THE FIFTH WHEEL

[Illustration: "'Why, Breck, don't be absurd! I wouldn't _marry_ you foranything in the world'"--_Page 24_]

 THE FIFTH WHEEL

 _A NOVEL_

 BY OLIVE HIGGINS PROUTY

 AUTHOR OF "BOBBIE, GENERAL MANAGER"

 [Illustration]

 _WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG_

 NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS

 _Copyright, 1916, by_ FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

 _Copyright, 1915, 1916, by_ THE PHILLIPS PUBLISHING COMPANY

 _All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages. _

 DEDICATED TO MY MOTHER

CONTENTS

 CHAPTER PAGE

 I. RUTH VARS COMES OUT 1

 II. BRECKENRIDGE SEWALL 10

 III. EPISODE OF A SMALL DOG 18

 IV. A BACK-SEASON DÉBUTANTE 27

 V. THE UNIMPORTANT FIFTH WHEEL 36

 VI. BRECK SEWALL AGAIN 44

 VII. THE MILLIONS WIN 50

 VIII. THE HORSE-SHOW 56

 IX. CATASTROPHE 69

 X. A UNIVERSITY TOWN 80

 XI. A WALK IN THE RAIN 90

 XII. A DINNER PARTY 101

 XIII. LUCY TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE 112

 XIV. BOB TURNS OUT A CONSERVATIVE 124

 XV. ANOTHER CATASTROPHE 135

 XVI. A FAMILY CONFERENCE 142

 XVII. RUTH GOES TO NEW YORK 156

 XVIII. A YEAR LATER 166

 XIX. RUTH RESUMES HER OWN STORY 177

 XX. THE FIFTH WHEEL GAINS WINGS 181

 XXI. IN THE SEWALL MANSION 198

 XXII. THE PARADE 206

 XXIII. AN ENCOUNTER WITH BRECK 212

 XXIV. THE OPEN DOOR 222

 XXV. MOUNTAIN CLIMBING 232

 XXVI. THE POT OF GOLD 239

 XXVII. VAN DE VERE'S 248

 XXVIII. A CALL FROM BOB JENNINGS 258

 XXIX. LONGINGS 266

 XXX. AGAIN LUCY NARRATES 274

 XXXI. RUTH DRAWS CONCLUSIONS 282

 XXXII. BOB DRAWS CONCLUSIONS TOO 291

ILLUSTRATIONS

 "'Why, Breck, don't be absurd! I wouldn't _marry_ you for anything in the world'" _Frontispiece_

 FACING PAGE

 "'Men seem to want to make just nice soft pussy-cats out of us, with ribbons round our necks, and hear us purr'" 128

 "Straight ahead she gazed; straight ahead she rode; unafraid, eager, hopeful; the flag her only staff" 170

 "I was the only one in her whole establishment whom she wasn't obliged to treat as a servant and menial" 202

THE FIFTH WHEEL

CHAPTER I

RUTH VARS COMES OUT

I spend my afternoons walking alone in the country. It is sweet andclean out-of-doors, and I need purifying. My wanderings disturb Lucy. She is always on the lookout for me, in the hall or living-room or onthe porch, especially if I do not come back until after dark. 

She needn't worry. I am simply trying to fit together again thepuzzle-picture of my life, dumped out in terrible confusion inEdith's sunken garden, underneath a full September moon one midnightthree weeks ago. 

Lucy looks suspiciously upon the portfolio of theme paper I carryunderneath my arm. But in this corner of the world a portfolio of themepaper and a pile of books are as common a part of a girl's paraphernaliaas a muff and a shopping-bag on a winter's day on Fifth Avenue. Lucylives in a university town. The university is devoted principally to theeducation of men, but there is a girls' college connected with it, soif I am caught scribbling no one except Lucy needs to wonder why. 

I have discovered a pretty bit of woods a mile west of Lucy's house, andan unexpected rustic seat built among a company of murmurous young pinesbeside a lake. Opposite the seat is an ecstatic little maple tree, atthis season of the year flaunting all the pinks and reds and yellows ofa fiery opal. There, sheltered by the pines, undisturbed except by ascurrying chipmunk or two or an inquisitive, gray-tailed squirrel, I sitand write. 

I heard Lucy tell Will the other day (Will is my intellectualbrother-in-law) that she was really anxious about me. She believed I waswriting poetry! "And whenever a healthy, normal girl like Ruth begins towrite poetry, " she added, "after a catastrophe like hers, look out forher. Sanitariums are filled with such. "

Poetry! I wish it were. Poetry indeed! Good heavens! I am writing adefense. 

I am the youngest member of a large grown-up family, all married nowexcept myself and a confirmed bachelor brother in New York. We are theVars of Hilton, Massachusetts, cotton mill owners originally, but now alittle of everything and scattered from Wisconsin to the Atlantic Ocean. I am a New England girl, not the timid, resigned type one usually thinksof when the term is used, but the kind that goes away to a fashionableboarding-school when she is sixteen, has an elaborate coming-out partytwo years later, and then proves herself either a success or a failureaccording to the number of invitations she receives and the frequencywith which her dances are cut into at the balls. She is supposed to feelgrateful for the sacrifices that are made for her début, and the bestway to show it is by becoming engaged when the time is right to a manone rung higher up on the social ladder than she. 

I had no mother to guide me through these intricacies. My pilot was myambitious sister-in-law, Edith, who married Alec when I was fifteen, remodeled our old 240 Main Street, Hilton, Mass. , into a very grand andelegant mansion and christened it The Homestead. Hilton used to be justa nice, typical New England city. It had its social ambitions anddiscontents, I suppose, but no more pronounced than in any community offifty or sixty thousand people. It was the Summer Colony with itsliveried servants, expensive automobiles, and elaborate entertainingthat caused such discontent in Hilton. 

I've seen perfectly happy and good-natured babies made cross andirritable by putting them into a four-foot-square nursery yard. The wallof wealth and aristocracy around Hilton has had somewhat the same effectupon the people that it confines. If a social barrier of any sortappears upon the horizon of my sister-in-law Edith, she is never happyuntil she has climbed over it. She was in the very midst of scaling thathigh and difficult barrier built up about Hilton by the SummerColonists, when she married Alec. 

It didn't seem to me a mean or contemptible object. To endeavor to placeour name--sunk into unjust oblivion since the reverses of ourfortune--in the front ranks of social distinction, where it belonged, impressed me as a worthy ambition. I was glad to be used in Edith'soperations. Even as a little girl something had rankled in my heart, too, when our once unrestricted fields and hills gradually became postedwith signs such as, "Idlewold, Private Grounds, " "Cedarcrest, NoPicnickers Allowed, " "Grassmere, No Trespassing. "

I wasn't eighteen when I had my coming-out party. It was decided, andfully discussed in my presence, that, as young as I was, chance forsocial success would be greater this fall than a year hence, when thelist of débutantes among our summer friends promised to be lessdistinguished. It happened that many of these débutantes lived in Bostonin the winter, which isn't very far from Hilton, and Edith had alreadylaid out before me her plan of campaign in that city, where she wasgoing to give me a few luncheons and dinners during the month ofDecember, and possibly a Ball if I proved a success. 

If I proved a success! No young man ever started out in business withmore exalted determination to make good than I. I used to lie awakenights and worry for fear the next morning's mail would not contain somecherished invitation or other. And when it did, and Edith came bearingit triumphantly up to my room, where I was being combed, brushed andpolished by her maid, and kissed me ecstatically on the brow andwhispered, "You little winner, you!" I could have run up a flag forrelief and joy. 

I kept those invitations stuck into the mirror of my dressing-tableas if they were badges of honor. Edith used to make a point of havingher luncheon and dinner guests take off their things in my room. Iknew it was because of the invitations stuck in the mirror, and I wasproud to be able to return something for all the money and effort shehad expended. 

It appeared incumbent upon me as a kind of holy duty to prove myself aremunerative investment. The long hours spent in the preparation of mytoilette; the money paid out for my folderols; the deceptions we had toresort to for the sake of expediency; everything--schemes, plans anddevices--all appeared to me as simply necessary parts of a big anddifficult contest I had entered and must win. It never occurred to methen that my efforts were unadmirable. When at the end of my firstseason Edith and I discovered to our delight, when the Summer Colonyreturned to our hills, that our names had become fixtures on theirexclusive list of invitations, I felt as much exaltation as anyrunner who ever entered a Marathon and crossed the white tape amongthe first six. 

There! That's the kind of New England girl I am. I offer no excuses. Ilay no blame upon my sister-in-law. There are many New England girlsjust like me who have the advantage of mothers--tender and solicitousmothers too. But even mothers cannot keep their children from catchingmeasles if there's an epidemic--not unless they move away. The socialfever in my community was simply raging when I was sixteen, and ofcourse I caught it. 

Even my education was governed by the demands of society. Theboarding-school I went to was selected because of its reputation forwealth and exclusiveness. I practised two hours a day on the piano, hadmy voice trained, and sat at the conversation-French table at school, because Edith impressed upon me that such accomplishments would be foundconvenient and convincing. I learned to swim and dive, play tennis andgolf, ride horseback, dance and skate, simply because if I was efficientin sports I would prove popular at summer hotels, country clubs andwinter resorts. Edith and I attended symphony concerts in Boston everyFriday afternoon, and opera occasionally, not because of any specialpassion for music, but to be able to converse intelligently at dinnerparties and teas. 

It was not until I had been out two seasons that I met BreckenridgeSewall. When Edith introduced me to society I was younger than the othergirls of my set, and to cover up my deficiency in years I affected aveneer of worldly knowledge and sophistication that was misleading. Italmost deceived myself. At eighteen I had accepted as a sad truth thewickedness of the world, and especially that of men. I was very blasé, very resigned--at least the two top layers of me were. Down underneath, way down, I know now I was young and innocent and hopeful. I know nowthat my first meeting with Breckenridge Sewall was simply one of thestratagems that the contest I had entered required of me. I am convincedthat there was no thought of anything but harmless sport in myencounter. 

Breckenridge Sewall's mother was the owner of Grassmere, the largest andmost pretentious estate that crowns our hills. Everybody bowed down toMrs. Sewall. She was the royalty of the Hilton Summer Colony. Edith'soperations had not succeeded in piercing the fifty thousand dollarwrought-iron fence that surrounded the acres of Grassmere. We had neverbeen honored by one of Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall's heavily crestedinvitations. We had drunk tea in the same drawing-room with her; we hadbeen formally introduced on one occasion; but that was all. She importedmost of her guests from New York and Newport. Even the Summer Colonistsconsidered an invitation from Mrs. Sewall a high mark of distinction. 

Her only son Breckenridge was seldom seen in Hilton. He preferredNewport, Aix les Bains, or Paris. It was reported among us girls that heconsidered Hilton provincial and was distinctly bored at any attempt toinveigle him into its society. Most of us had never met him, but we allknew him by sight. Frequently during the summer months he might be seenspeeding along the wide state road that leads out into the region ofGrassmere, seated in his great, gray, deep-purring monster, hatless, head ducked down, hair blown straight back and eyes half-closed tocombat the wind. 

One afternoon Edith and I were invited to a late afternoon tea atIdlewold, the summer residence of Mrs. Leonard Jackson. I was wearing anew gown which Edith had given me. It had been made at an expensivedressmaker's of hers in Boston. I remember my sister-in-law exclaimed aswe strolled up the cedar-lined walk together, "My, but you're stunningin that wistaria gown. It's a joy to buy things for you, Ruth. You setthem off so. I just wonder who you'll slaughter _this_ afternoon. "

It was that afternoon that I met Breckenridge Sewall. 

It was a week from that afternoon that two dozen American Beautiesformed an enormous and fragrant center-piece on the dining-room table atold 240 Main Street. Suspended on a narrow white ribbon above the rosesEdith had hung from the center light a tiny square of pasteboard. Itbore in engraved letters the name of Breckenridge Sewall. 

The family were deeply impressed when they came in for dinner. Thetwins, Oliver and Malcolm, who were in college at the time, werespending part of their vacation in Hilton; and my sister Lucy was theretoo. There was quite a tableful. I can hear now the Oh's and Ah's as Isat nonchalantly nibbling a cracker. 

"Not too fast, Ruth, not too fast!" anxious Alec had cautioned. 

"For the love o' Mike! Hully G!" had ejaculated Oliver and Malcolm, examining the card. 

"O Ruth, tell us about it, " my sister Lucy in awed tones had exclaimed. 

I shrugged. "There's nothing to tell, " I said. "I met Mr. Sewall at atea not long ago, as one is apt to meet people at teas, that's all. "

Edith from the head of the table, sparkling, too joyous even to attempther soup, had sung out, "I'm proud of you, rascal! You're a wonder, youare! Listen, people, little sister here is going to do somethingsplendid one of these days--she is!"

