame, let it look to itsown secret shame, --the marriages made and maintained from interest, andambition, and vanity, and folly. I will take my chance with the men andwomen who have been honest enough to own their mistake, and to try torepair it, and I will preach by my life that marriage has no sanctity butwhat love gives it, and that when love ceases marriage ceases, beforeheaven. If the laws have come to recognize that, by whatever fiction, somuch the better for the laws!" Halleck rose. 

"Well, then, " cried Atherton, rising, too, "you shall meet me on your ownground! This poor creature is constant in every breath she draws to theruffian who has abandoned her. I must believe, since you say it, that youare ready to abet her in getting a divorce, even one of those divorcesthat are 'obtained without publicity, and for any cause, '"--Halleckwinced, --"that you are willing to put your sisters to shame before theworld, to break your mother's heart, and your father's pride, --to insultthe ideal of goodness that she herself has formed of you; but how will youbegin? The love on her part, at least, hasn't ceased: has the marriage?"

"She shall tell me, " answered Halleck. He left Atherton without anotherword, and in resentment that effaced all friendship between them, thoughafter this parting they still kept up its outward forms, and the Athertonstook part in the rejoicings with which the Hallecks celebrated Ben'sreturn. His meeting with the lawyer was the renewal of the old conflict onterms of novel and hopeless degradation. He had mistaken for peace thatexhaustion of spirit which comes to a man in battling with his conscience;he had fancied his struggle over, and he was to learn now that its anguishhad just begun. In that delusion his love was to have been a law to itself, able to loose and to bind, and potent to beat down all regrets, all doubts, all fears, that questioned it; but the words with which Marcia met himstruck his passion dumb. 

"Oh, I am so glad you have come lack!" she said. "Now I know that we canfind him. You were such friends with him, and you understood him so well, that you will know just what to do. Yes, we shall find him now, and weshould have found him long ago if you had been here. Oh, if you had nevergone away! But I can never be grateful enough for what you said to me thatnight when you would not come in with me. The words have rung in my earsever since; they showed that you had faith in him, more faith than I had, and I've made them my rule and my guide. No one has been my refuge fromhim, and no one ever shall be. And I thank you--yes, I thank you on mybended knees--for making me go into the house alone; it's my one comfortthat I had the strength to come back to him, and let him do anything hewould to me, after I had treated him so; but I've never pretended it wasmy own strength. I have always told everybody that the strength came fromyou!"

Halleck had brought Olive with him; she and Marcia's father listened tothese words with the patience of people who had heard them many timesbefore; but at the end Olive glanced at Halleck's downcast face with fondpride in the satisfaction she imagined they must give him. The old manruminated upon a bit of broom straw, and absently let the little girl catchby his hands, as she ran to and fro between him and her mother while hermother talked. Halleck made a formless sound in his throat, for answer, andMarcia went on. 

"I've got a new plan now, but it seems as if father took a pleasure indiscouraging _all_ my plans. I _know_ that Bartley's shut up, somewhere, insome asylum, and I want them to send detectives to all the asylums in theUnited States and in Canada, --you can't tell how far off he would wanderin that state, --and inquire if any stray insane person has been brought tothem. Doesn't it seem to you as if that would be the right way to find him?I want to talk it all over with you, Mr. Halleck, for I know _you_ cansympathize with me; and if need be I will go to the asylums myself; I willwalk to them, I will crawl to them on my knees! When I think of him shut upthere among those raving maniacs, and used as they use people in some ofthe asylums--Oh, oh, oh, oh!"

She broke out into sobs, and caught her little girl to her breast. Thechild must have been accustomed to her mother's tears; she twisted her headround, and looked at Halleck with a laughing face. 

Marcia dried her eyes, and asked, with quivering lips, "Isn't she likehim?"

"Yes, " replied Halleck huskily. 

"She has his long eyelashes exactly, and his hair and complexion, hasn'tshe?"

The old man sat chewing his broom straw in silence; but when Marcia leftthe room to get Bartley's photograph, so that Halleck might see the child'sresemblance to him, her father looked at Halleck from under his beetlingbrows: "I don't think we need trouble the _asylums_ much for BartleyHubbard. But if it was to search the States prisons and the jails, therum-holes and the gambling-hells, or if it was to dig up the scoundrels whohave been hung under assumed names during the last two years, I should havesome hopes of identifying him. "

Marcia came back, and the old man sat in cast-iron quiet, as if he hadnever spoken; it was clear that whatever hate he felt for Bartley he sparedher; and that if he discouraged her plans, as she said, it was because theywere infected by the craze in which she canonized Bartley. 

"You see how she is, " said Olive, when they came away. 

"Yes, yes, yes, " Halleck desolately assented. 

"Sometimes she seems to me just like a querulous, vulgar, middle-aged womanin her talk; she repeats herself in the same scolding sort of way; andshe's so eager to blame somebody besides Bartley for Bartley's wickednessthat, when she can't punish herself, she punishes her father. She'smerciless to that wretched old man, and he's wearing his homesick lifeout here in the city for her sake. You heard her just now, about hisdiscouraging her plans?"

"Yes, " said Halleck, as before. 

"She's grown commoner and narrower, but it's hardly her fault, poor thing, and it seems terribly unjust that she should be made so by what she hassuffered. But that's just the way it has happened. She's so undisciplined, that she couldn't get any good out of her misfortunes; she's only got harm:they've made her selfish, and there seems to be nothing left of what shewas two years ago but her devotion to that miserable wretch. You mustn'tlet it turn you against her, Ben; you mustn't forget what she might havebeen. She had a rich nature; but how it's been wasted, and turned back uponitself! Poor, untrained, impulsive, innocent creature, --my heart aches forher! It's been hard to bear with her at times, terribly hard, and you'llfind it so, Ben. But you _must_ bear with her. The awfulest thing aboutpeople in trouble is that they are such _bores_; they tire you to death. But you'll only have to stand her praises of what Bartley was, and we hadto stand them, and her hopes of what you would be if you were only at home, besides. I don't know what all she expects of you; but you must try not todisappoint her; she worships the ground you tread on, and I really thinkshe believes you can do anything you will, just because you're good. "

Halleck listened in silence. He was indeed helpless to be otherwise thanconstant. With shame and grief in his heart, he could only vow her therethe greater fealty because of the change he found in her. 

He was doomed at every meeting to hear her glorify a man whom he believed aheartless traitor, to plot with her for the rescue from imaginary captivityof the wretch who had cruelly forsaken her. He actually took some of thesteps she urged; he addressed inquiries to the insane asylums, far andnear; and in these futile endeavors, made only with the desire of failure, his own reason seemed sometimes to waver. She insisted that Atherton shouldknow all the steps they were taking; and his sense of his old friend'sexact and perfect knowledge of his motives was a keener torture than evenher father's silent scorn of his efforts, or the worship in which his ownfamily held him for them. 

XXXVII. 

Halleck had come home in broken health, and had promised his family, withthe self-contempt that depraves, not to go away again, since the change haddone him no good. There was no talk for the present of his trying to doanything but to get well; and for a while, under the strong excitement, heseemed to be better. But suddenly he failed; he kept his room, and then hekept his bed; and the weeks stretched into months before he left it. 

When the spring weather came, he was able to go out again, and he spentmost of his time in the open air, feeling every day a fresh accession ofstrength. At the end of one long April afternoon, he walked home witha light heart, whose right to rejoice he would not let his consciencequestion. He had met Marcia in the Public Garden, where they sat down on abench and talked, while her father and the little girl wandered away in therestlessness of age and the restlessness of childhood. 

"We are going home to Equity this summer, " she said, "and perhaps we shallnot come back. No, we shall not come back. _I have given up_. I havewaited, hoping--hoping. But now I know that it is no use waiting anylonger: _he is dead_. " She spoke in tearless resignation, and the peace ofaccepted widowhood seemed to diffuse itself around her. 

Her words repeated themselves to Halleck, as he walked homeward. He foundthe postman at the door with a newspaper, which he took from him with asmile at its veteran appearance, and its probable adventures in reachinghim. The wrapper seemed to have been several times slipped off, and thenslit up; it was tied with a string, now, and was scribbled with rejectionsin the hands of various Hallocks and Halletts, one of whom had finallyindorsed upon it, "Try 97 Rumford Street. " It was originally addressed, ashe made out, to "Mr. B. Halleck, Boston, Mass. , " and he carried it to hisroom before he opened it, with a careless surmise as to its interest forhim. It proved to be a flimsy, shabbily printed country newspaper, with anadvertisement marked in one corner. 

 State of Indiana, Tecumseh County

 In Tecumseh Circuit Court, April Term, 1879. 

 BARTLEY J. HUBBARD

 vs. 

 MARCIA G. HUBBARD. 

 Divorce. No. 5793. 

 It appearing by affidavit this day filed in the office of the Clerk of the Tecumseh Circuit Court, that Marcia G. Hubbard, defendant in the above entitled action for divorce on account of abandonment and gross neglect of duty, is a non-resident of the State of Indiana, notice of the pendency of such action is therefore hereby given said defendant above named, and that the same will be called for answer on the 11th day of April, 1879, the same being the 3d judicial day of the April term of said court, for said year, which said term of said court will begin on the first Monday in April, 1879, and will be held at the Court House, in the town of Tecumseh, in said County and State, said 11th day of April, 1879, being the time fixed by said plaintiff by indorsement on his complaint, at which said time said defendant is required to answer herein. 

 Witness my hand and the seal of the said Court, this 4th day of March, 1879. 

 AUGUSTUS H. HAWKINS, Clerk. 

 SEAL

 Milikin & Ayres, Att'ys for Plff. 

Halleck read this advertisement again and again, with a dull, mechanicalaction of the brain. He saw the familiar names, but they were hopelesslyestranged by their present relation to each other; the legal jargon reachedno intelligence in him that could grasp its purport. 

When his daze began to yield, he took evidence of his own reality by somesuch tests as one might in waking from a long faint. He looked at hishands, his feet; he rose and looked at his face in the glass. Turningabout, he saw the paper where he had left it on the table; it was noillusion. He picked up the cover from the floor, and scanned it anew, trying to remember the handwriting on it, to make out who had sent thispaper to him, and why. Then the address seemed to grow into somethingdifferent under his eye: it ceased to be his name; he saw now that thepaper was directed to Mrs. B. Hubbard, and that by a series of accidentsand errors it had failed to reach her in its wanderings, and by a finalblunder had fallen into his hands. 

Once solved, it was a very simple affair, and he had now but to carry it toher; that was very simple, too. Or he might destroy it; this was equallysimple. Her words repeated themselves once more: "I have given up. He isdead. " Why should he break the peace she had found, and destroy her lastsad illusion? Why should he not spare her the knowledge of this finalwrong, and let the merciful injustice accomplish itself? The questionsseemed scarcely to have any personal concern for Halleck; his temptationwore a heavenly aspect. It softly pleaded with him to forbear, likesomething outside of himself. It was when he began to resist it that hefound it the breath in his nostrils, the blood in his veins. Then the maskdropped, and the enemy of souls put forth his power against this weakspirit, enfeebled by long strife and defeat already acknowledged. 