CHAPTER II

BRECKENRIDGE SEWALL

When I was a little girl, Idlewold, the estate of Mrs. Leonard Jacksonwhere I first met Breckenridge Sewall, was a region of rough pasturelands. Thither we children used to go forth on Saturday afternoons onmarauding expeditions. It was covered in those days with a network ofmysteriously winding cow-paths leading from shadow into sunshine, fromdark groves through underbrush and berry-bushes to bubbling brooks. Manya thrilling adventure did I pursue with my brothers through thosealluring paths, never knowing what treasure or surprise lay around thenext curve. Sometimes it would be a cave appearing in the dense growthof wild grape and blackberry vines; sometimes a woodchuck's hole; asnake sunning himself; a branch of black thimble-berries; a baby calfbeside its mother, possibly; or perhaps even a wild rabbit or partridge. 

Mrs. Leonard Jackson's elaborate brick mansion stood where more thanonce bands of young vandals were guilty of stealing an ear or two ofcorn for roasting purposes, to be blackened over a forbidden fire inthe corner of an old stone wall; and her famous wistaria-and-grapearbor followed for nearly a quarter of a mile the wandering path laidout years ago by cows on their way to water. What I discovered aroundone of the curves of that path the day of Mrs. Jackson's garden teawas as thrilling as anything I had ever chanced upon as a little girl. It was Mr. Breckenridge Sewall sitting on the corner of a rustic seatsmoking a cigarette!

I had seen Mr. Sewall enter that arbor at the end near the house, a longway off beyond lawns and flower beds. I was standing at the time with afragrant cup of tea in my hand beside the wistaria arch that forms theentrance of the arbor near the orchard. I happened to be alone for amoment. I finished my tea without haste, and then placing the cup andsaucer on a cedar table near-by, I decided it would be pleasant toescape for a little while the chatter and conversation of the two orthree dozen women and a handful of men. Unobserved I strolled downunderneath the grape-vines. 

I walked leisurely along the sun-dappled path, stopped a moment to reachup and pick a solitary, late wistaria blossom, and then went on againsmiling a little to myself and wondering just what my plan was. I knownow that I intended to waylay Breckenridge Sewall. His attitude towardHilton had had somewhat the same effect upon me as the No Trespassingand Keep Off signs when I was younger. However, I hadn't gone very farwhen I lost my superb courage. A little path branching off at the rightoffered me an opportunity for escape. I took it, and a moment later fellto berating myself for not having been bolder and played my game to afinish. My impulses always fluctuate and flicker for a moment or twobefore they settle down to a steady resolve. 

I did not think that Mr. Sewall had had time to reach the little path, or if so, it did not occur to me that he would select it. It wasgrass-grown and quite indistinct. So my surprise was not feigned when, coming around a curve, I saw him seated on a rustic bench immediately infront of me. It would have been awkward if I had exclaimed, "Oh!" andturned around and run away. Besides, when I saw Breckenridge Sewallsitting there before me and myself complete mistress of the situation, it appeared almost like a duty to play my cards as well as I knew how. Ihad been brought up to take advantage of opportunities, remember. 

I glanced at the occupied bench impersonally, and then coolly strolledon toward it as if there was no one there. Mr. Sewall got up as Iapproached. 

"Don't rise, " I said, and then as if I had dismissed all thought of him, I turned away and fell to contemplating the panorama of stream andmeadow. Mr. Sewall could have withdrawn if he had desired. I made iteasy for him to pass unheeded behind me while I was contemplating theview. However, he remained standing, looking at me. 

"Don't let me disturb you, " I repeated after a moment. "I've simplycome to see the view of the meadows. "

"Oh, no disturbance, " he exclaimed, "and say, if it's the view you'rekeen on, take the seat. "

"No, thank you, " I replied. 

"Go on, I've had enough. Take it. I don't want it. "

"Oh, no, " I repeated. "It's very kind, but no, thank you. "

"Why not? I've had my fill of view. Upon my word, I was just going toclear out anyway. "

"Oh, were you?" That altered matters. 

"Sure thing. "

Then, "Thank you, " I said, and went over and sat down. 

Often under the cloak of just such innocent and ordinary phrases iscarried on a private code of rapid signs and signals as easilyunderstood by those who have been taught as dots and dashes by atelegraphic operator. I couldn't honestly say whether it was Mr. Sewallor I who gave the first signal, but at any rate the eyes of both of ushad said what convention would never allow to pass our lips. So I wasn'tsurprised, as perhaps an outsider will be, when Mr. Sewall didn't raisehis hat, excuse himself, and leave me alone on the rustic seat, as heshould have done according to all rules of good form and etiquette. Instead he remarked, "I beg your pardon, but haven't I met you beforesomewhere?"

"Not that I know of, " I replied icily, the manner of my glance, however, belying the tone of my voice. "I don't recall you, that is. I'm not inHilton long at a time, so I doubt it. "

"Oh, not in Hilton!" He scoffed at the idea. "Good Lord, no. Perhaps I'mmistaken though. I suppose, " he broke off, "you've been having tea upthere in the garden. "

"I suppose so, " I confessed, as if even the thought of it bored me. 

He came over toward the bench. I knew it was his cool and audaciousintention to sit down. So I laid my parasol lengthwise beside me, leaving the extreme corner vacant, by which I meant to say, "I'mperfectly game, as you see, but I'm perfectly nice too, remember. "

He smiled understandingly, and sat down four feet away from me. Heleaned back nonchalantly and proceeded to test my gameness by aprolonged and undisguised gaze, which he directed toward me throughhalf-closed lids. I showed no uneasiness. I kept right on lookingsteadily meadow-ward, as if green fields and winding streams were muchmore engrossing to me than the presence of a mere stranger. I enjoyedthe game I was playing as innocently, upon my word, as I would anycontest of endurance. And it was in the same spirit that I took the nextdare that was offered me. 

I do not know how long it was that Breckenridge Sewall continued to gazeat me, how long I sat undisturbed beneath the fire of his eyes. At anyrate it was he who broke the tension first. He leaned forward and drewfrom his waistcoat pocket a gold cigarette case. 

"Do you object?" he asked. 

"Certainly not, " I replied, with a tiny shrug. And then abruptly, justas he was to return the case to his pocket, he leaned forward again. 

"I beg your pardon--won't _you_?" And he offered _me_ the cigarettes, his eyes narrowed upon me. 

It was not the custom for young girls of my age to smoke cigarettes. Itwas not considered good form for a débutante to do anything of thatsort. I had so far refused all cocktails and wines at dinners. However, I knew how to manage a cigarette. As a lark at boarding-school I hadconsumed a quarter of an inch of as many as a half-dozen cigarettes. Insome amateur theatricals the winter before, in which I took the part ofa young man, I had bravely smoked through half of one, and made myspeeches too. What this man had said of Hilton and its provincialism wasin my mind now. I meant no wickedness, no harm. I took one of theproffered cigarettes with the grand indifference of having done it manytimes before. Mr. Sewall watched me closely, and when he produced amatch, lit it, and stretched it out toward me in the hollow of his hand. I leaned forward and simply played over again my well-learned act of thewinter before. Instead of the clapping of many hands and a curtain-call, which had pleased me very much last winter, my applause today came in aless noisy way, but was quite as satisfying. 

"Look here, " softly exclaimed Breckenridge Sewall. "Say, who are you, anyway?"

Of course I wasn't stupid enough to tell him, and when I saw that he wason the verge of announcing his identity, I exclaimed:

"Oh, don't, please. I'd much rather not know. "

"Oh, you don't know then?"

"Are you Mr. Jackson?" I essayed innocently. 

"No, I'm not Buck Jackson, but he's a pal of mine. I'm----"

"Oh, please, " I exclaimed again. "Don't spoil it!"

"Spoil it!" he repeated a little dazed. "Say, will you talk English?"

"I mean, " I explained, carelessly tossing away now into the grass thenasty little thing that was making my throat smart, "I mean, don't spoilmy adventure. Life has so few. To walk down a little path for thepurpose of looking at a view, and instead to run across a stranger whomay be anything from a bandit to an Italian Count is so--so romantic. "

"Romantic!" he repeated. He wasn't a bit good at repartee. "Who areyou, anyway?"

"Why, I'm any one from a peasant to an heiress. "

"You're a darned attractive girl, anyhow!" he ejaculated, and aslacking in subtlety as this speech was, I prized it as sign of myadversary's surrender. 

Five minutes later Mr. Sewall suggested that we walk backtogether to the people gathered on the lawn. But I had no intentionof appearing in public with a celebrated person like BreckenridgeSewall, without having first been properly introduced. Besides, myover-eager sister-in-law would be sure to pounce upon us. Iremembered my scarf. I had left it by my empty cup on the cedartable. It seemed quite natural for me to suggest to this strangerthat before rejoining the party I would appreciate my wrap. It hadgrown a little chilly. He willingly went to get it. When hereturned he discovered that the owner of the bit of lavender silkthat he carried in his hand had mysteriously disappeared. Thick, close-growing vines and bushes surrounded the bench, bound in onboth sides the shaded path. Through a network of thorns andtangled branches, somehow the owner of that scarf had managed tobreak her way. The very moment that Mr. Sewall stood blanklysurveying the empty bench, she, hidden by a row of young firs, waseagerly skirting the west wall of her hostess's estate. 

CHAPTER III

EPISODE OF A SMALL DOG

During the following week Miss Vars often caught a fleeting glimpse ofMr. Sewall on his way in or out of town. She heard that he attended aCountry Club dance the following Saturday night, at which she chancednot to be present. She was told he had actually partaken of refreshmentin the dining-room of the Country Club and had allowed himself to beintroduced to several of her friends. 

It was very assuming of this modest young girl, was it not, to imaginethat Mr. Sewall's activities had anything to do with her? It was ratheraudacious of her to don a smart lavender linen suit one afternoon andstroll out toward the Country Club. Her little dog Dandy might just aswell have exercised in the opposite direction, and his mistress avoidedcertain dangerous possibilities. But fate was on her side. She didn'tthink so at first when, in the course of his constitutional, Dandysuddenly bristled and growled at a terrier twice his weight and size, and then with a pull and a dash fell to in a mighty encounter, rollingover and over in the dirt and dust. Afterward, with the yelping terrierdisappearing down the road, Dandy held up a bleeding paw to hismistress. She didn't have the heart to scold the triumphant littlewarrior. Besides he was sadly injured. She tied her handkerchief aboutthe paw, gathered the dog up in her arms, turned her back on the CountryClub a quarter of a mile further on, and started home. It was just thenthat a gray, low, deep-purring automobile appeared out of a cloud ofdust in the distance. As it approached it slowed down and came to a fullstop three feet in front of her. She looked up. The occupant of the carwas smiling broadly. 

"Well!" he ejaculated. "At last! Where did you drop from?"

"How do you do, " she replied loftily. 

"Where did you drop from?" he repeated. "I've been hanging around for aweek, looking for you. "

"For _me_?" She was surprised. "Why, what for?"

"Say, " he broke out. "That was a mean trick you played. I was mad cleanthrough at first. What did you run off that way for? What was the game?"

"Previous engagement, " she replied primly. 

"Previous engagement! Well, you haven't any previous engagement now, have you? Because, if you have, get in, and I'll waft you to it. "

"Oh, I wouldn't think of it!" she said. He opened the door to the carand sprang out beside her. 

"Come, get in, " he urged. "I'll take you anywhere you're going. I'd bedelighted. "

"Why, " she exclaimed, "we haven't been introduced. How do I know whoyou are?" She was a well brought-up young person, you see. 

"I'll tell you who I am fast enough. Glad to. Get in, and we will run upto the Club and get introduced, if that's what you want. "

"Oh, it isn't!" she assured him. "I just prefer to walk--that's all. Thank you very much. "

"Well, walk then. But you don't give me the slip this time, young lady. Savvy that? Walk, and I'll come along behind on low speed. "

She contemplated the situation for a moment, looking away across fieldsand green pastures. Then she glanced down at Dandy. Her name in fullappeared staring at her from the nickel plate of the dog's collar. Shesmiled. 

"I'll tell you what you can do, " she said brightly. "I'd be so grateful!My little dog has had an accident, you see, and if you would be sokind--I hate to ask so much of a stranger--it seems a great deal--but ifyou would leave him at the veterinary's, Dr. Jenkins, just behind theCourt House! He's so heavy! I'd be awfully grateful. "

"No, you don't, " replied Mr. Sewall. "No more of those scarf games onme! Sorry. But I'm not so easy as all that!"

The girl shifted her dog to her other arm. 

"He weighs fifteen pounds, " she remarked. And then abruptly for noapparent reason Mr. Sewall inquired:

"Is it yours? Your own? The dog, I mean?"

"My own?" she repeated. "Why do you ask?" Innocence was stamped uponher. For nothing in the world would she have glanced down upon thecollar. 

"Oh, nothing--nice little rat, that's all. And I'm game. Stuff him in, if you want. I'll deliver him to your vet. "

"You will? Really? Why, how kind you are! I do appreciate it. You meanit?"