At the end Halleck opened his door, and called, "Olive, Olive!" in a voicethat thrilled the girl with strange alarm where she sat in her own room. She came running, and found him clinging to his doorpost, pale andtremulous. "I want you--want you to help me, " he gasped. "I want to showyou something--Look here!"

He gave her the paper, which he had kept behind him, clutched fast in hishand as if he feared it might somehow escape him at last, and staggeredaway to a chair. 

His sister read the notice. "Oh, Ben!" She dropped her hands with the paperin them before her, a gesture of helpless horror and pity, and looked athim. "Does _she_ know it? Has she seen it?"

"No one knows it but you and I. The paper was left here for me by mistake. I opened it before I saw that it was addressed to her. "

He panted forth these sentences in an exhaustion that would have terrifiedher, if she had not been too full of indignant compassion for Marcia toknow anything else. She tried to speak. 

"Don't you understand, Olive? This is the notice that the law requires sheshall have to come and defend her cause, and it has been sent by the clerkof the court, there, to the address that villain must have given in theknowledge that it could reach her only by one chance in ten thousand. "

"And it has come to you! Oh, Ben! Who sent it to _you_?" The brother andsister looked at each other, but neither spoke the awestricken thought thatwas in both their hearts. "Ben, " she cried in a solemn ecstasy of love andpride, "I would rather be you this minute than any other man in the world!"

"Don't!" pleaded Halleck. His head dropped, and then he lifted it by asudden impulse. "Olive!"--But the impulse failed, and he only said, "Iwant you to go to Atherton with me. We mustn't lose time. Have Cyrus get acarriage. Go down and tell them we're going out. I'll be ready as soon asyou are. "

But when she called to him from below that the carriage had come and shewas waiting, he would have refused to go with her if he durst. He no longerwished to keep back the fact, but he felt an invalid's weariness of it, asick man's inadequacy to the farther demands it should make upon him. Hecrept slowly down the stairs, keeping a tremulous hold upon the rail; andhe sank with a sigh against the carriage cushions, answering Olive's eagerquestions and fervid comments with languid monosyllables. 

They found the Athertons at coffee, and Clara would have them come to thedining-room and join them. Halleck refused the coffee, and while Olive toldwhat had happened he looked listlessly about the room, aware of a perversesympathy with Bartley, from Bartley's point of view: Bartley might neverhave gone wrong if he had had all that luxury; and why should he not havehad it, as well as Atherton? What right had the untempted prosperity ofsuch a man to judge the guilt of such men as himself and Bartley Hubbard?

Olive produced the newspaper from her lap, where she kept both hands uponit, and opened it to the advertisement in dramatic corroboration of whatshe had been telling Atherton. He read it and passed it to Clara. 

"When did this come to you?"

Olive answered for him. "This evening, --just now. Didn't I say that?"

"No, " said Atherton; and he added to Halleck, gently: "I beg your pardon. Did you notice the dates?"

"Yes, " answered Halleck, with cold refusal of Atherton's tone ofreparation. 

"The cause is set for hearing on the 11th, " said Atherton. "This is the8th. The time is very short. "

"It's long enough, " said Halleck, wearily. 

"Oh, telegraph!" cried Clara. "Telegraph them instantly that she neverdreamt of leaving him! Abandonment! Oh, if they only knew how she had beenslaving her lingers off for the last two years to keep a home for him tocome back to, they'd give _her_ the divorce!"

Atherton smiled and turned to Halleck: "Do you know what their law is, now?It was changed two years ago. "

"Yes, " said Halleck, replying to the question Atherton had asked and thesubtler question he had looked, "I have read up the whole subject since Icame home. The divorce is granted only upon proof, even when the defendantfails to appear, and if this were to go against us, "--he instinctivelyidentified himself with Marcia's cause, --"we can have the default setaside, and a new trial granted, for cause shown. "

The women listened in awe of the legal phrases; but when Atherton rose, andasked, "Is your carriage here?" his wife sprang to her feet. 

"Why, where are you going?" she demanded, anxiously. 

"Not to Indiana, immediately, " answered her husband. "We're first going toClover Street, to see Squire Gaylord and Mrs. Hubbard. Better let me takethe paper, dear, " he said, softly withdrawing it from her hands. 

"Oh, it's a cruel, cruel law!" she moaned, deprived of this moral support. "To suppose that such a notice as this is sufficient! Women couldn't havemade such a law. "

"No, women only profit by such laws after they're made: they work bothways. But it's not such a bad law, as divorce laws go. We do worse, now, insome New England States. "

They found the Squire alone in the parlor, and, with a few words ofexplanation, Atherton put the paper in his hands, and he read the notice inemotionless quiet. Then he took off his spectacles, and shut them in theircase, which he put back into his waistcoat pocket. "This is all right, " hesaid. He cleared his throat, and, lifting the fierce glimmer of his eyes toAtherton's, he asked, drily, "What is the law, at present?"

Atherton briefly recapitulated the points as he had them from Halleck. 

"That's good, " said the old man. "We will fight this, gentlemen. " He rose, and from his gaunt height looked down on both of them, with his sinuouslips set in a bitter smile. "Bartley must have been disappointed when hefound a divorce so hard to get in Indiana. He must have thought that theold law was still in force there. He's not the fellow to swear to a lie ifhe could help it; but I guess he expects to get this divorce by perjury. "

Marcia was putting little Flavia to bed. She heard the talking below;she thought she heard Bartley's name. She ran to the stairs, and camehesitantly down, the old wild hope and wild terror fluttering her pulse andtaking her breath. At sight of the three men, apparently in council, shecrept toward them, holding out her hands before her like one groping hisway. "What--what is it?" She looked from Atherton's face to her father's;the old man stopped, and tried to smile reassuringly; he tried to speak;Atherton turned away. 

It was Halleck who came forward, and took her wandering hands. He held themquivering in his own, and said gravely and steadily, using her name for thefirst time in the deep pity which cast out all fear and shame, "Marcia, wehave found your husband. "

"Dead?" she made with her lips. 

"He is alive, " said Halleck. "There is something in this paper for you tosee, --something you _must_ see--"

"I can bear anything if he is not dead. Where--what is it? Show it to me--"The paper shook in the hands which Halleck released; her eyes strayedblindly over its columns; he had to put his finger on the place before shecould find it. Then her tremor ceased, and she seemed without breath orpulse while she read it through. She fetched a long, deep sigh, and passedher hand over her eyes, as if to clear them; staying herself unconsciouslyagainst Halleck's breast, and laying her trembling arm along his arm tillher fingers knit themselves among his fingers, she read it a second timeand a third. Then she dropped the paper, and turned to look up at him. "Why!" she cried, as if she had made it out at last, while an awful, joyfullight of hope flashed into her face. "_It is a mistake_! Don't you see? Hethinks that I never came back! He thinks that I meant to abandon him. ThatI--that I--But you _know_ that I came back, --you came back _with_ me! Why, I wasn't gone an hour, --a _half_-hour, hardly. Oh, Bartley, poor Bartley!He thought I could leave him, and take his child from him; that I couldbe so wicked, so heartless--Oh, no, no, no! Why, I only stayed away thatlittle time because I was _afraid_ to go back! Don't you remember how Itold you I was afraid, and wanted you to come in with me?" Her exaltationbroke in a laugh. "But we can explain it now, and it will be all right. Hewill see--he will understand--I will tell him just how it was--Oh, Flavia, Flavia, we've found papa, we've found papa! Quick!"

She whirled away toward the stairs, but her father caught her by the arm. "Marcia!" he shouted, in his old raucous voice, "You've got to understand!This"--he hesitated, as if running over all terms of opprobrium in hismind, and he resumed as if he had found them each too feeble--"_Bartley_hasn't acted under any mistake. "

He set the facts before her with merciless clearness, and she listened withan audible catching of the breath at times, while she softly smoothed herforehead with her left hand. "I don't believe it, " she said when he hadended. "Write to him, tell him what I say, and you will see. "

The old man uttered something between a groan and a curse. "Oh, you poor, crazy child! Can nothing make you understand that Bartley wants to get ridof you, and that he's just as ready for one lie as another? He thinkshe can make out a case of abandonment with the least trouble, and so heaccuses you of that, but he'd just as soon accuse you of anything else. _Write_ to him? You've got to _go_ to him! You've got to go out there andfight him in open court, with facts and witnesses. Do you suppose BartleyHubbard wants any explanation from you? Do you think he's been waitingthese two years to hear that you didn't really abandon him, but came backto this house an hour after you left it, and that you've waited for himhere ever since? When he knows that, will he withdraw this suit of his andcome home? He'll want the proof, and the way to do is to go out there andlet him have it. If I had him on the stand for five minutes, " said theold man between his set teeth, --"_just five minutes_, --I'd undertake toconvince him from his own lips that he was wrong about you! But I am afraidhe wouldn't mind a letter! You think I say so because I hate him; and youdon't believe me. Well, ask either of these gentlemen here whether I'mtelling you the truth. "

She did not speak, but, with a glance at their averted faces, she sank intoa chair, and passed one hand over the other, while she drew her breath inlong, shuddering respirations, and stared at the floor with knit brows andstarting eyes, like one stifling a deadly pang. She made several attemptsto speak before she could utter any sound; then she lifted her eyes to herfather's: "Let us--let us--go--home! Oh, let us go home! I will givehim up. I _had_ given him up already; I told you, " she said, turning toHalleck, and speaking in a slow, gentle tone, "only an hour ago, that hewas dead. And this--this that's happened, it makes no difference. Why didyou bring the paper to me when you knew that I thought he was dead?"

"God knows I wished to keep it from you. "

"Well, no matter now. Let him go free if he wants to. I can't help it. "

"You _can_ help it, " interrupted her father. "You've got the facts on yourside, and you've got the witnesses!"

"Would you go out with me, and tell him that I never meant to leave him?"she asked simply, turning to Halleck. "You--and Olive?"

"We would do anything for you, Marcia!"

She sat musing, and drawing her hands one over the other again, while herquivering breath came and went on the silence. She let her hands fallnervelessly on her lap. "I can't go; I'm too weak; I couldn't bear thejourney. No!" She shook her head. "I can't go!"

"Marcia, " began her father, "it's your _duty_ to go!"

"Does it say in the law that I have to go, if I don't choose?" she asked ofHalleck. 

"No, you certainly need not go, if you don't choose!"

"Then I will stay. Do you think it's my duty to go?" she asked, referringher question first to Halleck and then to Atherton. She turned from thesilence by which they tried to leave her free. "I don't care for my duty, any more. I don't want to keep him, if it's so that he--left me--and--andmeant it--and he doesn't--care for me any--more. "

"Care for you? He never cared for you, Marcia! And you may be sure hedoesn't care for you now. "

"Then let him go, and let us go home. "

"Very well!" said the old man. "We will go home, then, and before theweek's out Bartley Hubbard will be a perjured bigamist. "

"Bigamist?" Marcia leaped to her feet. 

"Yes, bigamist! Don't you suppose he had his eye on some other woman outthere before he began this suit?"

The languor was gone from Marcia's limbs. As she confronted her father, thewonderful likeness in the outline of their faces appeared. His was dark andwrinkled with age, and hers was gray with the anger that drove the bloodback to her heart, but one impulse animated those fierce profiles, andthe hoarded hate in the old man's soul seemed to speak in Marcia's thickwhisper, "I will go. "

XXXVIII. 

The Athertons sat late over their breakfast in the luxurious dining-roomwhere the April sun came in at the windows overlooking the Back Bay, andcommanding at that stage of the tide a long stretch of shallow with aflight of white gulls settled upon it. 

They had let Clara's house on the hill, and she had bought another on thenew land; she insisted upon the change, not only because everybody wasleaving the hill, but also because, as she said, it would seem too muchlike taking Mr. Atherton to board, if they went to housekeeping where shehad always lived; she wished to give him the effect before the world ofhaving brought her to a house of his own. She had even furnished it anewfor the most part, and had banished as far as possible the things thatreminded her of the time when she was not his wife. He humored her in thisfantastic self-indulgence, and philosophized her wish to give him theappearance of having the money, as something orderly in its origin, and notto be deprecated on other grounds, since probably it deceived nobody. Theylived a very tranquil life, and Clara had no grief of her own unless it wasthat there seemed to be no great things she could do for him. One day whenshe whimsically complained of this, he said: "I'm very glad of that. Let'stry to be equal to the little sacrifices we must make for each other;they will be quite enough. Many a woman who would be ready to die for herhusband makes him wretched because she won't live for him. Don't despisethe day of small things. "

"Yes, but when every day seems the day of small things!" she pouted. 

"Every day _is_ the day of small things, " said Atherton, "with peoplewho are happy. We're never so prosperous as when we can't remember whathappened last Monday. "

"Oh, but I can't bear to be always living in the present. "

"It's not so spacious, I know, as either the past or the future, but it'sall we have. "

"There!" cried Clara. "That's _fatalism_! It's _worse_ than fatalism!"

"And is fatalism so very bad?" asked her husband. 

"It's Mahometanism!"

"Well, it isn't necessarily a plurality of wives, " returned Atherton, insubtle anticipation of her next point. "And it's really only another namefor resignation, which is certainly a good thing. "

"Resignation? Oh, I don't know about that!"

Atherton laughed, and put his arm round her waist: an argument that nowoman can answer in a man she loves; it seems to deprive her of herreasoning faculties. In the atmosphere of affection which she breathed, shesometimes feared that her mental powers were really weakening. As a girlshe had lived a life full of purposes, which, if somewhat vague, wereunquestionably large. She had then had great interests, --art, music, literature, --the symphony concerts, Mr. Hunt's classes, the novels ofGeorge Eliot, and Mr Fiske's lectures on the cosmic philosophy; and she hadalways felt that they expanded and elevated existence. In her moments ofquestion as to the shape which her life had taken since, she tried to thinkwhether the happiness which seemed so little dependent on these things wasnot beneath the demands of a spirit which was probably immortal and wascertainly cultivated. They all continued to be part of her life, but onlya very small part; and she would have liked to ask her husband whether hisinfluence upon her had been wholly beneficial. She was not sure thatit had; but neither was she sure that it had not. She had never fullyconsented to the distinctness with which he classified all her emotions andideas as those of a woman: in her heart she doubted whether a great many ofthem might not be those of a man, though she had never found any of themexactly like his. She could not complain that he did not treat her as anequal; he deferred to her, and depended upon her good sense to an extentthat sometimes alarmed her, for she secretly knew that she had a very largestreak of silliness in her nature. He seemed to tell her everything, and tobe greatly ruled by her advice, especially in matters of business; but shecould not help observing that he often kept matters involving certain moralquestions from her till the moment for deciding them was past. When sheaccused him of this, he confessed that it was so; but defended himselfby saying that he was afraid her conscience might sway him against hisjudgment. 

Clara now recurred to these words of his as she sat looking at him throughher tears across the breakfast table. "Was that the reason you never toldme about poor Ben before?"

"Yes, and I expect you to justify me. What good would it have done to tellyou?"

"I could have told you, at least, that, if Ben had any such feeling asthat, it wasn't _his_ fault altogether. "

"But you wouldn't have believed that, Clara, " said Atherton. "You knowthat, whatever that poor creature's faults are, coquetry isn't one ofthem. "

Clara only admitted the fact passively. "How did he excuse himself forcoming back?" she asked. 

"He didn't excuse himself; he defied himself. We had a stormy talk, and heended by denying that he had any social duty in the matter. "

"And I think he was quite right!" Clara flashed out. "It was his ownaffair. "

"He said he had a concrete purpose, and wouldn't listen to abstractions. Yes, he talked like a woman. But you know he wasn't right, Clara, though_you_ talk like a woman, too. There are a great many things that are notwrong except as they wrong others. I've no doubt that, as compared with thehighest love her husband ever felt for her, Ben's passion was as light todarkness. But if he could only hope for its return through the perversionof her soul, --through teaching her to think of escape from her marriage bya divorce, --then it was a crime against her and against society. "

"Ben couldn't do such a thing!"

"No, he could only dream of doing it. When it came to the attempt, everything that was good in him revolted against it and conspired to makehim help her in the efforts that would defeat his hopes if they succeeded. It was a ghastly ordeal, but it was sublime; and when the climaxcame, --that paper, which he had only to conceal for a few days orweeks, --he was equal to the demand upon him. But suppose a man of his puretraining and traditions had yielded to temptation, --suppose he had so fardepraved himself that he could have set about persuading her that she owedno allegiance to her husband, and might rightfully get a divorce and marryhim, --what a ruinous blow it would have been to all who knew of it! Itwould have disheartened those who abhorred it, and encouraged those whowanted to profit by such an example. It doesn't matter much, socially, whatundisciplined people like Bartley and Marcia Hubbard do; but if a manlike Ben Halleck goes astray, it's calamitous; it 'confounds the humanconscience, ' as Victor Hugo says. All that careful nurture in the rightsince he could speak, all that life-long decency of thought and act, thatnoble ideal of unselfishness and responsibility to others, trampled underfoot and spit upon, --it's horrible!"

"Yes, " answered Clara, deeply moved, even as a woman may be in a prettybreakfast-room, "and such a good soul as Ben always was naturally. Will youhave some more tea?"

"Yes, I will take another cup. But as for natural goodness--"

"Wait! I will ring for some hot water. "

When the maid had appeared, disappeared, reappeared, and finally vanished, Atherton resumed. "The natural goodness doesn't count. The natural man is awild beast, and his natural goodness is the amiability of a beast baskingin the sun when his stomach is full. The Hubbards were full of naturalgoodness, I dare say, when they didn't happen to cross each other's wishes. No, it's the implanted goodness that saves, --the seed of righteousnesstreasured from generation to generation, and carefully watched and tendedby disciplined fathers and mothers in the hearts where they have droppedit. The flower of this implanted goodness is what we call civilization, the condition of general uprightness that Halleck declared he owed noallegiance to. But he was better than his word. "

Atherton lifted, with his slim, delicate hand, the cup of translucentchina, and drained off the fragrant Souchong, sweetened, and tempered withJersey cream to perfection. Something in the sight went like a pang to hiswife's heart. "Ah!" she said, "it is easy enough for us to condemn. _We_have everything we want!"

"I don't forget that, Clara, " said Atherton, gravely. "Sometimes whenI think of it, I am ready to renounce all judgment of others. Theconsciousness of our comfort, our luxury, almost paralyzes me at thosetimes, and I am ashamed and afraid even of our happiness. "

"Yes, what right, " pursued Clara, rebelliously, "have we to be happy andunited, and these wretched creatures so--"

"No right, --none in the world! But somehow the effects follow their causes. In some sort they chose misery for themselves, --we make our own hell inthis life and the next, --or it was chosen for them by undisciplined willsthat they inherited. In the long run their fate must be a just one. "

"Ah, but I have to look at things in the _short_ run, and I can't see anyjustice in Marcia's husband using her so!" cried Clara. "Why shouldn'tyou use me badly? I don't believe that any woman ever meant better by herhusband than she did. "

"Oh, the meaning doesn't count! It's our deeds that judge us. He is athoroughly bad fellow, but you may be sure she has been to blame. Though Idon't blame the Hubbards, either of them, so much as I blame Halleck. Henot only had everything he wished, but the training to know what he oughtto wish. "

"I don't know about his having everything. I think Ben must have beendisappointed, some time, " said Clara, evasively. 

"Oh, that's nothing, " replied Atherton, with the contented husband'sindifference to sentimental grievances. 

Clara did not speak for some moments, and then she summed up a turmoil ofthoughts in a profound sigh. "Well, I don't like it! I thought it was badenough having a man, even on the outskirts of my acquaintance, abandon hiswife; but now Ben Halleck, who has been like a brother to me, to have himmixed up in such an affair in the way he is, it's intolerable!"

"I agree with you, " said Atherton, playing with his spoon. "You know how Ihate anything that sins against order, and this whole thing is disorderly. It's intolerable, as you say. But we must bear our share of it. We're allbound together. No one sins or suffers to himself in a civilized state, --orreligious state; it's the same thing. Every link in the chain feels theeffect of the violence, more or less intimately. We rise or fall togetherin Christian society. It's strange that it should be so hard to realizea thing that every experience of life teaches. We keep on thinking ofoffences against the common good as if they were abstractions!"

"Well, _one_ thing, " said Clara, "I shall always think unnecessarilyshocking and disgraceful about it. And that is Ben's going out with her onthis journey. I don't see how you could allow that, Eustace. "

"Yes, " said Atherton, after a thoughtful silence, "it _is_ shocking. Theonly consolation is that it is _not_ unnecessarily shocking. I'm afraidthat it's necessarily so. When any disease of soul or body has gonefar enough, it makes its own conditions, and other things must adjustthemselves to it. Besides, no one knows the ugliness of the situation butHalleck himself. I don't see how I could have interfered; and upon thewhole I don't know that I ought to have interfered, if I could. She wouldbe helpless without him; and he can get no harm from it. In fact, it's partof his expiation, which must have begun as soon as he met her again afterhe came home. "

Clara was convinced, but not reconciled. She only said, "I don't like it. "

Her husband did not reply; he continued musingly: "When the old manmade that final appeal to her jealousy, --all that there is really left, probably, of her love for her husband, --and she responded with a face aswicked as his, I couldn't help looking at Halleck--"

"Oh, poor Ben! _How_ did he take it? It must have scared, it must havedisgusted him!"

"That's what I had expected. But there was nothing in his face but pity. Heunderstood, and he pitied her. That was all. "

Clara rose, and turned to the window, where she remained looking throughher tears at the gulls on the shallow. It seemed much more than twenty-fourhours since she had taken leave of Marcia and the rest at the station, andsaw them set out on their long journey with its uncertain and unimaginableend. She had deeply sympathized with them all, but at the same time shehad felt very keenly the potential scandalousness of the situation; sheshuddered inwardly when she thought what if people knew; she had alwaysrevolted from contact with such social facts as their errand involved. Shegot Olive aside for a moment, and asked her, "Don't you _hate_ it, Olive?Did you ever dream of being mixed up in such a thing? I should die, --simply_die_!"