"Of course I do. Stuff him in. Delighted to be of any little service. Come on, Towzer. Make it clear to your little pet, pray, before startingthat I'm no abductor. Good-by--and say, " he added, as the car began topurr, "Say, please remember you aren't the only clever little guy in theworld, Miss Who-ever-you-are!"

"Why, what do you mean?" She looked abused. 

"That's all right. Good-by. " And off he sped down the road. 

Miss "Who-ever-you-are" walked the three miles home slowly, smilingalmost all the way. When she arrived, there was a huge box of flowerswaiting on the hall-table directed to:

 "Miss Ruth Chenery Vars The Homestead, Hilton, Mass. License No. 668. "

Inside were two dozen American Beauty roses. Tied to the stem of one wasan envelope, and inside the envelope was a card which bore the name ofBreckenridge Sewall. 

* * * * *

"So _that's_ who he is!" Miss Vars said out loud. 

I saw a great deal of the young millionaire during the remainder of thesummer. Hardly a day passed but that I heard the approaching purr of hiscar. And never a week but that flowers and candy, and more flowers andcandy, filled the rejoicing Homestead. 

I was a canny young person. I allowed Mr. Sewall very little of my timein private. I refused to go off alone with him anywhere, and the resultwas that he was forced to attend teas and social functions if he wantedto indulge in his latest fancy. The affair, carried on as it was beforethe eyes of the whole community, soon became the main topic ofconversation. I felt myself being pointed out everywhere I went as thegirl distinguished by the young millionaire, Breckenridge Sewall. Myfriends regarded me with wonder. 

Before a month had passed a paragraph appeared in a certain periodicalin regard to the exciting affair. I burst into flattering notoriety. What had before been slow and difficult sailing for Edith and me nowbecame as swift and easy as if we had added an auxiliary engine to ourlittle boat. We found ourselves receiving invitations from hostesses whobefore had been impregnable. Extended hands greeted us--kindness, cordiality. 

Finally the proud day arrived when I was invited to Grassmere as aguest. One afternoon Breck came rushing in upon me and eagerly explainedthat his mother sent her apologies, and would I be good enough to fillin a vacancy at a week-end house-party. Of course I would! Proudly Irode away beside Breck in his automobile, out of the gates of theHomestead along the state road a mile or two, and swiftly swerved insidethe fifty thousand dollar wrought-iron fence around the cherishedgrounds of Grassmere. My trunks followed, and Edith's hopes followedtoo!

It was an exciting three days. I had never spent a night in quite suchsplendid surroundings; I had never mingled with quite such smart andfashionable people. It was like a play to me. I hoped I would not forgetmy lines, fail to observe cues, or perform the necessary businessawkwardly. I wanted to do credit to my host. And I believe I did. Withintwo hours I felt at ease in the grand and luxurious house. The men wereolder, the women more experienced, but I wasn't uncomfortable. As Iwandered through the beautiful rooms, conversed with what to me stoodfor American aristocracy, basked in the hourly attention of butlers andFrench maids, it occurred to me that I was peculiarly fitted for such alife as this. It became me. It didn't seem as if I could be the littlegirl who not so very long ago lived in the old French-roofed house withthe cracked walls, stained ceilings and worn Brussels carpets, at 240Main Street, Hilton, Mass. But the day Breck asked me to marry him Idiscovered I was that girl, with the same untainted ideal of marriage, too, hidden away safe and sound under my play-acting. 

"Why, Breck!" I exclaimed. "Don't be absurd. I wouldn't _marry_ you foranything in the world. "

And I wouldn't! My marriage was dim and indistinct to me then. I hadplaced it in a very faraway future. My ideal of love was such, thatbeside it all my friends' love affairs and many of those in fictionseemed commonplace and mediocre. I prized highly the distinction ofBreckenridge Sewall's attentions, but marry him--of course I wouldn't!

Breck's attentions continued spasmodically for over two years. It tooksome skill to be seen with him frequently, to accept just the rightportion of his tokens of regard, to keep him interested, and yet remainabsolutely free and uninvolved. I couldn't manage it indefinitely; thetime would come when all the finesse in the world would avail nothing. And come it did in the middle of the third summer. 

Breck refused to be cool and temperate that third summer. He insisted onall sorts of extravagances. He allowed me to monopolize him to theexclusion of every one else. He wouldn't be civil even to his mother'sguests at Grassmere. He deserted them night after night for Edith'ssunken garden, and me, though I begged him to be reasonable, urging himto stay away. I didn't blame his mother, midsummer though it was, forclosing Grassmere, barring the windows, locking the gates and abruptlypacking off with her son to an old English estate of theirs nearLondon. I only hoped Mrs. Sewall didn't think me heartless. I had alwaysbeen perfectly honest with Breck. I had always, from the first, said Icouldn't marry him. 

Not until I was convinced that the end must come between Breck and me, did I tell the family that he had ever proposed marriage. There exists, I believe, some sort of unwritten law that once a man proposes and agirl refuses, attentions should cease. I came in on Sunday afternoonfrom an automobile ride with Breck just before he sailed for England anddramatically announced his proposal to the family--just as if he hadn'tbeen urging the same thing ever since I knew him. 

I expected Edith would be displeased when she learned that I wasn'tgoing to marry Breck, so I didn't tell her my decision immediately. Idreaded to undertake to explain to her what a slaughter to my idealssuch a marriage would be. Oh, I was young then, you see, young andhopeful. Everything was ahead of me. There was a splendid chance forhappiness. 

"I can't marry Breck Sewall, Edith, " I attempted at last. "I can't marryany one--yet. "

"And what do you intend to do with yourself?" she inquired in that cold, unsympathetic way she assumes when she is angry. 

"I don't know, yet. There's a chance for all sorts of good things tocome true, " I replied lightly. 

"You've been out three years, you know, " she reminded me icily. 

The Sewalls occupied their English estate for several seasons. Grassmereremained closed and barred. I did not see my young millionaire againuntil I was an older girl, and my ideals had undergone extensivealterations. 

CHAPTER IV

A BACK-SEASON DÉBUTANTE

Débutantes are a good deal like first novels--advertised and introducedat a great expenditure of money and effort, and presented to the publicwith fear and trembling. But the greatest likeness comes later. Thebest-sellers of one spring must be put up on the high shelves to makeroom for new merchandise the next. At the end of several years the oncebesought and discussed book can be found by the dozens on bargaincounters in department stores, marked down to fifty cents a copy. 

The first best-seller I happened to observe in this ignominious positionwas a novel that came out the same fall that I did. It was six years oldto the world, and so was I. I stopped a moment at the counter and openedthe book. It had been strikingly popular, with scores of reviews andpress notices, and hundreds of admirers. It had made a pretty littlepile of money for its exploiters. Perhaps, too, it had won a fewfriends. But its day of intoxicating popularity had passed. And so hadmine. And so must every débutante's. By the fourth or fifth season, cards for occasional luncheons and invitations to fill in vacancies atmarried people's dinner parties must take the place of those feverishall-night balls, preceded by brilliantly lighted tables-full ofdébutantes, as excited as yourself, with a lot of gay young lords forpartners and all the older people looking on, admiring and taking mentalnotes. Such excitement was all over with me by the time I wastwenty-two. I had been a success, too, I suppose. Any girl whomBreckenridge Sewall had launched couldn't help being a success. 

During the two or three years that Breck was in Europe I passed throughthe usual routine of back-season débutantes. They always resort totravel sooner or later; visit boarding-school friends one winter;California, Bermuda or Europe the next; eagerly patronize winterresorts; and fill in various spaces acting as bridesmaids. When theyhave the chance they take part in pageants and amateur theatricals, periodically devote themselves to some fashionable charity or other, read novels, and attend current event courses if very desperate. 

I used to think when I was fifteen that I should like to be an author, more specifically, a poet. I used to write verses that were often readout loud in my English course at the Hilton High School. And I designedbook plates, too, and modeled a little in clay. The more importantbusiness of establishing ourselves socially interrupted all that sort ofthing, however. But I often wish I might have specialized in some lineof art. Perhaps now when I have so much time on my hands it would provemy staunchest friend. For a girl who has no established income it mightresult in an enjoyable means of support. 

I have an established income, you see. Father kindly left me a littlestock in some mines out West, stock or bonds--I'm not very clear onbusiness terms. Anyhow I have an income of about eight hundred dollars ayear, paid over to me by my brother Tom, who has my affairs in charge. It isn't sufficient for me to live on at present, of course. What withthe traveling, clothes--one thing and another--Edith has had to help outwith generous Christmas and birthday gifts. This she does lavishly. She's enormously rich herself, and very generous. My last Christmaspresent from her was a set of furs and a luxurious coon-skin motor coat. Perhaps I wouldn't feel quite so hopeless if my father and mother wereliving, and I felt that my idleness in some way was making them happy. But I haven't such an excuse. I am not necessary to the happiness of anyhousehold. I am what is known as a fifth wheel--a useless piece ofparaphernalia carried along as necessary impedimenta on other people'sjourneys. 

There are lots of fifth wheels in the world. Some are old and rustyand out of repair, and down in their inmost hubs they long to roll offinto the gutter and lie there quiet and undisturbed. These are the oldpeople--silver-haired, self-effacing--who go upstairs to bed earlywhen guests are invited for dinner. Some are emergency fifth wheels, such as are carried on automobiles, always ready to take their placeon the road, if one of the regular wheels breaks down and needs to besent away for repairs. These are the middle-aged, unmarried aunts andcousins--staunch, reliable--who are sent for to take care of thechildren while mother runs over to Europe for a holiday. And some arefifth wheels like myself--neither old nor self-effacing, neithermiddle-aged nor useful, but simply expensive to keep painted, and veryhungry for the road. It may be only a matter of time, however, when Ishall be middle-aged and useful, and later old and self-effacing; whenI shall stay and take care of the children, and go upstairs early whenthe young people are having a party. 

A young technical college graduate told me once, to comfort me, Isuppose, that a fifth wheel is considered by a carriage-maker a veryimportant part of a wagon. He tried to explain to me just what part of awagon it was. You can't see it. It's underneath somewhere, and has to bekept well oiled. I am not very mechanical, but it sounded ignominious tome. I told that young man that I wanted to be one of the four wheelsthat held the coach up and made it speed, not tucked out of sight, smothered in carriage-grease. 

It came as a shock to me when I first realized my superfluous positionin this world. The result of that shock was what led me to abandon myideals on love in an attempt to avoid the possibility of going upstairsearly and having dinners off a tray. 

When my brother Alec married Edith Campbell, and Edith came over to ourhouse and remodeled it, I didn't feel supplanted. There was a room builtespecially for me with a little bath-room of its own, a big closet, awindow-box filled with flowers in the summer, and cretonne hangings thatI picked out myself. My sister Lucy had a room too--for she wasn'tmarried then--and the entire attic was finished up as barracks for mybrothers, the twins, who were in college at the time. They were invitedto bring home all the friends they wanted to. Edith was a big-heartedsister-in-law. To me her coming was like the advent of a fairygodmother. I had chafed terribly under the economies of my earlieryears. It wasn't until Alec married Edith that fortune began to smile. 

One by one the family left the Homestead--Lucy, when she married Dr. William Maynard and went away to live near the university with whichWill was connected, and Oliver and Malcolm when they graduated fromcollege and went into business. I alone was left living with Alec andEdith. I was so busy coming-out and making a social success of myselfthat it never occurred to me but that I was as important a member inthat household as Edith herself. I wasn't far from wrong either. When Iwas a débutante and admired by Breckenridge Sewall, I was petted andpampered and kept in sight. When I became a back-season number of somefour or five years' staleness, any old north room would do for me!

I used to dread Hilton in the winter, with nothing more exciting goingon than a few horrible thimble parties with girls who were beginning todiscuss how to keep thin, the importance of custom-made corsets, andvarious other topics of advancing years. I soon acquired the habit ofinterrupting these long seasons. I was frequently absent two months at atime, visiting boarding-school friends, running out to California, up toAlaska, or down to Mexico with some girl friend or other, with hermother or aunt for a chaperon. Traveling is pleasant enough, buteverybody likes to feel a tie pulling gently at his heartstrings when hesteps up to a hotel register to write down the name of that little haventhat means home. It is like one of those toy return-balls. If the ballis attached by an elastic string to some little girl's middle finger howjoyfully it springs forth from her hand, how eagerly returns again! Whensuddenly on one of its trips the elastic snaps, the ball becomeslifeless and rolls listlessly away in the gutter. When my home tiesbroke, I, too, abandoned myself. 

I had been on a visiting-trip made up of two-week stands in variouscities between Massachusetts and the Great Lakes, whither I had set outto visit my oldest brother, Tom, and his wife, Elise, who live on theedge of one of the Lakes in Wisconsin. I had been gone about six weeksand had planned not to return to Hilton until the arrival of Hilton'sreal society in May. 

When I reached Henrietta Morgan's, just outside New York, on the returntrip, I fully expected to remain with her for two weeks and stop offanother week with the Harts in New Haven. But after about three days atHenrietta's, I suddenly decided I couldn't stand it any longer. Myclothes all needed pressing--they had a peculiar trunky odor--even thetissue paper which I used in such abundance in my old-fashioned traytrunk had lost its life and crispness; I had gotten down to my lastclean pair of long white gloves; everything I owned needed some sort ofattention--I simply must go home!

I woke up possessed with the idea, and after putting on my last reallyrespectable waist and inquiring of myself in the mirror how in the worldI expected to visit Henrietta Morgan with such a dreary trunkful oftravel-worn articles, anyhow, I went down to the breakfast table with mymind made up. 

Henrietta left me after breakfast for a hurried trip to town. I didn'tgo with her. I had waked up with a kind of cottony feeling in my throat, and as hot coffee and toast didn't seem to help it, I made anexamination with a hand-mirror after breakfast. I discovered three whitespots! I wasn't alarmed. They never mean anything serious with me, andthey offered an excellent excuse for my sudden departure. It didn't cometo my mind that the white spots might have been the cause of my suddenlonging for my own little pink room. I simply knew I wanted to go home;and wake up in the morning cross and disagreeable; and grumble aboutthe bacon and coffee at the breakfast table if I wanted to. 

While Henrietta and her mother were out in the morning, I clinched mydecision by engaging a section on the night train and telegraphingEdith. Although I was convinced that my departure wouldn't seriouslyupset any of the small informal affairs so far planned for myentertainment, I was acquainted with Mrs. Morgan's tenacious form ofhospitality. By the time she returned my packing was finished, and I waslying down underneath a down comforter on the couch. I told Mrs. Morganabout the white spots and my decision to return home. 

She would scarcely hear me through. She announced emphatically that shewouldn't think of allowing me to travel if I was ill. I was to undressimmediately, crawl in between the sheets, and she would call a doctor. Iwasn't rude to Mrs. Morgan, simply firm--that was all--quite aspersistent in my resolve as she in hers. 

When finally she became convinced that nothing under heaven coulddissuade me, she flushed slightly and said icily, "Oh, very well, verywell. If that is the way you feel about it, very well, my dear, " andsailed out of the room, hurt. Even Henrietta, though very solicitous, shared her mother's indignation, and I longed for the comfort and reliefof the Pullman, the friendly porters, and my own understanding people atthe other end. 

So, you see, when in the middle of the afternoon I was summoned to thetelephone to receive a telegram from Hilton, I wasn't prepared for theslap in the face that Edith's message was to me. 

"Sorry, " it was repeated. "Can't conveniently have you until next week. House packed with company. Better stay with the Morgans. " Signed, "Edith. "

CHAPTER V

THE UNIMPORTANT FIFTH WHEEL

Better stay with the Morgans! Who was I to be bandied about in suchfashion? Couldn't have me! I wasn't a seamstress who went out by theday. House packed with company! Well--what of that? Hadn't I more rightthere? Wasn't I Alec's own sister? Wasn't I born under the very roof towhich I was now asked not to come? Weren't all my things there--my bed, my bureau, my little old white enameled desk I used when I was a child?Where was I to go, I'd like to ask? Couldn't have me! Very well, then, Iwouldn't go!

I called up my brother Malcolm's office in New York. Perhaps he would bekind enough to engage a room in a hospital somewhere, or at least find abed in a public ward. "Sorry, Miss Vars, " came the answer finally to meover the long distance wire, "but Mr. Vars has gone up to Hilton, Massachusetts, for the week-end. Not returning until Monday. "

I sat dumbly gazing into the receiver. Where could I go? Lucy, I wassure, would squeeze me in somewhere if I applied to her--she alwayscan--but a letter received from Lucy two days before had contained aglowing description of some celebrated doctor of science and his wife, who were to be her guests during this very week. She has but one guestroom. I couldn't turn around and go back to Wisconsin. I couldn't go toOliver, now married to Madge. They live in a tiny apartment outsideBoston. There is nothing for me to sleep on except a lumpy couch in theliving-room. Besides there is a baby, and to carry germs into anyhousehold with a baby in it is nothing less than criminal. 

Never before had I felt so ignominious as when, half an hour later, Imeekly passed my telegram to Mrs. Morgan and asked if it would beterribly inconvenient if I did stay after all. 

"Not at all. Of course not, " she replied coldly. "I shall not turn youout into the street, my dear. But you stated your wish to go sodecidedly that I have telephoned Henrietta's friends in Orange to comeover to take your place. We had not told you that tickets for thetheater tonight and matinée tomorrow had already been bought. Thefriends are coming this evening. So I shall be obliged to ask you tomove your things into the sewing-room. "

I moved them. A mean little room it was on the north side of thehouse. Piles of clothes to be mended, laundry to be put away, a mopand a carpet sweeper greeted me as I went in. The floor was untidywith scraps of cloth pushed into a corner behind the sewing machine. The mantel was decorated with spools of thread, cards of hooks andeyes, and a pin-cushion with threaded needles stuck in it. The bedwas uncomfortable. I crawled into it, and lay very still. My heartwas filled with bitterness. My eyes rested on the skeleton of adressmaker's form. A man's shirt ripped up the back hung over achair. I staid for three days in that room! Mrs. Morgan's familyphysician called the first night, and announced to Mrs. Morgan thatprobably I was coming down with a slight attack of tonsilitis. Ithought at least it was diphtheria or double pneumonia. There werepains in my back. When I tried to look at the dressmaker's skeletonit jiggled uncomfortably before my eyes. 

I didn't see the new guests once. Even Henrietta was allowed to speakto me only from across the hall. 

"Tonsilitis _is_ catching, you know, my dear, " Mrs. Morgan sweetlypurred from heights above me, "and I'd never forgive myself if theother two girls caught anything here. I've forbidden Henrietta to seeyou. She's so susceptible to germs. " I felt I was an unholy creature, teeming with microbes. 

The room was warm; they fed me; they cared for me; but I begged thedoctor for an early deliverance on Monday morning. I longed for home. Icried for it a little. Edith couldn't have known that I was ill; shewould have opened her arms wide if she had guessed--of course she would. I ought to have gone in the beginning. I poured out my story into thatold doctor's understanding ears, and he opened the way for me finally. He let me escape. Very weak and wobbly I took an early train on Mondaymorning for Hilton. At the same time I sent the following telegram to mysister-in-law: "Arrive Hilton 6:15 tonight. Have been ill. Still somefever, but doctor finally consents to let me come. "

Six fearful hours later I found myself, weak-kneed and trembling, on theold home station platform. I was on the verge of tears. I looked up anddown for Edith's anxious face, or for Alec's--they would be disturbedwhen they heard I had a fever, they might be alarmed--but I couldn'tfind them. The motor was not at the curb either. I stepped into atelephone-booth and called the house. Edith answered herself. Irecognized her quick staccato "Hello. "

I replied, "Hello, that you, Edith?"

"Yes. Who is this?" she called. 

"Ruth, " I answered feebly. 

"Ruth! Where in the world are you?" she answered. 

"Oh, I'm all right. I'm down here at the station. Just arrived. I'mperfectly all right, " I assured her. 

"Well, well, " she exclaimed. "That's fine. Awfully glad you're back! Ido wish I could send the limousine down for you, Ruth. But I just can't. We're going out to dinner--to the Mortimers, and we've just _got_ tohave it. I'm awfully sorry, but do you mind taking the car, or acarriage? I'm right in the midst of dressing. I've got to hurry likemad. It's almost half-past six now. Jump into a taxi, and we can have anice little chat before I have to go. Got lots to tell you. It's fineyou're back. Good-by. Don't mind if I hurry now, do you?"

I arrived at the house ten minutes later in a hired taxicab. I rang thebell, and after a long wait a maid I had never seen before let me in. Edith resplendent in a brand new bright green satin gown was just comingdown the stairs. She had on all her diamonds. 

"Hello, Toots, " she said. "Did you get homesick, dearie? Welcome. Wish Icould kiss you, Honey, but I can't. I've just finished my lips. Whydidn't you telegraph, Rascal? It's a shame not to have you met. "

"I did, " I began. 

"Oh, well, our telephone has been out of order all day. It makes metired the way they persist in telephoning telegrams. We do get theworst service! I had no idea you were coming. Why, I sent off aperfect bunch of mail to you this very morning. You weren't peeved, were you, Toots, about my telegram, I mean? I was right in the midstof the most important house-party I've ever had. As it was I had toomany girls, and at the last minute had to telegraph Malcolm to comeand help me out. And he did, the lamb! The house-party was ascreaming success. I'm going to have a regular series of them allsummer. How do you like my gown? Eighty-five, my dear, marked downfrom a hundred and fifty. "

"Stunning, " I replied, mingled emotions in my heart. 

"There!" exclaimed Edith abruptly. "There's your telegram now. Did youever? Getting here at this hour!"

A telegraph boy was coming up the steps. I was fortunately near thedoor, and I opened it before he rang, received my needless messagemyself, and tore open the envelope. 

"You're right, " I said. "It is my telegram. It just said I was coming. That's all. It didn't matter much. Guess I'll go up to my room now, ifyou don't mind. "

"Do, dear. Do, " said Edith, "and I'll come along too. I want to showyou something, anyhow. I've picked up the stunningest high-boy youever saw in your life. A real old one, worth two hundred and fifty, but I got it for a hundred. I've put it right outside your room, andvery carefully--oh, _most_ carefully--with my own hands, Honey, I justlaid your things in it. I simply couldn't have the bureau drawers inthat room filled up, you know, with all the house-parties I'm having, and you not here half the time. I knew _you_ wouldn't mind, and thehigh-boy is so stunning!" We had gone upstairs and were approaching itnow. "I put all your underclothes in those long shallow drawers; andyour ribbons and gloves and things in these deep, low ones. And thenup here in the top I've laid carefully all the truck you had stowedaway in that little old white enameled desk of yours. The desk I putup in the store-room. It wasn't decent for guests. I've bought a newone to take its place. I do hope you'll like it. It's a spinet desk, and stunning. Oh, dear--there it is now ten minutes of seven, and I'vesimply got to go. I promised to pick up Alec at the Club on the way. Idon't believe I've told you I've had your room redecorated. I wish Icould wait and see if you're pleased. But I can't--simply can't! Youunderstand, don't you, dear? But make yourself comfy. "

She kissed me then very lightly on the cheek, and turned and trippedaway downstairs. When I caught the purr of the vanishing limousine asit sped away down the winding drive, I opened the door of my room. Itwas very pretty, very elegant, as perfectly appointed as any hotelroom I had ever gazed upon, but mine no more. This one little sacredprecinct had been entered in my absence and robbed of every vestige ofme. Instead of my single four-poster were two mahogany sleigh beds, spread with expensively embroidered linen. Instead of my magazine cutof Robert Louis Stevenson pinned beside the east window was a signedetching. Instead of my own familiar desk welcoming me with bulgingpackets of old letters, waiting for some rainy morning to be read andsentimentally destroyed, appeared the spinet desk, furnished withbrand new blotters, chaste pens, and a fresh book of two-cent stamps. All but my mere flesh and bones had been conveniently stuffed into atwo-hundred and fifty dollar high-boy!

I could have burst into tears if I had dared to fling myself down uponthe embroidered spreads. And then suddenly from below I heard thescramble of four little feet on the hardwood floor, the eager, anxiouspant of a wheezy little dog hurrying up the stairs. It was Dandy--myBoston terrier. Somehow, down behind the kitchen stove he had sensedme, and his little dog heart was bursting with welcome. Only Dandy hadreally missed me, sitting long, patient hours at a time at theliving-room window, watching for me to come up the drive; and finallystarting out on mysterious night searches of his own, as he alwaysdoes when days pass and I do not return. I heard the thud of his softbody as he slipped and fell, in his haste, on the slippery hall floor. And then a moment later he was upon me--paws and tongue and half-humanlittle yelps and cries pouring out their eloquence. 

I held the wriggling, ecstatic little body close to me, and wonderedwhat it would be like if some human being was as glad to see me asDandy. 

CHAPTER VI

BRECK SEWALL AGAIN

As I stood there in my devastated room, hugging to me a little scrap ofa dog, a desire to conceal my present poverty swept over me, just as Ihad always wanted to hide the tell-tale economies of our household yearsago from my more affluent friends. I did not want pity. I was Ruth, ofwhom my family had predicted great things--vague great things, Iconfess. Never had I been quite certain what they were to be--butsomething rather splendid anyhow. 