"I shall not think of dying, unless we fail, " answered Olive. "And, as forhating it, I haven't consulted my feelings a great deal; but I rather thinkI like it. "

"Like going out to be a witness in an Indiana divorce case!"

"I don't look at it in that way, Clara. It's a crusade to me; it's a holywar; it's the cause of an innocent woman against a wicked oppression. Iknow how _you_ would feel about it, Clara; but I never _was_ as respectableas you are, and I'm quite satisfied to do what Ben, and father, and Mr. Atherton approve. They think it's my duty, and I am glad to go, and to beof all the use I can. But you shall have my heartfelt sympathy through all, Clara, for your involuntary acquaintance with our proceedings. "

"Olive! You _know_ that I'm proud of your courage and Ben's goodness, andthat I fully appreciate the sacrifice you're making. And I'm not ashamedof your business: I think it's grand and sublime, and I would just as soonscream it out at the top of my voice, right here in the Albany depot. "

"Don't, " said Olive. "It would frighten the child. " She had Flavia bythe hand, and she made the little girl her special charge throughout thejourney. The old Squire seemed anxious to be alone, and he restlesslyescaped from Marcia's care. He sat all the first day apart, chewing uponsome fragment of wood that he had picked up, and now and then putting upa lank hand to rasp his bristling jaw; glancing furtively at people whopassed him, and lapsing into his ruminant abstraction. He had been vexedthat they did not start the night before; and every halt the train madevisibly afflicted him. He would not leave his place to get anything to eatwhen they stopped for refreshment, though he hungrily devoured the lunchthat Marcia brought into the car for him. At New York he was in a tumult offear lest they should lose the connecting train on the Pennsylvania Road;and the sigh of relief with which he sank into his seat in the sleeping-carexpressed the suffering he had undergone. He said he was not tired, but hewent to bed early, as if to sleep away as much of the time as he could. 

When Halleck came into their car, the next morning, he found Marcia and herfather sitting together, and looking out of the window at the wooded slopesof the Alleghanies through which the train was running. The old man'simpatience had relaxed; he let Marcia lay her hand on his, and he answeredher with quiet submission, when she spoke now and then of the differencebetween these valleys, where the wild rhododendrons were growing, and thefrozen hollows of the hills at home, which must be still choked with snow. 

"But, oh! how much I would rather see them!" she said at last with ahomesick throb. 

"Well, " he assented, "we can go right back--afterwards. "

"Yes, " she whispered. 

"Well, sir, good morning, " said the old man to Halleck, "we are gettingalong, sir. At this rate, unless our calculations were mistaken, we shallbe there by midnight. We are on time, the porter tells me. "

"Yes, we shall soon be at Pittsburg, " said Halleck, and he looked atMarcia, who turned away her face. She had not spoken of the object of thejourney to him since they had left Boston, and it had not been so nearlytouched by either of them before. 

He could see that she recoiled from it, but the old man, once havingapproached it, could not leave it. "If everything goes well, we shall haveour grip on that fellow's throat in less than forty-eight hours. " He lookeddown mechanically at his withered hands, lean and yellow like the talons ofa bird, and lifted his accipitral profile with a predatory alertness. "Ididn't sleep very well the last part of the night, but I thought it allout. I sha'n't care whether I get there before or after judgment isrendered; all I want is to get there before he has a chance to clear out. I think I shall be able to convince Bartley Hubbard that there is a Godin Israel yet! Don't you be anxious, Marcia; I've got this thing at myfingers' ends, as clear as a bell. I intend to give Bartley a littlesurprise!"

Marcia kept her face averted, and Halleck relinquished his purpose ofsitting down with them, and went forward to the state-room that Marcia andOlive had occupied with the little girl. He tapped on the door, and foundhis sister dressed, but the child still asleep. 

"What is the matter, Ben?" she asked. "You don't look well. You oughtn't tohave undertaken this journey. "

"Oh, I'm all right. But I've been up a good while, with nothing to eat. That old man is terrible. Olive!"

"Her father? Yes, he's a terrible old man!"

"It sickened me to hear him talk, just now, --throwing out his threats ofvengeance against Hubbard. It made me feel a sort of sympathy for that poordog. Do you suppose she has the same motive? I couldn't forgive her!" hesaid, with a kind of passionate weakness. "I couldn't forgive myself!"

"We've got nothing to do with their motive, Ben. We are to be her witnessesfor justice against a wicked wrong. I don't believe in special providences, of course; but it does seem as if we had been called to this work, asmother would say. Your happening to go home with her, that night, and thenthat paper happening to come to you, --doesn't it look like it?"

"It looks like it, yes. "

"We couldn't have refused to come. That's what consoles me for being herethis minute. I put on a bold face with Clara Atherton, yesterday morning atthe depot; but I was in a cold chill, all the time. Our coming off, in thisway, on such an errand, is something so different from the rest of ourwhole life! And I _do_ like quiet, and orderly ways, and all that we callrespectability! I've been thinking that the trial will be reported by somesuch interviewing wretch as Bartley himself, and that we shall figure inthe newspapers. But I've concluded that we mustn't care. It's right, and wemust do it. I don't shut my eyes to the kind of people we're mixed up with. I pity Marcia, and I love her--poor, helpless, unguided thing!--but thatold man _is_ terrible! He's as cruel as the grave where he thinks he's beenwronged, and crueller where he thinks _she's_ been wronged. You've forgivenso much, Ben, that you can't understand a man who forgives nothing; but_I_ can, for I'm a pretty good hater, myself. And Marcia's just like herfather, at times. I've seen her look at Clara Atherton as if she could killher!"

The little girl stirred in her berth, and then lifted herself on her hands, and stared round at them through her tangled golden hair. "Is it morning, yet?" she asked sleepily. "Is it to-morrow?"

"Yes; it's to-morrow, Flavia, " said Olive. "Do you want to get up?"

"And is next day the day after to-morrow?"

"Yes. "

"Then it's only one day till I shall see papa. That's what mamma said. Where is mamma?" asked the child, rising to her knees, and sweeping backher hair from her face with either hand. 

"I will go and send her to you, " said Halleck. 

At Pittsburg the Squire was eager for his breakfast, and made amends forhis fast of the day before. He ate grossly of the heterogeneous abundanceof the railroad restaurant, and drank two cups of coffee that in his thin, native air would have disordered his pulse for a week. But he resumed hisjourney with a tranquil strength that seemed the physical expression of amind clear and content. He was willing and even anxious to tell Halleckwhat his theories and plans were; but the young man shrank from knowingthem. He wished only to know whether Marcia were privy to them, and this, too, he shrank from knowing. 

XXXIX. 

They left Pittsburg under the dun pall of smoke that hangs perpetually overthe city, and ran out of a world where the earth seemed turned to slag andcinders, and the coal grime blackened even the sheathing from which theyoung leaves were unfolding their vivid green. Their train twisted alongthe banks of the Ohio, and gave them now and then a reach of the stream, forgetful of all the noisy traffic that once fretted its waters, and losingitself in almost primitive wildness among its softly rounded hills. It is abeautiful land, and it had, even to their loath eyes, a charm that touchedtheir hearts. They were on the borders of the illimitable West, whose landsstretch like a sea beyond the hilly Ohio shore; but as yet this vastness, which appalls and wearies all but the born Westerner, had not burst uponthem; they were still among heights and hollows, and in a milder and softerNew England. 

"I have a strange feeling about this journey, " said Marcia, turning fromthe window at last, and facing Halleck on the opposite seat. "I want it tobe over, and yet I am glad of every little stop. I feel like some one thathas been called to a death-bed, and is hurrying on and holding back withall her might, at the same time. I shall have no peace till I am there, and then shall I have peace?" She fixed her eyes imploringly on his. "Saysomething to me, if you can! What do you think?"

"Whether you will--succeed?" He was confounding what he knew of herfather's feeling with what he had feared of hers. 

"Do you mean about the lawsuit? I don't care for that! Do you think he willhate me when he sees me? Do you think he will believe me when I tell himthat I never meant to leave him, and that I'm sorry for what I did to drivehim away?"

She seemed to expect him to answer, and he answered as well as he could:"He ought to believe that, --yes, he must believe it. "

"Then all the rest may go, " she said. "I don't care who gains the case. But if he shouldn't believe me, --if he should drive me away from him, asI drove him from me--" She held her breath in the terror of such apossibility, and an awe of her ignorance crept over Halleck. Apparently shehad not understood the step that Bartley had taken, except as a stage intheir quarrel from which they could both retreat, if they would, as easilyas from any other dispute; she had not realized it as a final, an almostirrevocable act on his part, which could only be met by reprisal on hers. All those points of law which had been so sharply enforced upon her musthave fallen blunted from her longing to be at one with him; she had, perhaps, not imagined her defence in open court, except as a sort of publicreconciliation. 

But at another time she recurred to her wrongs in all the bitterness of herfather's vindictive purpose. A young couple entered the car at one of thecountry stations, and the bride made haste to take off her white bonnet, and lay her cheek on her husband's shoulder, while he passed his arm roundher silken waist, and drew her close to him on the seat, in the lovingrapture which is no wise inconvenienced by publicity on our railroadtrains. Indeed, after the first general recognition of their condition, noone noticed them except Marcia, who seemed fascinated by the spectacle oftheir unsophisticated happiness; it must have recalled the blissful abandonof her own wedding journey to her. "Oh, poor fool!" she said to Olive. "Lether wait, and it will not be long before she will know that she had betterlean on the empty air than on him. Some day, he will let her fall to theground, and when she gathers herself up all bruised and bleeding--But hehasn't got the all-believing simpleton to deal with that he used to have;and he shall pay me back for all--drop by drop, and ache for ache!"

She was in that strange mental condition into which women fall who broodlong upon opposing purposes and desires. She wished to be reconciled, andshe wished to be revenged, and she recurred to either wish for the time asvehemently as if the other did not exist. She took Flavia on her knee, andbegan to prattle to her of seeing papa to-morrow, and presently she turnedto Olive, and said: "I know he will find us both a great deal changed. Flavia looks so much older, --and so do I. But I shall soon show him that Ican look young again. I presume he's changed too. "

Marcia held the little girl up at the window. They had now left the riverhills and the rolling country beyond, and had entered the great plain whichstretches from the Ohio to the Mississippi; and mile by mile, as they ransouthward and westward, the spring unfolded in the mellow air under thedull, warm sun. The willows were in perfect leaf, and wore their delicategreen like veils caught upon their boughs; the may-apples had alreadypitched their tents in the woods, beginning to thicken and darken with theyoung foliage of the oaks and hickories; suddenly, as the train dashedfrom a stretch of forest, the peach orchards flushed pink beside the brickfarmsteads. The child gave a cry of delight, and pointed; and her motherseemed to forget all that had gone before, and abandoned herself toFlavia's joy in the blossoms, as if there were no trouble for her in theworld. 