We become what those nearest to us make us. The family made out of myoldest brother Tom counselor and wise judge; out of my sister Lucy chiefcook and general-manager; out of me butterfly and ornament. In the eyesof the family I have always been frivolous and worldly, and though theycriticize these qualities of mine, underneath their righteous veneer Idiscover them marveling. They disparage my extravagance in dressing, andthen admire my frocks. In one breath they ridicule social ambition, andin the next inquire into my encounters and triumphs. A desire to remainin my old position I offer now as the least contemptible excuse of anythat I can think of for the following events of my life. I didn't wantto resign my place like an actress who can no longer take ingénue partsbecause of wrinkles and gray hairs. When I came home that day anddiscovered how unimportant I was, how weak had become my applause, instead of trying to play a new part by making myself useful andnecessary--helping with the housework, putting away laundry, mending, and so on--I went about concocting ways and methods of filling moredazzlingly my old rôle. 

Although my fever had practically disappeared by the time I went to bedthat night, I lolled down to the breakfast table the next morning laterthan ever, making an impression in a shell-pink tea-gown; luxuriouslydawdled over a late egg and coffee; and then lazily borrowed a maidabout eleven o'clock and allowed her to unpack for me. Meanwhile I layback on the couch, criticized to Edith the tone of gray of the paper inmy room, carelessly suggested that there were too many articles on theshelf from an artistic point of view, and then suffered myself to beconsulted on an invitation list for a party Edith was planning to give. The description of my past two months' gaieties, recited in rather abored and blasé manner, lacked none of the usual color. My references toattentions from various would-be suitors proved to Edith and Alec that Iwas keeping up my record. 

One Saturday afternoon not long after my return to Hilton, Edith and Iattended a tea at the Country Club. The terrace, open to the sky andcovered with a dozen small round tables, made a pretty sight--girls inlight-colored gowns and flowery hats predominating early in theafternoon, but gradually, from mysterious regions of lockers andshower-baths below, joined by men in white flannels and tennis-shoes. 

Edith's and my table was popular that day. I had been away from Hiltonfor so long that a lot of our friends gathered about us to welcome mehome. I was chatting away to a half dozen of them, when I saw two menstrolling up from the seventeenth green. One of the men wasBreckenridge Sewall. I glanced over the rim of my cup the second timeto make certain. Yes, it was Breck--the same old blasé, dissipated-looking Breck. I had thought he was still in Europe. Toreach the eighteenth tee the men had to pass within ten feet of theterrace. My back would be toward them. I didn't know if a secondopportunity would be offered me. Grassmere, the Sewall estate, was notopen this year. Breck might be gone by the next day. I happened at thetime to be talking about a certain tennis tournament with a man whohad been an eye-witness. I rose and put down my cup of tea. 

"Come over and tell me about it, please, " I said, smiling upon him. "I've finished. Take my chair, Phyllis, " I added sweetly to a younggirl standing near. "Do, dear. Mr. Call and I are going to decoratethe balustrade. "

I selected a prominent position beside a huge earthen pot of floweringgeraniums. It was a low balustrade with a flat top, designed to situpon. I leaned back against the earthen jar and proceeded to appearengrossed in tennis. Really, though, I was wondering if Breck wouldsee me after all, and what I should say if he did. 

What I did say was conventional enough--simply, "Why, how do you do, " tohis eager, "Hello, Miss Vars!" while I shook hands with him as he stoodbeneath me on the ground. 

"Saw you on Fifth Avenue a week ago, " he went on, "hiking for some placein a taxi. Lost you in the crowd at Forty-second. Thought you might berounding up here before long. So decided I'd run up and say howdy. Lookhere, wait for me, will you? I've got only one hole more to play. Do. Wait for me. I'll see that you get home all right. "

Edith returned alone in the automobile that afternoon. 

"I'll come along later, " I explained mysteriously. 

She hadn't seen Breck, thank heaven! She would have been sure to haveblundered into a dinner invitation, or some such form of effusion. Butshe surmised that something unusual was in the air, and was watching forme from behind lace curtains in the living-room when I returned twohours later. She saw a foreign-made car whirl into the drive and stopat the door. She saw me get out of it and run up the front steps. Thefeatures of the man behind the big mahogany steering-wheel could bediscerned easily. When I opened the front door my sister-in-law was inthe vestibule. She grasped me by both my arms just above my elbows. 

"Breck Sewall!" she ejaculated. "My dear! Breck Sewall again!"

The ecstasy of her voice, the enthusiasm of those hands of hersgrasping my arms soothed my hurt feelings of a week ago. I was ledtenderly--almost worshipfully--upstairs to my room. 

"I believe he is as crazy as ever about you, " Edith exclaimed, oncebehind closed doors. "I honestly think"--she stopped abruptly--"Whatif----" she began again, then excitedly kissed me. "You little wonder!"she said. "There's no one in the whole family to match you. I'll wageryou could become a veritable gateway for us all to pass into New Yorksociety if you wanted to. You're a marvel--you are! Tell me about it. "Her eyes sparkled as she gazed upon me. I realized in a flash just whatthe splendid thing was that I might do. Of course! How simple! I mightmarry Breck!

"Well, " I said languidly, gazing at my reflection in the mirror andreplacing a stray lock, "I suppose I'd rather be a gateway than a fifthwheel. "

The next time that Breck asked me to marry him, I didn't call himabsurd. I was older now. I must put away my dolls and air-castles. Thetime had come, it appeared, for me to assume a woman's burdens, amongwhich often is an expedient marriage. I could no longer offer mytender years as an excuse for side-stepping a big opportunity. Imusn't falter. The moment had arrived. I accepted Breck, and downunderneath a pile of stockings in the back of my lowest bureau drawerI hid a little velvet-lined jewel-box, inside of which there lay anenormous diamond solitaire--promise of my brilliant return to thefootlights. 

CHAPTER VII

THE MILLIONS WIN

Some people cannot understand how a girl can marry a man she doesn'tlove. She can do it more easily than she can stay at home, watch halfher friends marry, and feel herself slowly ossifying into somethingworthless and unessential. It takes more courage to sit quietly, waitfor what may never come, and observe without misgiving the man you mighthave had making some other woman's life happy and complete. 

I couldn't go on living in guest-rooms forever. I was tired oftraveling, and sick to death of leading a life that meant nothing toanybody but Dandy. As a débutante I had had a distinct mission--whetherworthy or unworthy isn't the point in question--worked for it hard, schemed, devised, and succeeded. As Mrs. Breckenridge Sewall I couldagain accomplish results. Many women marry simply because they cannotendure an arid and purposeless future. 

Some people think that a girl who marries for position is hard andcalculating. Why, I entered into my engagement in the exalted mood ofa martyr! I didn't feel hard--I felt self-sacrificing, like a girl inroyal circles whose marriage may distinguish herself and her peopleto such an extent that the mere question of her own personal feelingsis of small importance. The more I considered marrying Breck the moreconvinced I became that it was the best thing I could do. With myposition placed upon my brow, like a crown on a king, freed at lastfrom all the mean and besmirching tricks of acquiring socialdistinction, I could grow and expand. When I looked ahead and sawmyself one day mistress of Grassmere, the London house, the grandmansion in New York; wise and careful monitor of the Sewall millions;gracious hostess; kind ruler; I felt as nearly religious as everbefore in my life. I meant to do good with my wealth and position andinfluence. Is that hard and calculating?

I accepted Breck's character and morals as a candidate chosen for thehonorable office of governor of a state must accept the condition ofpolitics, whether they are clean or rotten. Clean politics are theexception. So also are clean morals. I knew enough for that. Way backin boarding-school days, we girls had resigned ourselves to theacceptance of the deplorable state of the world's morals. We hadstatistics. I had dimly hoped that one of the exceptions to the rulemight fall to my lot, but if not, I wasn't going to be prudish. Breck's early career could neither surprise nor alarm me. I, like mostgirls in this frank and open age, had been prepared for it. So whenLucy, who is anything but worldly wise, and Will, her husband, who isa scientist and all brains, came bearing frenzied tales of Breck'sindiscretions during his one year at the university where Will is nowlocated, I simply smiled. Some people are so terribly naïve andunsophisticated!

The family's attitude toward my engagement was consistent--deeplyimpressed, but tainted with disapproval. Tom came way on fromWisconsin to tell me how contemptible it was for a girl to marry forposition, even for so amazingly a distinguished one. Elise, his wife, penned me a long letter on the emptiness of power and wealth. Malcolmwrote he hoped I knew what I was getting into, and supposed after Ibecame Mrs. Breckenridge Sewall I'd feel too fine to recognize him, should we meet on Fifth Avenue. Oliver was absolutely "flabbergasted"at first, he wrote, but must confess it would save a lot of expensefor the family, if they could stop with Brother Breck when they camedown to New York. "How'd you pull it off, Toots?" he added. "Hopelittle Cupid had something to do with it. "

Alec waited until Edith had gone to Boston for a day's shopping, andtook me for a long automobile ride. Alec, by the way, is one of thisworld's saints. He has always been the member of the Vars family who hasresigned himself to circumstances. It was Tom who went West and made abrilliant future for himself; Alec who remained in Hilton to stand byfather's dying business. It was the twins who were helped to graduatefrom college in spite of difficulties; Alec who cheerfully gave up hisdiploma to offer a helping hand at home. When Alec married EdithCampbell it appeared that at last he had come into his own. She wasimmensely wealthy. Father's business took a new lease of life. At lastAlec was prosperous, but he had to go on adapting and resigning just thesame. With the arrival of the Summer Colony Edith's ambitions burst intolife, and of course he couldn't be a drag on her future--and mine--anymore than on Tom's or the twins'. He acquiesced; he fitted in withoutreproach. Today in regard to my engagement he complained but gently. 

"We're simple New England people after all, " he said. "A girl is usuallyhappier married to a man of her own sort. You weren't born into the kindof life the Sewalls lead. You weren't born into even the kind of lifeyou're leading now. Edith--Edith's fine, of course, and I've always beenglad you two were so congenial--but she does exaggerate the importanceof the social game. She plays it too hard. I don't want you to marrySewall. I'm afraid you won't be happy. "

When Edith came home that night I asked her if she knew how Alec felt. 

"Of course I do. The dear old fogey! But this is the way I look at it, Ruth. Some people _not_ born into a high place get there just the samethrough sheer nerve and determination, and others spend their wholeworthless lives at home on the farm. It isn't what a person is borninto, but what he is equal to, that decides his success. Mercy, child, don't let a dear, silly, older brother bother you. Sweet old Al doesn'tknow what he's talking about. I'd like to know what he _would_ advisedoing with his little sister, if, after all the talk there is about herand Breck, he could succeed in breaking off her engagement. She'd bejust an old glove kicking around. That's what she'd be. Al is simplycrazy. I'll have to talk to him!"

"Don't bother, " I said, "I'm safe. I have no intention of becoming anold glove. "

Possibly in the privacy of my own bed at night, where so often now I laywide-awake waiting for the dawn, I did experience a few misgivings. Butby the time I was ready to go down to breakfast I had usually persuadedmyself into sanity again. I used to reiterate all the desirable pointsabout Breck I could think of and calm my fears by dwelling upon the manydemands of my nature that he could supply--influence, power, delight inenvironment, travel, excitement. 

When I was a child I was instructed by my drawing-teacher to sketch withmy stick of charcoal a vase, a book, and a red rose, which he arrangedin a group on a table before me. I had a great deal of difficulty withthe rose; so after struggling for about half an hour I got up and, unobserved, put the rose behind the vase, so that only its stem wasvisible to me. Then I took a fresh page and began again. The result wasa very fair portrayal of the articles as they then appeared. So with myideal of marriage--when I found its arrangement impossible to portray inmy life--I simply slipped out of sight that for which the red rose issometimes the symbol (I mean love) and went ahead sketching in the otherthings. 

I explained all this to Breck one day. I wanted to be honest with him. 

"Say, what are you driving at? Red roses! Drawing lessons! What's thatgot to do with whether you'll run down to Boston for dinner with metonight? You do talk the greatest lot of stuff! But have it your ownway. I'm satisfied. Just jump in beside me! Will you? Darn it! I haven'tthe patience of a saint!"

CHAPTER VIII

THE HORSE SHOW

Conventions may sometimes appear silly and absurd, but most of them aremade for practical purposes. Ignore them and you'll discover yourself indifficulty. Leave your spoon in your cup and your arm will unexpectedlyhit it sometime, and over will go everything on to the tablecloth. If Ihad not ignored certain conventions I wouldn't be crying over spilledmilk now. 

I allowed myself to become engaged to Breck; accepted his ring and hidit in my lowest bureau drawer; told my family my intentions; let theworld see me dining, dancing, theater-ing and motoring like mad withBreck and draw its conclusions; and all this, mind you, before I hadreceived a word of any sort whatsoever from my prospectivefamily-in-law. This, as everybody knows, is irregular, and as bad formas leaving your spoon in your cup. No wonder I got into difficulty!

My prospective family-in-law consisted simply of Breck's mother, Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall--a very elegant and perfectly poised woman she seemedto me the one time I had seen her at close range, as she sat at thehead of the sumptuous table in the tapestry-hung dining-room atGrassmere. I admired Mrs. Sewall. I used to think that I could succeedin living up to her grand manners with better success than the otherrather hoidenish young ladies who chanced to be the guests at Grassmerethe time I was there. Mrs. Sewall is a small woman, always dressed inblack, with a superb string of pearls invariably about her neck, andlots of brilliant diamonds on her slender fingers. Breck with his heavyfeatures, black hair brushed straight back, eyes half-closed as if hewas always riding in a fifty-mile gale, deep guffaw of a laugh, andinelegant speech does not resemble his mother. It is strange, but thepicture that I most enjoyed dwelling upon, when I contemplated my futurelife, was one of myself creeping up Fifth Avenue on late afternoons inthe Sewalls' crested automobile, seated, not beside Breck, but inintimate conversation beside my aristocratic mother-in-law. 

As humiliating as it was to me to continue engaged to a man from whosemother there had been made no sign of welcome or approval, I did sobecause Breck plead that Mrs. Sewall was on the edge of a nervousbreak-down, and to announce any startling piece of news to her at such atime would be unwise. I was foolish enough to believe him. I deceivedmyself into thinking that my course was allowable and self-respecting. 

Breck used to run up from New York to Hilton in his car for Sunday; andsometimes during the week, in his absurd eagerness, he would dash up toour door and ring the bell as late as eleven o'clock, simply because hehad been seized with a desire to bid me good-night. 

When Edith and I went to New York for a week's shopping we were simplydeluged with attentions from Breck--theater every night, luncheons, dinners and even breakfasts occasionally squeezed in between. All this, I supposed, was carried on without Mrs. Sewall's knowledge. I ought tohave known better than to have excused it. It was my fault. I blamemyself. Such an unconventional affair deserved to end in catastrophe. But to Edith it ended not in spilled milk, but in a spilled pint of herlife's blood. 

One night in midsummer when I was just dropping off to sleep, Edithknocked gently on my door, and then opened it and came in. She was allready for bed with her hair braided down her back. 

"Asleep?"

"No, " I replied. "What's the matter?"

"Did you know Grassmere was open?"

"Why?" I demanded. 

"Because, just as I was fixing the curtain in my room I happened to lookup there. It's all lit up, upstairs and down. Even the ball-room. Didyou know about it?"

I had to confess that I didn't. Breck had told me that his mother wouldremain in the rented palace at Newport for the remainder of the season, under the care of a specialist. 

"Looks as if they were having a big affair of some sort up there. Iguess Mrs. F. Rockridge has recovered from her nervous break-down! Come, get up and see. "

"Oh, I'll take your word for it, " I replied indifferently. But I won'tsay what my next act was after Edith had gone out of the room. You maybe sure I didn't immediately drop off to sleep. 

I looked for one of Breck's ill-penned letters the next morning, butnone came. No wire or telephone message either. Not until five o'clockin the afternoon did I receive any explanation of the lights atGrassmere. Edith had been to her bridge club, and came rushing up on theveranda, eager and excited. There were little bright spots in the centerof each cheek. Edith's a handsome woman, thirty-five or eight, I think, and very smart in appearance. She has dark brilliant eyes, and a qualityin her voice and manner that makes you feel as if there were about eightcylinders and all in perfect order, too, chugging away underneath hershiny exterior. 

"Where's the mail?" she asked of me. I was lying on the wicker couch. 

"Oh, inside, I guess, on the hall table. I don't know. Why?"

"Wait a minute, " she said, and disappeared. She rejoined me an instantlater, with two circulars and a printed post-card. 

"Is this all there is?" Edith demanded again, and I could see the redspots on her cheeks grow deeper. 

"That's all, " I assured her. "Expecting something?"

"Have you had any trouble with Breck?" she flashed out at me next. 

"What are you driving at, Edith?" I inquired. "What's the matter?"

"Mrs. Sewall is giving a perfectly enormous ball at Grassmere on thetwenty-fourth, and we're left out. That's the matter!" She tossed themail on the table. 

"Oh, " I said, "our invitations will come in the morning probably. Thereare often delays. "

"No, sir, I know better. The bridge club girls said their invitationscame yesterday afternoon. I can't understand it. We certainly were onMrs. Sewall's list when she gave that buffet-luncheon three years ago. And now we're not! That's the bald truth of it. It was terriblyembarrassing this afternoon--all of them telling about what they weregoing to wear--it's going to be a masquerade--and I sitting there likea dummy! Héléne McClellan broke the news to me. She blurted right out, 'Oh, do tell us, Edith, ' she said to me, 'is Mrs. Sewall's ball toannounce your sister's engagement to her son? We're crazy to know!' Ofcourse I didn't let on at first that we weren't even invited, but it hadto leak out later. Oh, it is simply humiliating!"

"Is she at Grassmere now--Mrs. Sewall, I mean?" I asked quietly. 

"Yes, she is. There's a big house-party going on there this veryminute. The club girls knew all about it. Mrs. Sewall has got a niece orsomebody or other with her, for the rest of the summer, and the ball isbeing given in her honor. Gale Oliphant, I believe the girl's name is. But look here, it seems very queer to me that _I'm_ the one to be givingyou this information instead of Breck. What does it all mean anyhow?Come, confess. You must have had a tiff or something with Breck. "

"I don't have tiffs, Edith, " I said, annoyed. 

"Well, you needn't get mad about it. There must be some reason for ourbeing slighted in this fashion. I'm sure _I've_ done nothing. It's notmy fault. I wouldn't care if it was small, but everybody who isn'tabsolutely beyond the pale is invited. "

"There's no use losing your nerve, Edith, " I said in an exasperatinglycalm manner. 

"Good heavens!" Edith exclaimed. "You seem to enjoy slights, but if Iwere in your place I shouldn't enjoy slights from my prospectivemother-in-law, anyhow!"

"You needn't be insulting, " I remarked, arranging a sofa-pillow withcare underneath my head and turning my attention to my magazine. 

Edith went into the house. The screen door slammed behind her. I didn'tstir, just kept right on staring at the printed page before me andturning a leaf now and again, as if I were really reading. 

Gale Oliphant! I knew all about her. I had met her first at thehouse-party at Grassmere--a silly little thing, I had thought her, rather pretty, and a tremendous flirt. Breck had said she was worth amillion in her own name. I remembered that, because he explained that hehad been rather keen about her before he met me. "That makes my eighthundred dollars a year look rather sickly, doesn't it?" I replied. "Yes, " he said, "it sure does! But let me tell you that _you_ make _her_look like a last year's straw hat. " However, the last year's straw hatpossessed some attraction for Breck, because during the three years thatGrassmere was closed and the Sewalls were in Europe, Breck and GaleOliphant saw a lot of each other. Breck told me that she really wasbetter than nothing, and his mater was terribly keen about having heraround. 

I tried in every way I could to explain away my fears. I mustn't behasty. Well-mannered thoughts didn't jump to foolish conclusions. Breckwould probably explain the situation to me. I must wait with calmnessand composure. And I did, all the next day, and the next, and the third, until finally there arrived one of Breck's infrequent scrawls. 

The envelope was post-marked Maine. I opened it, and read:

 "DEAR RUTH:

 "I am crazy to see you. It seems like a week of Sundays. The mater got a notion she wanted me to come up to Bar Harbor and bring down the yacht. I brought three fellows with me. Some spree! But we're good little boys. The captain struck. Waiting for another. Won't round up at your place for another week. I'm yours and don't forget it. It seems like a week of Sundays. Mater popped the news she's going to open up old Grassmere pretty soon. Then it will be like a week of holidays for yours truly, if you're at home to sit in that pergola effect with. Savvy? Showed the fellows the snapshots tonight but didn't tell them. Haven't touched a drop for four weeks and three days. Never did that stunt for any queen before. Good-night, you little fish. Don't worry about that though. I'll warm you up O. K. Trust Willie. "

I used to feel apologetic for Breck's letters, and tear them up asquickly as possible, before any one could see how crude and ill-spelledthey were. But I wasn't troubled about such details in this letter. Itbrought immense relief. Breck was so natural and so obviously unaware oftrouble brewing at home. Surely, I needn't be alarmed. The invitationfor the masquerade might have been misdirected or have slipped downbehind something. Accidents do take place. Of course it was mostunfortunate, but fate performs unfortunate feats sometimes. 

In my eagerness to dispel my fears it never crossed my mind that Breck'sabsence was planned, so that Mrs. Sewall could start her attack withoutinterference. She was a very clever woman, an old and experienced handat social maneuvers. I am only a beginner. It was an uneven, one-sidedfight--for fight it was after all. She won. She bore away the laurels. Ibore away simply the tattered remnants of my self-respect. 

* * * * *

Every year at the Hilton Country Club a local horse show is held inmid-August, and many of the summer colonists--women as well asmen--exhibit and take part in the different events. 

Edith always has liked horses, and when she married Alec she rebuilt ourrun-down stable along with the house, and filled the empty old boxstalls with two or three valuable thorough-breds. Edith's Arrow, Pierre, and Blue-grass had won some sort of a ribbon for the last half-dozenyears. I usually rode Blue-grass for Edith in the jumping event. I wasto do so on the afternoon that Breck's letter arrived. 

It was a perfect day. The grand-stand with its temporary boxes thatalways sell at absurdly high prices was filled with the summer society, dressed in its gayest and best. The brass band was striking up gala airsnow and again, and the big bell in the tower clanged at intervals. Between events horses were being led to and fro, and in front of thegrand-stand important individuals wearing white badges leaned over thesides of the lowest tier of boxes, chatting familiarly with the ladiesabove. A lot of outsiders, anybody who could pay a dollar admission, wandered at large, staring openly at the boxes, leveling opera-glasses, and telling each other who the celebrities were. 

Alec was West on a business trip, but Edith had a box, of course, as shealways does. All around us were gathered in their various stalls ourfriends and acquaintances. It is the custom to visit back and forth frombox to box, and the owner of each box is as much a host in his ownreservation as in his own reception-room at home. Our box is usuallyvery popular, but this year there was a marked difference. Of coursesome of our best friends did stop for a minute or two, but those who satdown and stayed long enough to be observed were only men. I wassurprised and unpleasantly disturbed. 

Mrs. Sewall's box was not far away. We could see her seated prominentlyin a corner of it, surrounded by a very smart bevy--strangers mostly, New Yorkers I supposed--with Miss Gale Oliphant, strikingly costumed inscarlet, in their midst. A vigilant group of summer colonists hoverednear-by, now and again becoming one of the party. Edith and I sat quitealone in our box for an hour fully; I in my severe black habit, with myelbow on the railing, my chin in my hand, steadily gazing at the track;Edith erect, sharp-eyed, and nervously looking about in search of someone desirable to bow to and invite to join us. 

Finally she leaned forward and said to me, "Isn't this simply terrible?I can't stand it. Come, let's get out. "

"Where to?" I asked. "My event comes very soon. "

"Oh, let's go over and see Mrs. Jackson. I'm sick of sitting here starkalone. Come on--the girls are all over there. "

I glanced toward the Jackson box and saw a group of our most intimatefriends--Edith's bridge club members and several of the girls in my set, too. 

"All right, " I said, and we got up and strolled along the aisle. 

As we approached I observed one of the women nudge another. I saw HéléneMcClellan open her mouth to speak and then close it quickly as shecaught sight of us. I felt under Mrs. Jackson's over-effusive greetingthe effort it was for her to appear easy and cordial. The group musthave been talking about the masquerade, for as we joined it there ensuedan uncomfortable silence. I would have withdrawn, but Edith pinched myarm and boldly went over and sat down in one of the empty chairs. 

We couldn't have been there five minutes when Mrs. Sewall came strollingalong the aisle, accompanied by Miss Oliphant. She, who usually heldherself so aloof, was very gracious this afternoon, smiling cordially atleft and right, and stopping now and again to present her niece. I sawher recognize Mrs. Jackson and then smilingly approach her. We all roseas our hostess got up and beamingly put her hand into Mrs. Sewall'sextended one. 

"How do you do, Mrs. Jackson, " said Mrs. Sewall. "I've been enjoyingyour lovely boxful of young ladies all the afternoon. Charming, really!Delightful! I hope you are all planning to come to my masquerade, " shewent on, addressing the whole group now. "I want it to be a success. Iam giving it for my little guest here--and my son also, " she added witha significant smile, as if to imply that the coupling of Miss Oliphant'sand her son's names was not accidental. "Oh, how do you do, Mrs. McClellan!" she interrupted herself, smiling across the group to Hélénewho stood next to me, "I haven't caught your eye before today. I hopeyou're well--and oh, Miss McDowell!" She bowed to Leslie McDowell on myother side. 

It was just about at this juncture that I observed Edith threading herway around back of several chairs toward Mrs. Sewall. I wish I couldhave stopped her, but it was too late. I heard her clear voice suddenlyexclaiming from easy speaking distance, "How do you do, Mrs. Sewall. "

"Ah! how do you do!" the lady condescended to reply. There waschilliness in the voice. Edith continued. 