Halleck rose and went into the other car; he felt giddy, as if herfluctuations of mood and motive had somehow turned his own brain. He didnot come back till the train stopped at Columbus for dinner. The old Squireshowed the same appetite as at breakfast: he had the effect of falling uponhis food like a bird of prey; and as soon as the meal was despatched hewent back to his seat in the car, where he lapsed into his former silenceand immobility, his lank jaws working with fresh activity upon the woodentoothpick he had brought away from the table. While they waited for a trainfrom the north which was to connect with theirs, Halleck walked up and downthe vast, noisy station with Olive and Marcia, and humored the little girlin her explorations of the place. She made friends with a red-bird thatsang in its cage in the dining-hall, and with an old woman, yellow, andwrinkled, and sunken-eyed, sitting on a bundle tied up in a quilt besidethe door, and smoking her clay pipe, as placidly as if on her own cabinthreshold. "'Pears like you ain't much afeard of strangers, honey, " saidthe old woman, taking her pipe out of her mouth, to fill it. "Where do youlive at when you're home?"

"Boston, " said the child, promptly. "Where do _you_ live?"

"I _used_ to live in Old Virginny. But my son, he's takin' me out toIllinoy, now. He's settled out there. " She treated the child with theserious equality which simple old people use with children; and spat neatlyaside in resuming her pipe. "Which o' them ladies yender is your maw, honey?"

"My mamma?"

The old woman nodded. 

Flavia ran away and laid her hand on Marcia's dress, and then ran back tothe old woman. 

"That your paw, with her?" Flavia looked blank, and the old womaninterpreted, "Your father. "

"No! We're going out to see papa, --out West. We're going to see himto-morrow, and then he's coming back with us. My grandpa is in that car. "

The old woman now laid her folded arms on her knees, and smokedobliviously. The little girl lingered a moment, and then ran off laughingto her mother, and pulled her skirt. "Wasn't it funny, mamma? She thoughtMr. Halleck was my papa!" She hung forward by the hold she had taken, aschildren do, and tilted her head back to look into her mother's face. "What_is_ Mr. Halleck, mamma?"

"What is he?" The group halted involuntarily. 

"Yes, what is he? Is he my uncle, or my cousin, or what? Is _he_ goingout to see papa, too? What is _he_ going for? Oh, look, look!" The childplucked away her hand, and ran off to join the circle of idle men andhalf-grown boys who were forming about two shining negroes with banjos. The negroes flung their hands upon the strings with an ecstatic joy in themusic, and lifted their black voices in a wild plantation strain. The childbegan to leap and dance, and her mother ran after her. 

"Naughty little girl!" she cried. "Come into the car with me, this minute. "

Halleck did not see Marcia again till the train had run far out of thecity, and was again sweeping through the thick woods, and flashing out uponthe levels of the fields where the farmers were riding their sulky-plowsup and down the long furrows in the pleasant afternoon sun. There wassomething in this transformation of man's old-time laborious dependenceinto a lordly domination over the earth which strikes the westwardjourneyer as finally expressive of human destiny in the whole mightyregion, and which penetrated even to Halleck's sore and jaded thoughts. A different type of men began to show itself in the car, as the Westernpeople gradually took the places of his fellow-travellers from the East. The men were often slovenly and sometimes uncouth in their dress; but theymade themselves at home in the exaggerated splendor and opulence of thecar, as if born to the best in every way; their faces suggested thesecurity of people who trusted the future from the past, and had no fearsof the life that had always used them well; they had not that eager andintense look which the Eastern faces wore; there was energy enough and tospare in them, but it was not an anxious energy. The sharp accent of theseaboard yielded to the rounded, soft, and slurring tones, and the promptaddress was replaced by a careless and confident neighborliness of manner. 

Flavia fretted at her return to captivity in the car, and demanded to bereleased with a teasing persistence from which nothing she was shown out ofthe window could divert her. A large man leaned forward at last from a seatnear by, and held out an orange. "Come here to me, little Trouble, " hesaid; and Flavia made an eager start toward this unlooked-for friend. 

Marcia wished to check her; but Halleck pleaded to have her go. "It will bea relief to you, " he said. 

"Well, let her go, " Marcia consented. "But she was no trouble, and she isno relief. " She sat looking dully at the little girl after the Westernerhad gathered her up into his lap. "Should I have liked to tell her, " shesaid, as if thinking aloud, "how we were really going to meet her father, and that you were coming with me to be my witness against him in acourt, --to put him down and disgrace him, --to fight him, as father says?"

"You mustn't think of it in that way, " said Halleck, gently, but, as hefelt, feebly and inadequately. 

"Oh, I shall not think of it in that way long, " she answered. "My head isin a whirl, and I can't hold what we're doing before my mind in any oneshape for a minute at a time. I don't know what will become of me, --I don'tknow what will become of me!"

But in another breath she rose from this desolation, and was talking withimpersonal cheerfulness of the sights that the car-window showed. As longas the light held, they passed through the same opulent and monotonouslandscape; through little towns full of signs of material prosperity, and then farms, and farms again; the brick houses set in the midst ofevergreens, and compassed by vast acreages of corn land, where herds ofblack pigs wandered, and the farmers were riding their ploughs, or heapinginto vast windrows for burning the winter-worn stalks of the last year'scrop. Where they came to a stream the landscape was roughened into lowhills, from which it sank again luxuriously to a plain. If there was anydifference between Ohio and Indiana, it was that in Indiana the springnight, whose breath softly buffeted their cheeks through the open window, had gathered over those eternal cornfields, where the long crookedwindrows, burning on either hand, seemed a trail of fiery serpents writhingaway from the train as it roared and clamored over the track. 

They were to leave their car at Indianapolis, and take another road whichwould bring them to Tecumseh by daylight the next morning. Olive went awaywith the little girl, and put her to bed on the sofa in their state-room, and Marcia suffered them to go alone; it was only by fits that she hadcared for the child, or even noticed it. "Now tell me again, " she said toHalleck, "why we are going. "

"Surely you know. "

"Yes, yes, I know; but I can't think, --I don't seem to remember. Didn't Igive it up once? Didn't I say that I would rather go home, and let Bartleyget the divorce, if he wanted?"

"Yes, you said that, Marcia. "

"I used to make him very unhappy; I was very strict with him, when I knewhe couldn't bear any kind of strictness. And he was always so patient withme; though he never really cared for me. Oh, yes, I knew that from thefirst! He used to try; but he must have been glad to get away. PoorBartley! It was cruel, cruel, to put that in about my abandoning him whenhe knew I would come back; but perhaps the lawyers told him he must; he hadto put in something! Why shouldn't I let him go? Father said he only wantedto get rid of me, so that he could marry some one else--Yes, yes; it wasthat that made me start! Father knew it would! Oh, " she grieved, with awild self-pity that tore Halleck's heart, "he knew it would!" She fellwearily back against the seat, and did not speak for some minutes. Then shesaid, in a slow, broken utterance: "But now I don't seem to mind even that, any more. Why shouldn't he marry some one else that he really likes, if hedoesn't care for me?"

Halleck laughed in bitterness of soul as his thought recurred to Atherton'sreasons. "Because, " he said, "you have a _public_ duty in the matter. You must keep him bound to you, for fear some other woman, whose husbanddoesn't care for her, should let _him_ go, too, and society be broken up, and civilization destroyed. In a matter like this, which seems to concernyourself alone, you are only to regard others. "

His reckless irony did not reach her through her manifold sorrow. "Well, "she said, simply, "it must be that. But, oh! how can I bear it! how can Ibear it!"

The time passed; Olive did not return for an hour; then she merely saidthat the little girl had just fallen asleep, and that she should go backand lie down with her; that she was sleepy too. 

Marcia did not answer, but Halleck said he would call her in good timebefore they reached Indianapolis. 

The porter made up the berths of such as were going through to St. Louis, and Marcia was left sitting alone with Halleck. "I will go and get yourfather to come here, " he said. 

"I don't want him to come! I want to talk to you--to say something--Whatwas it? I can't think!" She stopped, like one trying to recover a fadedthought; he waited, but she did not speak again. She had laid a nervousclutch upon his arm, to detain him from going for her father, and shekept her hand there mechanically; but after a while he felt it relax; shedrooped against him, and fell away into a sleep in which she started nowand then like a frightened child. He could not release himself withoutwaking her; but it did not matter; her sorrow had unsexed her; only thetenderness of his love for this hapless soul remained in his heart, whichached and evermore heavily sank within him. 

He woke her at last when he must go to tell Olive that they were runninginto Indianapolis. Marcia struggled to her feet: "Oh, oh! Are we there? Arewe there?"

"We are at Indianapolis, " said Halleck. 

"I thought it was Tecumseh!" She shuddered. "We can go back; oh, yes, wecan still go back!"

They alighted from the train in the chilly midnight air, and found theirway through the crowd to the eating-room of the station. The little girlcried with broken sleep and the strangeness, and Olive tried to quiet her. Marcia clung to Halleck's arm, and shivered convulsively. Squire Gaylordstalked beside them with a demoniac vigor. "A few more hours, a few morehours, sir!" he said. He made a hearty supper, while the rest scalded theirmouths with hot tea, which they forced with loathing to their lips. 

Some women who were washing the floor of the ladies' waiting-room told themthey must go into the men's room, and wait there for their train, which wasdue at one o'clock. They obeyed, and found the room full of emigrants, andthe air thick with their tobacco smoke. There was no choice; Olive went infirst and took the child on her lap, where it straightway fell asleep;the Squire found a seat beside them, and sat erect, looking round on theemigrants with the air of being amused at their outlandish speech, intowhich they burst clamorously from their silence at intervals. Marciastopped Halleck at the threshold. "Stay out here with me, " she whispered. "I want to tell you something, " she added, as he turned mechanically andwalked away with her up the vast lamp-shot darkness of the depot. "_I amnot going on_! I am going back. We will take the train that goes to theEast; father will never know till it is too late. We needn't speak to himabout it--"

Halleck set himself against this delirious folly: he consented to herreturn; she could do what she would; but he would not consent to cheather father. "We must go and tell him, " he said, for all answer to all herentreaties. He dragged her back to the waiting-room; but at the door shestarted at the figure of a man who was bending over a group of emigrantchildren asleep in the nearest corner, --poor, uncouth, stubbed littlecreatures, in old-mannish clothes, looking like children roughly blockedout of wood, and stiffly stretched on the floor, or resting woodenlyagainst their mother. 

"There!" said the man, pressing a mug of coffee on the woman. "You drinkthat! It'll do you good, --every drop of it! I've seen the time, " he said, turning round with the mug, when she had drained it, in his hand, andaddressing Marcia and Halleck as the most accessible portion of theEnglish-speaking public, "when I used to be down on coffee; I thought itwas bad for the nerves; but I tell you, when you're travelling it's abrain-food, if ever there was a brain--" He dropped the mug, and stumbledback into the heap of sleeping children, fixing a ghastly stare on Marcia. 

She ran toward him. "Mr. Kinney!"

"No, you don't!--no, you don't!"

"Why, don't you know me? Mrs. Hubbard?"

"He--he--told me you--was dead!" roared Kinney. 

"He told you I was dead?"

"More'n a year ago! The last time I seen him! Before I went out toLeadville!"

"He told you I was dead, " repeated Marcia huskily. "He must have wishedit!" she whispered. "Oh, mercy, mercy, mercy!" She stopped, and then shebroke into a wild laugh: "Well, you see he was wrong. I'm on my way to himnow to show him that I'm alive!"

XL. 

Halleck woke at daybreak from the drowse into which he had fallen. Thetrain was creeping slowly over the track, feeling its way, and he heardfragments of talk among the passengers about a broken rail that theconductor had been warned of. He turned to ask some question, when the pullof rising speed came from the locomotive, and at the same moment the carstopped with a jolting pitch. It settled upon the track again; but the twocars in front were overturned, and the passengers were still climbingfrom their windows, when Halleck got his bewildered party to the ground. Children were crying, and a woman was led by with her face cut and bleedingfrom the broken glass; but it was reported that no one else was hurt, and the trainmen gave their helplessness to the inspection of the rottencross-tie that had caused the accident. One of the passengers kicked thedecayed wood with his boot. "Well, " he said, "I always like a littleaccident like this, early; it makes us safe the rest of the day. " Thesentiment apparently commended itself to popular acceptance; Halleckwent forward with part of the crowd to see what was the matter with thelocomotive: it had kept the track, but seemed to be injured somehow;the engineer was working at it, hammer in hand; he exchanged some drypleasantries with a passenger who asked him if there was any chance ofhiring a real fast ox-team in that neighborhood, in case a man was in ahurry to get on to Tecumseh. 

They were in the midst of a level prairie that stretched all round to thehorizon, where it was broken by patches of timber; the rising sun slantedacross the green expanse, and turned its distance to gold; the grass attheir feet was full of wild-flowers, upon which Flavia flung herself assoon as they got out of the car. By the time Halleck returned to them, she was running with cries of joy and wonder toward a windmill that rosebeautiful above the roofs of a group of commonplace houses, at a littledistance from the track; it stirred its mighty vans in the thin, sweetinland breeze, and took the sun gayly on the light gallery that encircledit. 

A vision of Belgian plains swept before Halleck's eyes. "There ought to bestorks on its roof, " he said, absently. 

"How strange that it should be here, away out in the West!" said Olive. 

"If it were less strange than we are, here, I couldn't stand it, " heanswered. 

A brakeman came up with a flag in his hand, and nodded toward Flavia. "She's on the right track for breakfast, " he said. "There's an old Dutchmanat that mill, and his wife knows how to make coffee like a fellow's mother. You'll have plenty of time. This train has come here to _stay_--tillsomebody can walk back five miles and telegraph for help. "

"How far are we from Tecumseh?" asked Halleck. 

"Fifty miles, " the brakeman called back over his shoulder. 

"Don't you worry any, Marcia, " said her father, moving off in pursuit ofFlavia. "This accident makes it all right for us, if we don't get there fora week. "

Marcia answered nothing. Halleck began to talk to her of that Belgianlandscape in which he had first seen a windmill, and he laughed at theblank unintelligence with which she received his reminiscences of travel. For the moment, the torturing stress was lifted from his soul; he wishedthat the breakfast in the miller's house might never come to an end; heexplored the mill with Flavia; he bantered the Squire on his saturninepreference for steam power in the milling business; he made the othersshare his mood; he pushed far from him the series of tragic or squalidfacts which had continually brought the end to him in reveries in whichhe found himself holding his breath, as if he might hold it till the endreally came. 

But this respite could not last. A puff of white steam showed on thehorizon, and after an interval the sound of the locomotive whistle reachedthem, as it came backing down a train of empty cars towards them. They werequickly on their journey again, and a scanty hour before noon they arrivedat Tecumseh. 

The pretty town, which in prospect had worn to Olive Halleck's imaginationthe blended hideousness of Sodom and Gomorrah, was certainly very muchmore like a New England village in fact. After the brick farmsteads andcoal-smoked towns of Central Ohio, its wooden houses, set back from thestreet with an ample depth of door-yard, were appealingly familiar, andshe exchanged some homesick whispers with Marcia about them, as they drovealong under the full-leaved maples which shadowed the way. The grass wasdenser and darker than in New England, and, pretty as the town was, it worea more careless and unscrupulous air than the true New England village; theSouth had touched it, and here and there it showed a wavering line of fenceand a faltering conscientiousness in its paint. Presently all aspects ofvillage quiet and seclusion ceased, and a section of conventional Americancity, with flab-roofed brick blocks, showy hotel, stores, paved street, andstone sidewalks expressed the readiness of Tecumseh to fulfil the destinyof every Western town, and become a metropolis at a day's notice, if needbe. The second-hand omnibus, which reflected the actuality of Tecumseh, set them down at the broad steps of the court-house, fronting on an avenuewhich for a city street was not very crowded or busy. Such passers as therewere had leisure and inclination, as they loitered by, to turn and stareat the strangers; and the voice of the sheriff, as he called from an upperwindow of the court-house the names of absentee litigants or witnessesrequired to come into court, easily made itself heard above all the othernoises. 

It seemed to Halleck as if the sheriff were calling them; he lifted hishead and looked at Olive, but she would not meet his eye; she led by thehand the little girl, who kept asking, "Is this the house where papalives?" with the merciless iteration of a child. Halleck dragged lamelyafter the Squire, who had mounted the steps with unnatural vigor; hepromptly found his way to the clerk's office, where he examined the docket, and then returned to his party triumphant. "We are in time, " he said, andhe led them on up into the court-room. 

A few spectators, scattered about on the rows of benching, turned to lookat them as they walked up the aisle, where the cocoa matting, soakedand dried, and soaked again, with perpetual libations of tobacco-juice, mercifully silenced their footsteps; most of the faces turned upon themshowed a slow and thoughtful movement of the jaws, and, as they weredropped or averted, a general discharge of tobacco-juice seemed to expressthe general adoption of the new-comers, whoever they were, as a necessaryelement of the scene, which it was useless to oppose, and about which itwas idle to speculate. Before the Squire had found his party seats on oneof the benches next the bar, the spectators had again given their languidattention to the administration of justice, which is everywhere informalwith us, and is only a little more informal in the West than in the East. An effect of serene disoccupation pervaded the place, such as comes at thetermination of an interesting affair; and no one seemed to care for whatthe clerk was reading aloud in a set, mechanical tone. The judge was busywith his docket; the lawyers, at their several little tables within thebar, lounged in their chairs, or stalked about laughing and whisperingto each other; the prosecuting attorney leaned upon the shoulder of ajolly-looking man, who lifted his face to joke up at him, as he tilted hischair back; a very stout, youngish person, who sat next him, kept his facedropped while the clerk proceeded:--

"And now, on motion of plaintiff, it is ordered by the Court that saiddefendant be now here three times called, which is done in open court, and she comes not; but wholly makes default herein. And this cause is nowsubmitted to the Court for trial, and the Court having heard the evidence, and being fully advised, find for the plaintiff, --that the allegationsof his complaint are true, and that he is entitled to a divorce. It istherefore considered by the Court, that said plaintiff be and he is herebydivorced, and the bonds of matrimony heretofore existing between saidparties are dissolved and held for naught. "

As the clerk closed the large volume before him, the jolly lawyer, as ifthe record had been read at his request, nodded to the Court, and said, "The record of the decree seems correct, your honor. " He leaned forward, and struck the fat man's expanse of back with the flat of his hand. "Congratulate you, my dear boy!" he said in a stage whisper that was heardthrough the room. "Many happy returns of the day!"

A laugh went round, and the judge said severely, "Mr. Sheriff, see thatorder is kept in the courtroom. "

The fat man rose to shake hands with another friend, and at the same momentSquire Gaylord stretched himself to his full height before stooping overto touch the shoulder of one of the lawyers within the bar, and his eyesencountered those of Bartley Hubbard in mutual recognition. 

It was not the fat on Bartley's ribs only that had increased: his broadcheeks stood out and hung down with it, and his chin descended by the threesuccessive steps to his breast. His complexion was of a tender pink, onwhich his blonde moustache showed white; it almost vanished in the tallowypallor to which the pink turned as he saw his father-in-law, and then thewhole group which the intervening spectators had hitherto hidden from him. He dropped back into his chair, and intimated to his lawyer, with a wave ofhis hand and a twist of his head, that some hopeless turn in his fortuneshad taken place. That jolly soul turned to him for explanation, and atthe same time the lawyer whom Squire Gaylord had touched on the shoulderresponded to a few whispered words from him by beckoning to the prosecutingattorney, who stepped briskly across to where they stood. A brief dumb-showensued, and the prosecutor ended by taking the Squire's hand, and invitinghim within the bar; the other attorney politely made room for him at histable, and the prosecutor returned to his place near the jury-box, where heremained standing for a moment. 

"If it please the Court, " he began, in a voice breaking heavily upon thesilence that had somehow fallen upon the whole room, "I wish to state thatthe defendant in the case of Hubbard _vs_. Hubbard is now and here present, having been prevented by an accident on the road between this place andIndianapolis from arriving in time to make defence. She desires to move theCourt to set aside the default. "

The prosecutor retired a few paces, and nodded triumphantly at Bartley'slawyer, who could not wholly suppress his enjoyment of the joke, though ittold so heavily against him and his client. But he was instantly on hisfeet with a technical objection. 

The judge heard him through, and then opened his docket, at the case ofHubbard vs. Hubbard. "What name shall I enter for the defence?" he inquiredformally. 

Squire Gaylord turned with an old-fashioned state and deliberation whichhad their effect, and cast a glance of professional satisfaction in thesituation at the attorneys and the spectators. "I ask to be allowed toappear for the defence in this case, if the Court please. My friend, Mr. Hathaway, will move my admission to this bar. "

The attorney to whom the Squire had first introduced himself promptlycomplied: "Your honor, I move the admission of Mr. F. J. Gaylord, ofEquity, Equity County, Maine, to practise at this bar. "

The judge bowed to the Squire, and directed the clerk to administer theusual oath. "I have entered your name for the defence, Mr. Gaylord. Do youdesire to make any motion in the case?" he pursued, the natural courtesy ofhis manner further qualified by a feeling which something pathetic in theold Squire's bearing inspired. 

"Yes, your honor, I move to set aside the default, and I shall offer insupport of this motion my affidavit, setting forth the reasons for thenon-appearance of the defendant at the calling of the cause. "

"Shall I note your motion as filed?" asked the Judge. 

"Yes, your honor, " replied the old man. He made a futile attempt to preparethe paper; the pen flew out of his trembling hand. "_I_ can't write, " hesaid in despair that made other hands quick to aid him. A young lawyer atthe next desk rapidly drew up the paper, and the Squire duly offered itto the clerk of the Court. The clerk stamped it with the file-mark ofthe Court, and returned it to the Squire, who read aloud the motion andaffidavit, setting forth the facts of the defendant's failure to receivethe notice in time to prepare for her defence, and of the accident whichhad contributed to delay her appearance, declaring that she had a justdefence to the plaintiff's bill, and asking to be heard upon the facts. 