"We're so delighted, " she went on bravely, "to have Grassmere occupiedagain. The lights are very pretty on your hilltop from The Homestead, our place, you know. "

"Ah, The Homestead!" The chilliness was frosty now. Edith blushed. 

"Perhaps you do not recall me, Mrs. Sewall--I am Mrs. AlexanderVars--you know. My sister----"

"Oh, yes--Mrs. Alexander Vars. I recall you quite well, Mrs. Vars. Perfectly, in fact, " she said. Then stopped short. There was a terriblesilence. It continued like a long-drawn out note on a violin. 

"Oh, " nervously piped out some one in the group, at last, "look at thatlovely horse! I just adore black ones!"

Mrs. Sewall raised her lorgnette and gazed at the track. 

"By the way, Mrs. Jackson, " she resumed, as if she had not justslaughtered poor Edith. "By the way, can you tell me the participantsin the next event? I've left my program. So careless!" she purred. Andafterwards she smilingly accepted a proffered armchair in the midst ofthe scene of her successful encounter. 

It would have been thoughtful, I think, and more humane to have waiteduntil the wounded had been carried away--or crawled away. For there wasno one to offer a helping hand to Edith and me. I didn't expect it. Insocial encounters the vanquished must look out for themselves. With whatdignity I could, I advanced towards Mrs. Jackson. 

"Well, I must trot along, " I said lightly. "My turn at the hurdles willbe coming soon. Come, Edith, let's go and have a look at Blue-grass. Good-by. " And leisurely, although I longed to cast down my eyes andhasten quickly away from the staring faces, I strolled out of the box, followed by Edith; walked without haste along the aisle, even stoppingtwice to exchange a word or two with friends; and finally escaped. 

CHAPTER IX

CATASTROPHE

The incident at the horse show was simply the beginning. I couldn't goanywhere--to a tea, to the Country Club, or even down town for amorning's shopping--and feel sure of escaping a fresh cut or insult ofsome kind. Mrs. Sewall went out of her way to make occasion to meetand ignore me. It was necessary for her to go out of her way, for wedidn't meet often by chance. I was omitted from the many dinners anddances which all the hostesses in Hilton began to give in MissOliphant's honor. I was omitted from the more intimate afternoon teaand sewing parties. Gale attended them now, and of course it wouldhave been awkward. 

I didn't blame my girl friends for leaving me out. I might have done thesame to one of them. It isn't contrary to the rules. In fact the fewtimes I did encounter the old associates it was far from pleasant. Therewas a feeling of constraint. There was nothing to talk about, either. Even my manicurist and hairdresser, usually so conversational about allthe social events of the community, felt embarrassed and ill at ease, with the parties at Grassmere, the costumes for the masquerade, MissOliphant, and the Vars scandal barred from the conversation. 

I was glad that Alec was away on a western trip. He, at least, wasspared the unbeautifying effect of the ordeal upon his wife and sister. Alec hardly ever finds fault or criticizes, but underneath his silenceand his kindness I often wonder if there are not hidden, woundedillusions and bleeding ideals. Edith and I were both in the same boat, and we weren't pleasant traveling companions. I had never sailed withEdith under such baffling winds as we now encountered. Squalls, calms, and occasional storms we had experienced, but she had always kept a firmhand on the rudder. Now she seemed to lose her nerve and forget all therules of successful navigation that she ever had learned. She threw thecharts to the winds, and burst into uncontrolled passions ofdisappointment and rage. 

I couldn't believe that Edith was the same woman who but six months agohad nursed her only little daughter, whom she loves passionately, through an alarming sickness. There had been trained nurses, but everynight Edith had taken her place in the low chair by the little girl'scrib, there to remain hour after hour, waiting, watching, noting withcomplete control the changes for better or for worse; sleeping scarcelyat all; and always smiling quiet encouragement to Alec or to me when wewould steal in upon her. Every one said she was marvelous--even thenurses and the doctor. It was as if she actually willed her daughter topass through her terrific crisis, speaking firmly now and again to thelittle sufferer, holding her spirit steady as it crossed the yawningabyss. She had seemed superb to me. I had asked myself if I could eversummon to my support such unswerving strength and courage. 

I didn't hear from Breck again until he arrived at the front doorunexpectedly one night at ten o'clock. I led the way down into theshaded pergola, and there we remained until nearly midnight. When Ifinally stole back to my room, I found Edith waiting for me, sittingbolt upright on the foot of my bed, wide-awake, alert, eyes bright andhard as steel. 

"Well?" she asked the instant I came in, "tell me, is he as keen asever?"

A wave of something like sickness swept over me. 

"Yes, " I said shortly. 

"Is he _really_?" she pursued. "Oh, isn't that splendid! Really? Hestill wants you to marry him?"

"Yes, " I said. 

Edith flung her arm about me and squeezed me hard. 

"We'll make that old cat of a mother of his sing another song one ofthese days, " she said. "You're a wonderful little kiddie, after all. You'll save the day! Trust you! You'll pull it off yet! Oh, I have beenhorrid, Ruth, this last fortnight. Really I have. I was so afraid wewere ruined, and we would be if it wasn't for you. Wait a jiffy. "

Fifteen minutes later, just as, very wearily, I was putting out mylight, Edith pushed open my door again with a cup of something steaminghot in her hand. 

"Here, " she said. "Malted milk, good and hot, with just a dash of sherryin it. 'Twill make you sleep. You drink it, poor child--wonderful childtoo! You jump in and drink it! I'll fix the windows and the lights. "

I tried to be Edith's idea of wonderful. For a week I endured theignominy of receiving calls from Breck in secret, late at night when hewas able to steal away from the gaieties at Grassmere. For a week Ispent long idle days in the garden, in my room, on the veranda--anywhereat all where I could best kill the galling, unoccupied hours untilnight, and Breck was free to come to me. 

I did not annoy him with demands for explanation of a situationalready painfully clear to me. I knew that he spoke truth when heassured me he could not alter his mother's opposition at present, andI did not disturb our evening talks by reproaches. I assumed a grandair of indifference toward Mrs. Sewall and her attacks, as if I wassome invulnerable creature beyond and above her. I didn't even cheapenmyself by appearing to observe that Breck's invitations to appear inpublic with him had suddenly been replaced by demands for private andstolen interviews. 

Of course his duties as host were many and consumed most of his time. His clever mother saw to that. He said that there were twenty guests atGrassmere. Naturally, I told myself, he couldn't take all-day motortrips with me. I was convinced that my strength lay in whatever charm Ipossessed for him, and I had no intention of injuring it by ill-timedcomplaints. I was attractive, alluring to him--more so than ever. Itried to be! Oh, I tried to be diplomatic, wise, to bide my time; byquiet and determined endurance to withstand the siege of Mrs. Sewall'sdisapproval; to hold her son's affection; and to marry him some day, with her sanction, too, just exactly as I had planned. I tried and Ifailed. 

The very fact that I could hold Breck's affection hastened mydefeat--that and my lacerated pride. 

I met him one day when I was out walking with Dandy, not far fromthe very spot where once he had begged me to ride with him in hisautomobile. Today in the seat beside him, which had been of late sooften mine, sat Gale Oliphant, her head almost upon his shoulder, and Breck leaning toward her laughing as they sped by. 

He saw me, I was sure he saw me, but he did not raise his hat. Hissignal of recognition had been without Miss Oliphant's knowledge. Afterthey had passed he had stretched out his arm as a sign to turn to theleft, and had waved his hand without looking around. My face grewscarlet. What had I become? Why, I might have been a picked-upacquaintance, somebody to be ashamed of! Ruth Chenery Vars--wherehad disappeared that once proud and self-respecting girl?

Insignificant as the event really was, it stood as a symbol of thewhole miserable situation to me. It was just enough to startle me intocontempt for myself. That night Breck came stealing down to me along thedark roads in his quiet car about eleven-thirty. I knew he had been tothe Jackson dinner and was surprised to find he had changed into streetclothes. He was more eager than ever in his greeting. 

"Come down into the sunken garden, " he pleaded. "I've got something tosay to you. "

It was light in the garden. There was a full September moon. I stoodbeside the bird-bath and put a forefinger in it. I could hear Breckbreathing hard beside me. I was sure he had broken his pledge and hadbeen drinking. 

"Well?" I said at last, calmly, looking up. 

He answered me silently, vehemently. 

"Don't, please, _here_. It's so fearfully light. Don't, Breck, " I said. 

"I've got the car, " he whispered. "It will take us two hours. I've gotit all planned. It's a peach of a night. You've got to come. I'm not forwaiting any longer. You've got to marry me tonight, you little fish!I'll wake you up. Do you hear me? Tonight in two hours. I'm not going tohang around any longer. You've got to come!"

I managed to struggle away. 

"Don't talk like that to me. It's insulting! Don't!" I said. 

"Insulting! Say, ring off on that--will you? Insulting to ask a girlto marry you! Say, that's good! Well, insulting or not, I've made upmy mind not to hang around any longer. I'll marry you tonight or notat all! You needn't be afraid. I've got it all fixed up--license andeverything. " He whipped a paper out of his pocket. "We'll surprise'em, we will--you and I. I'm mad about you, and always have been. Themater--huh! Be a shock to her--but she'll survive. "

"I wouldn't elope with the king of England!" I said hotly. "What do youthink I am? Understand this, Breck. I require all the honors and highceremonies that exist. "

"Damn it, " he said, "you've been letting me come here without muchceremony every night, late, on the quiet. What have you got to say tothat? I'm tired of seeing you pose on that high horse of yours. Comedown. You know as well as I you've been leading me along as hard as youcould for the last week. Good Lord--what for? Say, what's the game? Idon't know. But listen--if you don't marry me _now_, then you neverwill. There's a limit to a man's endurance. Come, come, you can't dobetter for yourself. You aren't so much. The mater will never comearound. She's got her teeth set. The car's ready. I shan't come again. "

"Wait a minute, " I said. "I'll be back in a minute. " And I went straightinto the house and upstairs to my room, knelt down before my bureau anddrew out a blue velvet box. Breck's ring was inside. 

Just as I was stealing down the stairs again, ever-on-the-guard, Edithappeared in the hall in her nightdress. 

"What are you after?" she asked. 

For answer I held out the box toward her. She came down two or three ofthe stairs. 

"What you going to do with it?" she demanded. 

"Give it back to Breck. "

She grasped my wrist. "You little fool!" she exclaimed. 

"But he wants me to run off with him. He wants me to elope. "

"He does!" she ejaculated, her eyes large. "Well?" she inquired. 

I stared up at Edith on the step above me in silence. 

"Well?" she repeated. 

"You don't mean----" I began. 

"His mother is sure to come around in time. They always do. _My_ mothereloped, " she said. 

"Edith Campbell Vars, " I exclaimed, "do you actually mean----" Istopped. Even in the dim light of the hall I saw her flush before myblank astonishment. "Do you mean----"

"Well, if you don't, " she interrupted in defense, "everybody will thinkhe threw _you_ over. You'll simply become an old glove. There's not muchchoice. "

"But my pride, my own self-respect! Edith Vars, you'd sell your soul forsociety; and you'd sell me too! But you can't--you can't! Let go mywrist. I'm sick of the whole miserable game. I'm sick of it. Let me go. "

"And I'm sick of it too, " flung back Edith. "But _I've_ got a daughter'sfuture to think about, I'd have you know, as well as yours. I've workedhard to establish ourselves in this place, and I've succeeded too. Andnow you come along, and look at the mess we're in! Humiliated! Ignored!Insulted! It isn't my fault, is it? If I'd paddled my own canoe, I'd beall right today. "

"You can paddle it hereafter, " I flashed out. "I shan't trouble you anymore. "

"Yes, that's pleasant, after you've jabbed it full of holes!"

"Let me go, Edith, " I said and pulled away my wrist with a jerk. 

"Are you going to give it back to him?"

"Yes, I am!" I retorted and fled down the stairs, out of the door, across the porch, and into the moonlit garden as fast as I could go. 

"Here, Breck--here's your ring! Take it. You're free. You don't need tohang around, as you say, any more. And I'm free, too, thank heaven! Iwould have borne the glory and the honor of your name with pride. Yourmother's friendship would have been a happiness, but for no name, andfor no woman's favor will I descend to a stolen marriage. You'remistaken in me. Everybody seems to be. I'm mistaken in myself. I don'twant to marry you after all. I don't love you, and I don't want to marryyou. I'm tired. Please go. "

He stared at me. "You little fool!" he exclaimed, just like Edith. Thenhe slipped the box into his pocket, shrugged his shoulders, and in trulychivalrous fashion added, "Don't imagine I'm going to commit suicide oranything tragic like that, young lady, because I'm not. "

"I didn't imagine it, " I replied. 