Bartley's attorney was prompt to interpose again. He protested that theprinted advertisement was sufficient notice to the defendant, whenever itcame to her knowledge, or even if it never came to her knowledge, and thather plea of failure to receive it in time was not a competent excuse. Thismight be alleged in any case, and any delay of travel might be broughtforward to account for non-appearance as plausibly as this trumped-upaccident in which nobody was hurt. He did his best, which was also hisworst, and the judge once more addressed the Squire, who stood waiting forBartley's counsel to close. "I was about to adjourn the Court, " said thejudge, in that accent which is the gift of the South to some parts of theWest; it is curiously soft and gentle, and expressive, when the speakerwill, of a caressing deference. "But we have still some minutes before noonin which we can hear you in support of your motion, if you are ready. "

"I am m-ready, your honor!" The old man's nasals cut across the judge'srounded tones, almost before they had ceased. His lips compressedthemselves to a waving line, and his high hawk-beak came down over them;the fierce light burned in his cavernous eyes, and his grizzled hairerected itself like a crest. He swayed slightly back and forth at thetable, behind which he stood, and paused as if waiting for his hate togather head. 

In this interval it struck several of the spectators, who had appreciativefriends outside, that it was a pity they should miss the coming music, andthey risked the loss of some strains themselves that they might step outand inform these _dilettanti_. One of them was stopped by a man at thedoor. "What's up, now?" The other impatiently explained; but the inquirer, instead of hurrying in to enjoy the fun, turned quickly about, and ran downthe stairs. He crossed the street, and, by a system of alleys and byways, modestly made his way to the outlying fields of Tecumseh, which hetraversed at heightened speed, plunging at last into the belt of timberbeyond. This excursion, which had so much the appearance of a chase, wasan exigency of the witness who had corroborated on oath the testimony ofBartley in regard to his wife's desertion. Such an establishment of facts, purely imaginary with the witness, was simple enough in the absence ofrebutting testimony; but confronted with this, it became another affair; ithad its embarrassments, its risks. 

"M-ready, " repeated Squire Gay lord, "m-ready with facts and _witnesses!"_The word, in which he exulted till it rang and echoed through the room, drew the eyes of all to the little group on the bench next the bar, whereMarcia, heavily veiled in the black which she had worn ever since Bartley'sdisappearance, sat with Halleck and Olive. The little girl, spent with herlong journey, rested her head on her mother's lap, and the mother's handtremulously smoothed her hair, and tried to hush the grieving whisper inwhich she incessantly repeated, "Where is papa? I want to see papa!"

Olive looked straight before her, and Halleck's eyes were fixed upon thefloor. After the first glance at them Bartley did not lift his head, butheld it bent forward where he sat, and showed only a fold of fat red neckabove his coat-collar. Marcia might have seen his face in that momentbefore it blanched and he sank into his chair; she did not look toward himagain. 

"Mr. Sheriff, keep silence in the Court!" ordered the judge, in reprimandof the stir that ensued upon the general effort to catch sight of thewitnesses. 

"Silence in the Court! Keep your seats, gentlemen!" cried the sheriff. 

"And I thank the Court, " resumed the Squire, "for this immediateopportunity to redress an atrocious wrong, and to vindicate an innocent andinjured woman. Sir, I think it will prejudice our cause with no one, when Isay that we are here not only in the relation of attorney and client, butin that of father and daughter, and that I stand in this place singularlyand sacredly privileged to demand justice for my own child!"

"Order, order!" shouted the sheriff. But he could not quell the sensationthat followed; the point had been effectively made, and it was some momentsbefore the noise of the people beginning to arrive from the outsidepermitted the Squire to continue. He waited, with one lean hand hangingat his side, and the other resting in a loosely folded fist on the tablebefore him. He took this fist up as if it were some implement he had laidhold of, and swung it in the air. 

"By a chance which _I_ shall not be the last to describe asprovidential, "--he paused, and looked round the room as if defying any onethere to challenge the sincerity of his assertion, --"the notice, which yourlaw requires to be given by newspaper advertisement to the non-residentdefendant in such a case as this, came, by one chance in millions, to herhand. By one chance more or less, it would not have reached her, and amonstrous crime against justice would have been irrevocably accomplished. For she had mourned this man as dead, --dead to the universal frame ofthings, when he was only dead to honor, dead to duty, and dead to her;and it was that newspaper, sent almost at random through the mail, andwandering from hand to hand, and everywhere rejected, for weeks, before itreached her at last, which convinced her that he was still in such lifeas a man may live who has survived his own soul. We are therefore _here_, standing upon our right, and prepared to prove it God's right, andthe everlasting truth. Two days ago, a thousand miles and a thousanduncertainties intervened between us and this right, but _now_ we are hereto show that the defendant, basely defamed by the plea of abandonment, returned to her home within an hour after she had parted there with theplaintiff, and has remained there day and night ever since. " He stopped. "Did I say she had never absented herself during all this time? I waswrong. I spoke hastily. I forgot. " He dropped his voice. "She did absentherself at one time, --for three days, --while she could come home to closeher mother's dying eyes, and help me to lay her in the grave!" He triedto close his lips firmly again, but the sinuous line was broken by aconvulsive twitching. "Perhaps, " he resumed with the utmost gentleness, "the plaintiff returned in this interval, and, finding her gone, wasconfirmed in his belief that she had abandoned him. "

He felt blindly about on the table with his trembling hands, and his wholefigure had a pathos that gave the old dress-coat statuesque dignity. Thespectators quietly changed their places, and occupied the benches near him, till Bartley was left sitting alone with his counsel. We are beginning totalk here at the East of the decline of oratory; but it is still a passionin the West, and his listeners now clustered about the Squire in keenappreciation of his power; it seemed to summon even the loiterers in thestreet, whose ascending tramp on the stairs continually made itself heard;the lawyers, the officers of the court, the judge, forgot their dinner, andposed themselves anew in their chairs to listen. 

No doubt the electrical sphere of sympathy and admiration penetrated tothe old man's consciousness. When he pulled off his black satin stock--therelic of ancient fashion which the piety of his daughter kept inrepair--and laid it on the table, there was a deep inarticulate murmur ofsatisfaction which he could not have mistaken. His voice rose again:--

"If the plaintiff indeed came at that time, the walls of those empty rooms, into which he peered like a thief in the night, might have told him--ifwalls had tongues to speak as they have ears to hear--a tale that wouldhave melted even _his_ heart with remorse and shame. They might have toldhim of a woman waiting in hunger and cold for his return, and willing tostarve and freeze, rather than own herself forsaken, --waiting till she washunted from her door by the creditors whom he had defrauded, and forced toconfess her disgrace and her despair, in order to save herself from theunknown terrors of the law, invoked upon her innocent head by his villany. This is the history of the first two weeks of those two years, duringwhich, as his perjured lips have sworn, he was using every effort to secureher return to him. I will not enlarge now upon this history, nor upon thatof the days and weeks and months that followed, wringing the heart and allbut crazing the brain of the wife who would not, in the darkest hours ofher desolation, believe herself wilfully abandoned. But we have the record, unbroken and irrefragable, which shall not only right his victim, but shallbring yonder perjurer to justice. "

The words had an iron weight; they fell like blows. Bartley did not stir;but Marcia moved uneasily in her chair, and a low pitiful murmur broke frombehind her veil. Her father stopped again, panting, and his dry lips closedand parted several times before he could find his voice again. But at thatsound of grief he partially recovered himself, and went on brokenly. 

"I now ask this Court, for due cause, to set aside the default upon whichjudgment has been rendered against the defendant, and I shall then askleave to file her cross-petition for divorce. "

Marcia started half-way from her chair, and then fell back again; shelooked round at Halleck as if for help, and hid her face in her hands. Herfather cast a glance at her as if for her approval of this development ofhis plan. 

"Then, may it please the Court, upon the rendition of judgment in our favorupon that petition--a result of which I have no more doubt than of my ownexistence--I shall demand under your law the indictment of yonder perjurerfor his crime, and I shall await in security the sentence which shallconsign him to a felon's cell in a felon's garb--"

Marcia flung herself upon her father's arm, outstretched toward Bartley. "No! No! No!" she cried, with deep, shuddering breaths, in a voice thickwith horror. "Never! Let him go! I will not have it! I didn't understand! Inever meant to harm him! Let him go! It is _my_ cause, and I say--"

The old man's arm dropped; he fixed a ghastly, bewildered look upon hisdaughter, and fell forward across the table at which he stood. The judgestarted from his chair; the people leaped over the benches, and crushedabout the Squire, who fetched his breath in convulsive gasps. "Keep back!""Give him air!" "Open the window!" "Get a doctor!" cried those next him. 

Even Bartley's counsel had joined the crowd about the Squire, from themidst of which broke the long, frightened wail of a child. This wasBartley's opportunity. When his counsel turned to look for him, and advisehis withdrawal from a place where he could do no good, and where possiblyhe might come to harm, he found that his advice had been anticipated:Bartley's chair was vacant. 

XLI. 

That night when Halleck had left the old man to the care of Marcia andOlive, for the time, a note was brought to him from Bartley's lawyer, begging the favor of a few moments' interview on very important business. It might be some offer of reparation or advance in Marcia's interest, andHalleck went with the bearer of the note. The lawyer met him hospitably atthe door of his office. "How do you do, sir?" he said, shaking hands. Thenhe indicated a bulk withdrawn into a corner of the dimly-lighted room; theblinds were drawn, and he locked the door after Halleck's entrance. "Mr. Hubbard, whom I think you know, " he added. "I'll just step into the nextroom, gentlemen, and will be subject to your call at any moment. "

The bulk lifted itself and moved some paces toward Halleck; Bartley evenraised his hand, with the vague expectation of taking Halleck's, but seeingno responsive gesture on his part, he waved a salutation and dropped itagain to his side. 

"How d' ye do, Halleck? Rather a secret, black, and midnight interview, "he said jocosely. "But I couldn't very well manage it otherwise. I'm _not_just in the position to offer you the freedom of the city. "

"What do you want, Hubbard?" asked Halleck, bluntly. 

"How is the old Squire?"

"The doctor thinks he may rally from the shock. "

"Paralysis?"

"Yes. "

"I have spent the day in the 'tall timber, ' as our friends out here say, communing with nature; and I've only just come into town since dark, so Ihadn't any particulars. " He paused, as if expecting that Halleck might givethem, but upon his remaining silent, he resumed. "Of course, as the casenow stands, I know very well that the law can't touch me. But I didn't knowwhat the popular feeling might be. The Squire laid it on pretty hot, and hemight have made it livelier for me than he intended: he isn't aware of theinflammable nature of the material out here. " He gave a nervous chuckle. "Iwanted to see you, Halleck, to tell you that I haven't forgotten that moneyI owe you, and that I mean to pay it all up, some time, yet. If it hadn'tbeen for some expenses I've had lately, --doctor's bills, and so forth, --Ihaven't been very well, myself, "--he made a sort of involuntary appeal forHalleck's sympathy, --"and I've had to pay out a good deal of money, --Ishould be able to pay most of it now. As it is, I can only give you fivehundred of it. " He tugged his porte-monnaie with difficulty up the slope ofhis pantaloons. "That will leave me just three hundred to begin the worldwith; for of course I've got to clear out of here. And I'd got verycomfortably settled after two years of pretty hard work at the printingbusiness, and hard reading at the law. Well, it's all right. And I want topay you this money, now, and I'll pay you the rest whenever I can. And Iwant you to tell Marcia that I did it. I always meant to do it. "

"Hubbard, " interrupted Halleck, "you don't owe me any money. Yourfather-in-law paid that debt two years ago. But you owe some one else adebt that no one can pay for you. We needn't waste words: what are yougoing to do to repair the wrong you have done the woman and the child--" Hestopped; the effort had perhaps been too much. 

Bartley saw his emotion, and in his benighted way he honored it. "Halleck, you are a good fellow. You are _such_ a good fellow that you can'tunderstand this thing. But it's played out. I felt badly about it myself, at one time; and if I hadn't been robbed of that money you lent me on myway here, I'd have gone back inside of forty-eight hours. I was sorry forMarcia; it almost broke my heart to think of the little one; but I knewthey were in the hands of friends; and the more time I had to think itover, the more I was reconciled to what I had done. That was the only wayout, for either of us. We had tried it for three years, and we couldn'tmake it go; we never could have made it go; we were incompatible. Don'tyou suppose I knew Marcia's good qualities? No one knows them better, orappreciates them more. You might think that I applied for this divorcebecause I had some one else in view. Not any more in mine at present! But Ithought we ought to be free, both of us; and if our marriage had become achain, that we ought to break it. " Bartley paused, apparently to give thesefacts and reasons time to sink into Halleck's mind. "But there's one thingI should like to have you tell her, Halleck: she was wrong about that girl;I never had anything to do with her. Marcia will understand. " Halleck madeno reply, and Bartley resumed, in a burst of generosity, which marked hisfall into the abyss as nothing else could have done. "Look here, Halleck!_I_ can't marry again for two years. But as I understand the law, Marciaisn't bound in any way. I know that she always had a very high opinion ofyou, and that she thinks you are the best man in the world: why don't _you_fix it up with Marcia?"

Bartley was in effect driven into exile by the accidents of his suit fordivorce which have been described. He was not in bodily danger after thefirst excitement passed off, if he was ever in bodily danger at all; buthe could not reasonably hope to establish himself in a community which hadwitnessed such disagreeable facts concerning him; before which indeed hestood attainted of perjury, and only saved from the penalty of his crime bythe refusal of his wife to press her case. 

As soon as her father was strong enough to be removed, Marcia returned tothe East with him, in the care of the friends who continued with them. Theydid not go back to Boston, but went directly to Equity, where in the firstflush of the young and jubilant summer they opened the dim old house at theend of the village street, and resumed their broken lives. Her father, withone side palsy-stricken, wavered out every morning to his office, and satthere all day, the tremulous shadow of his former will. Sometimes his oldfriends came in to see him; but no one expected now to hear the Squire "getgoing. " He no longer got going on any topic; he had become as a littlechild, --as the little child that played about him there in the still, warmsummer days and built houses with his law-books on the floor. He laughedfeebly at her pranks, and submitted to her rule with pathetic meekness ineverything where Marcia had not charged them both to the contrary. He wasvery obedient to Marcia, who looked vigilantly after his welfare, and knewall his goings and comings, as she knew those of his little comrade. Two orthree times a day she ran out to see that they were safe; but for the restshe kept herself closely housed, and saw no one whom she was not forcedto see; only the meat-man and the fish-man could speak authoritativelyconcerning her appearance and behavior before folks. They reported thelatter as dry, cold, and uncommunicative. Doubtless the bitter experiencesof her life had wrought their due effect in that passionate heart; butprobably it was as much a morbid sensitiveness as a hardened indifferencethat turned her from her kind. The village inquisitiveness that invades, also suffers much eccentricity; and after it had been well ascertained thatMarcia was as queer as her mother, she was allowed to lead her mother'sunmolested life in the old house, which had always turned so cold ashoulder to the world. Toward the end of the summer the lame young man andhis sister, who had been several times in Equity before, paid her a visit;but stayed only a day or two, as was accurately known by persons who hadnoted the opening and closing of the spare-chamber blinds. In the winterhe came again, but this time he came alone, and stayed at the hotel. Heremained over a Sunday, and sat in the pulpit of the Orthodox church, wherethe minister extended to him the right hand of fellowship, and invited himto make the opening prayer. It was considered a good prayer, generallyspeaking, but it was criticised as not containing anything attractiveto young people. He was understood to be on his way to take charge of abackwoods church down in Aroostook County, where probably his prayers wouldbe more acceptable to the popular taste. 

That winter Squire Gaylord had another stroke of paralysis, and late in thefollowing spring he succumbed to a third. The old minister who had oncebeen Mrs. Gaylord's pastor was now dead; and the Squire was buried bythe lame man, who came up to Equity for that purpose, at the wish, oftenexpressed, of the deceased. This at least was the common report, and it iscertain that Halleck officiated. 

In entering the ministry he had returned to the faith which had been taughthim almost before he could speak. He did not defend or justify this courseon the part of a man who had once thrown off all allegiance to creeds; hesaid simply that for him there was no other course. He freely granted thathe had not reasoned back to his old faith; he had fled to it as to a cityof refuge. His unbelief had been helped, and he no longer suffered himselfto doubt; he did not ask if the truth was here or there, any more; he onlyknew that he could not find it for himself, and he rested in his inheritedbelief. He accepted everything; if he took one jot or tittle away from theBook, the curse of doubt was on him. He had known the terrors of the law, and he preached them to his people; he had known the Divine mercy, and healso preached that. 

The Squire's death occurred a few months before the news came of anotherevent to which the press of the State referred with due recognition, but without great fulness of detail. This was the fatal case ofshooting--penalty or consequence, as we choose to consider it, of all thathad gone before--which occurred at Whited Sepulchre, Arizona, where BartleyHubbard pitched his tent, and set up a printing-press, after leavingTecumseh. He began with the issue of a Sunday paper, and made it so spicyand so indispensable to all the residents of Whited Sepulchre who enjoyedthe study of their fellow-citizens' affairs, that he was looking hopefullyforward to the establishment of a daily edition, when he unfortunatelychanced to comment upon the domestic relations of "one of WhitedSepulchre's leading citizens. " The leading citizen promptly took thewar-path, as an esteemed contemporary expressed it in reporting thedifficulty with the cynical lightness and the profusion of felicitoushead-lines with which our journalism often alleviates the history of tragicoccurrences: the parenthetical touch in the closing statement, that "Mr. Hubbard leaves a (divorced) wife and child somewhere at the East, " wasquite in Bartley's own manner. 

Marcia had been widowed so long before that this event could make nooutward change in her. What inner change, if any, it wrought, is one ofthose facts which fiction must seek in vain to disclose. But if love suchas hers had been did not deny his end the pang of a fresh grief, we may besure that her sorrow was not unmixed with self-accusal as unavailing as itwas passionate, and perhaps as unjust. 

One evening, a year later, the Athertons sat talking over a letter fromHalleck, which Atherton had brought from Boston with him: it was summer, and they were at their place on the Beverley shore. It was a long letter, and Atherton had read parts of it several times already, on his way downin the cars, and had since read it all to his wife. "It's a very morbidletter, " he said, with a perplexed air, when he had finished. 

"Yes, " she assented. "But it's a very _good_ letter. Poor Ben!"

Her husband took it up again, and read here and there a passage from it. 

"But I am turning to you now for help in a matter on which my ownconscience throws such a fitful and uncertain light that I cannot trust it. I know that you are a good man, Atherton, and I humbly beseech you to letme have your judgment without mercy: though it slay me, I will abide byit. .. . Since her father's death, she lives there quite alone with herchild. I have seen her only once, but we write to each other, and there aretimes when it seems to me at last that I have the right to ask her to bemy wife. The words give me a shock as I write them; and the things whichI used to think reasons for my right rise up in witness against me. Aboveall, I remember with horror that _he_ approved it, that he advised it!. .. . It is true that I have never, by word or deed, suffered her to know whatwas in my heart; but has there ever been a moment when I could do so? It istrue that I have waited for his death; but if I have been willing he shoulddie, am I not a potential murderer?"

"Oh, what ridiculous nonsense!" Clara indignantly protested. 

Atherton read on: "These are the questions which I ask myself in mydespair. She is free, now; but am I free? Am I not rather bound by the pastto perpetual silence? There are times when I rebel against these tortures;when I feel a sanction for my love of her, an assurance from somewherethat it is right and good to love her; but then I sink again, for if I askwhence this assurance comes--I beseech you to tell me what you think. Hasmy offence been so great that nothing can atone for it? Must I sacrifice tothis fear all my hopes of what I could be to her, and for her?"

Atherton folded up the letter, and put it back into its envelope, with afrown of exasperation. "I can't see what should have infatuated Halleckwith that woman. I don't believe now that he loves her; I believe he onlypities her. She is altogether inferior to him: passionate, narrow-minded, jealous, --she would make him miserable. He'd much better stay as he is. If it were not pathetic to have him deifying her in this way, it would belaughable. "

"She had a jealous temperament, " said Clara, looking down. "But all theHallecks are fond of her. They think there is a great deal of good in her. Don't suppose Ben himself thinks she is perfect But--"

"I dare say, " interrupted her husband, "that he thinks he's entirelysincere in asking my advice. But you can see how he _wishes_ to beadvised. "

"Of course. He wishes to marry her. It isn't so much a question of what aman ought to have, as what he wants to have, in marrying, is it? Even thebest of men. If she is exacting and quick-tempered, he is good enough toget on with her. If she had a husband that she could thoroughly trust, shewould be easy enough to get on with. There is no woman good enough to geton with a bad man. It's terrible to think of that poor creature livingthere by herself, with no one to look after her and her little girl; and ifBen--"

"What do you mean, Clara? Don't you see that his being in love with herwhen she was another man's wife is what he feels it to be, --an indeliblestain?"

"She never knew it; and no one ever knew it but you. You said it was ourdeeds that judged us. Didn't Ben go away when he realized his feeling forher?"

"He came back. "

"But he did everything he could to find that poor wretch, and he tried toprevent the divorce. Ben is morbid about it; but there is no use in ourbeing so. "

"There was a time when he would have been glad to profit by a divorce. "

"But he never did. You said the will didn't count. And now she is a widow, and any man may ask her to marry him. "

"Any man but the one who loved her during her husband's life. That is, ifhe is such a man as Halleck. Of course it isn't a question of gross blackand white, mere right and wrong; there are degrees, there are shades. Theremight be redemption for another sort of man in such a marriage; but forHalleck there could only be loss, --deterioration, --lapse from the ideal. Ishould think that he might suffer something of this even in her eyes--"

"Oh, how hard you are! I wish Ben hadn't asked your advice. Why, you areworse than, he is! You're _not_ going to write that to him?"

Atherton flung the letter upon the table, and drew a troubled sigh. "Ah, Idon't know! I don't know!"