"I'm going to marry Gale Oliphant, " he informed me coolly. "I'm going togive her a ring in a little box--and she'll wear hers. You'll see. " Heproduced a cigarette and lit it. "She's no fish, " he added. "She's apippin, she is. Good night, " he finished, and turned and walked out ofthe garden. 

Three days later I went away from Hilton. Edith's tirades becameunendurable. I didn't want even to eat her food. The spinet desk, thebureau, the chiffonier, the closet, I cleared of every trace of me. Istripped the bed of its linen and left the mattress rolled over thefoot-board in eloquent abandonment. The waste-basket bulged withdiscarded odds and ends. One had only to look into that room to feelconvinced that its occupant had disappeared, like a spirit from a deadbody, never to return. 

I went to my sister Lucy's. I did not write her. I simply took a morningtrain to Boston and called her up on the 'phone in her not far distantuniversity town. She came trotting cheerfully in to meet me. I told hermy news; she tenderly gathered what was left of me together, and carriedthe bits out here to her little white house on the hill. 

CHAPTER X

A UNIVERSITY TOWN

I did not think I would be seated here on my rustic bench writing sosoon again. I finished the history of my catastrophe a week ago. Butsomething almost pleasant has occurred, and I'd like to try my pencil atrecording a pleasant story. Scarcely a story yet, though. Just a bit ofa conversation--that's all--fragmentary. It refers to this very benchwhere I am sitting as I write, to the hills I am seeing out beyond thelittle maple tree stripped now of all its glory. I cannot see a dash ofcolor anywhere. The world is brown. The sky is gray. It is rather chillyfor writing out-of-doors. 

The conversation I refer to began in an ugly little room in aprofessor's house. There was a roll-top desk in the room, and a map, yellow with age, hanging on the wall. The conversation ended underneatha lamp-post on a street curbing, and it was rainy and dark and cold. Andyet when I think of that conversation, sitting here in the brown chilldusk, I see color, I feel warmth. 

When I first came here to Lucy's three weeks ago, she assumed that Iwas suffering from a broken heart. I had been exposed and showedsymptoms--going off alone for long walks and consuming reams of themepaper as if I was half mad. I told Lucy that my heart was too hard tobreak, but I couldn't convince her. There wasn't a day passed but thatshe planned some form of amusement or diversion. Even Will, her husband, cooperated and spent long evenings playing rum or three-handed auction, so I might not sit idle. I tried to fall in with Lucy's plans. 

"But, please, no men! I don't want to see another man for years. If anyman I know finds out I'm here, tell him I won't see him, absolutely, " Iwarned. "I want to be alone. I want to think things out undisturbed. Sometimes I almost wish I could enter a convent. "

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Lucy would exclaim. 

"You needn't be. You didn't break my engagement. For heaven's sake, Lucy, _you_ needn't take it so hard. "

But she did. She simply brooded over me. She read to me, smiled for me, and initiated every sally that I made into public. In conversation shepicked her way with me with the precaution of a cat walking across atable covered with delicate china. She made wide detours to avoid areference or remark that might reflect upon my engagement. Will didlikewise. I lived in daily surprise and wonder. As a family we arebrutally frank. This was a new phase, and one of the indirect results, Isuppose, of my broken engagement. 

What I am trying to arrive at is the change of attitude in me towardLucy. Usually when I visit Lucy I do just about as I please; refuse toattend a lot of stupid student-teas and brain-fagging lectures, or toexert myself to appear engrossed in the conversation of her intellectualdinner guests. 

I used to scorn Lucy's dinners. They are very different from Edith's, where, when the last guest in her stunning new gown has arrived andswept into the drawing-room, followed by her husband, a maid enters, balancing on her tray a dozen little glasses, amber filled; everybodytakes one, daintily, between a thumb and forefinger and drains it; putsit nonchalantly aside on shelf or table; offers or accepts an arm andfloats toward the dining-room. At Edith's dinners the table is long, flower-laden, candle-lighted. Your partner's face smiles at you dimly. His voice is almost drowned by the chatter and the laughter all about, but you hear him--just barely--and you laugh--he is immensely droll--andthen reply. And he laughs, too, contagiously, and you know that you aregoing to get on!

Incidentally at Edith's dinners silent-footed servants pass you things;you take them; you eat a little, too--delicious morsels if you stoppedto consider them; but you and your partner are having far too good atime (he is actually audacious, and so, if you please, are you) tobother about the food. 

There's a little group of glasses beside your water, and once in a whilethere appears in your field of vision a hand grasping a white napkinfolded like a cornucopia, out of which flows delicious nectar. You sipa little of it occasionally, a very little--you are careful ofcourse--and waves of elation sweep over you because you are alive andhappy and good to look upon; waves of keen delight that such a big andsplendid life (there are orchids in the center of the table, there arepearls and diamonds everywhere)--that such a life as this is yours tograsp and to enjoy. 

At Lucy's dinners the women do not wear diamonds and pearls. Lucy seldomentertains more than six at a time. "Shall we go out?" she says when herDelia mumbles something from the door. You straggle across the hall intothe dining-room, where thirteen carnations--you count them later, there's time enough--where thirteen stiff carnations are doing duty inthe center of the prim table. At each place there is a soup platesending forth a cloud of steam. You wait until Lucy points out yourplace to you, and then sit down at last. There is a terrible pause--youwonder if they say grace--and then finally Lucy picks up her soup-spoonfor signal and you're off! The conversation is general. That is becauseLucy's guests are usually intellectuals, and whatever any one of themsays is supposed to be so important that every one else must keep stilland listen. You can't help but notice the food, because there's nothingto soften the effect of it upon your nerves, as it were. There areusually four courses, with chicken or ducks for the main dish, accompanied by potatoes cut in balls, the invariable rubber stamp of aparty at Lucy's. Afterward there's coffee in the living-room, and youfeel fearfully discouraged when you look at the clock and find it's onlyeight-thirty. You're surprised after the guests have gone to find thatLucy considers her party a success. 

"Why, " she exclaims, cheeks aglow, "Dr. Van Breeze gave us the entirerésumé of his new book. He seldom thinks anybody clever enough to talkto. It was a perfect combination!"

As I said, I usually visit Lucy in rather a critical state of mind andhold myself aloof from her learned old doctors and professors. On thisvisit, though, she is so obviously careful of me and my feelings, that Ifind myself going out of my way to consider hers a little. One day lastweek when she so brightly suggested that we go to a tea given by thewife of a member of the faculty, instead of exclaiming, "Oh, dear! itwould bore me to extinction, " I replied sweetly, "All right, if you wantto, I'll go. "

I wasn't feeling happy. I didn't want to go. I had been roaming thewoods and country roads round about for a month in search of an excusefor existence. I had been autobiographing for days in the faint hopethat I might run across something worth while in my life. But no. It washopeless. I had lost all initiative. I couldn't see what reason therewas for me to eat three meals a day. It seemed as foolish as stoking thefurnaces of an ocean liner when it is in port. In such a mood, andthrough the drifting mist of a complaining October afternoon, in rubbersand a raincoat, I started out with Lucy for her afternoon tea. 

The other guests wore raincoats, too--we met a few on the way--withdull-colored suits underneath, and tailored hats. There wasn't a singlebright, frivolous thing about that tea. Even the house was dismal--rowsof black walnut bookcases with busts of great men on top, steelengravings framed in oak on the walls, and a Boston fern or two in redpots sitting about on plates. When I looked up from my weak tea, servedin a common stock-pattern willow cup, and saw Lucy sparkling withpleasure, talking away for dear life with a white-haired old man whowore a string tie and had had two fingers shot off in the Civil War (Ialways hated to shake hands with him) a wave of intolerance for age andlearning swept over me. I told Lucy if she didn't mind I'd run alonghome, and stepped across the hall into a little stupid room with aroll-top desk in it, where we had left our raincoats, and rubbers. I puton my things and then stood staring a moment at a picture on the wall. Ididn't know what the picture was. I simply looked at it blindly while Ifought a sudden desire to cry. I hadn't wept before. But this dreadfulhouse, these dry, drab people were such a contrast to myall-but-realized ambitions that it brought bitter tears to my eyes. Lifeat Grassmere--_that_ was living! This was mere existence. 

Just as I was groping for a handkerchief some little fool of a womanexclaimed, "Oh, there she is--in the study! I thought she hadn't gone. OMiss Vars, there's somebody I want you to meet, and meet you. Here sheis, Mr. Jennings. Come in. Miss Vars, " I was still facing the wall, "Miss Vars, I want to introduce Mr. Jennings. " I turned finally, and asI did so she added, "Now, I must go back to Dr. Fuller. I was afraidyou'd gone, " and out she darted. I could have shot her. 

Mr. Jennings came straight across the room. Through a blur I caught animpression of height, breadth and energy. His sudden hand-grasp was firmand decisive. "How do you do?" he said, and then abruptly observed mytears. 

"You've caught me with my sails all down, " I explained. 

"Have I?" he replied pleasantly. "Well, I like sails down. "

"Please do not think, " I continued, "that I am often guilty of such athing as this. I'm not. Who was that woman anyhow?"

"Oh, don't blame her, " he laughed, and he stepped forward to look at thepicture which I had been staring at. I was busy putting away myhandkerchief. "Who was that woman?" Mr. Jennings repeated, abruptlyturning away from the picture back to me, "Who was she? I'll tell youwho she was--a good angel. Why, " he went on, "I'd got into the way ofthinking that sympathy as expressed by tears had gone out of style withthe modern girl. They never shed any at the theater nowadays, I notice. I'm glad to know there is one who hasn't forgotten how. "

I stepped forward then to find out what manner of picture it was tocause such a tribute to be paid me. It was called "The Doctor. " A crudebare room was depicted. The light from a lamp on an old kitchen tablethrew its rays on the turned-aside, face of a little girl, who layasleep--or unconscious--on an improvised bed made of two chairs drawntogether. Beyond the narrow confines of the cot the little girl's handextended, wistfully upturned. Seated beside her, watching, sat the bigkind doctor. Anxiety, doubt were in his intelligent face. Near an eastwindow, through which a streak of dawn was creeping, sat a woman, herface buried in the curve of her arms folded on the table. Beside herstood a bearded man, brow furrowed, his pleading eyes upon the doctor, while his hand, big, comforting, rested on the woman's bowed shoulders. A cup with a spoon in it, a collection of bottles near-by--all the poor, human, useless tools of defense were there, eloquent of a long andlosing struggle. Every one who recalls the familiar picture knows what adreary, hopeless scene it is--the room stamped with poverty, the windowstark and curtainless, the woman meagerly clad, the man bearing themarks of hardship. 

Suddenly in the face of all that, Mr. Jennings softly exclaimed, "That'sliving. "

Only five minutes ago I had said the same thing of life at Grassmere. 

"Is it?" I replied. "Is that living? I've been wondering lately. Ithought--I thought--it's so poor and sad!" I remonstrated. 

"Poor! Oh, no, it's rich, " he replied quickly, "rich in everything worthwhile. Anyhow, only lives that are vacuums are free from sadness. "

"Are lives that are vacuums free from happiness, too?" I enquired. 

He took my question as if it was a statement. "That's true, too, Isuppose, " he agreed. 

"How hopeless, " I murmured, still gazing at the picture, but in realitycontemplating my own empty life. He misunderstood. 

"See here, " he said. "I believe this little girl here is going to pullthrough after all. Don't worry. I insist she is. That artist ought topaint a sequel--just for you, " he added, and abruptly he unfolded hisarms and looked at me squarely for the first time. "I didn't in theleast get your name, " he broke off. "The good angel flew away so soon. "

I told him. 

"Oh, yes, Miss Vars. Thank you. Mine's Jennings. People mumble names soin introductions. " He glanced around at the piles of raincoats and racksof umbrellas. I already had my coat on. "You weren't just going, wereyou?" he inquired brightly. "For if you were, so was I, too. Perhaps youwill let me walk along--unless you're riding. "

I forgot just for a minute that I didn't want to see another man foryears and years. He wasn't a man just then, but a bright and colorfulillumination. He stood before me full of life and vigor. He was talland straight. His close-cropped hair shone like gold in the palegas-light, and there was a tan or glow upon his face that made me thinkof out-of-doors. His smile, his straightforward gaze, his crisp voice, had brightened that dull little room for me. I went with him. Of courseI did--out into the rainy darkness of the late October afternoon, drawnas a child towards the glow of red fire. 

CHAPTER XI

A WALK IN THE RAIN

Once on the side-walk Mr. Jennings said, "I'm glad to know your name, for I know you by sight already. Shall we have any umbrella?"

"Let's not, " I replied. "I like the mist. But how do you know me?"

"I thought you would--like the mist, I mean--because you seem to likemy woods so well. "

"Your woods! Why--what woods?"

"The ones you walk in every day, " he cheerfully replied; "they'remine. I discovered them, and to whom else should they belong?"

"I've been trespassing, then. "

"Oh, no! I'm delighted to lend my woods to you. If you wear blinders andkeep your eyes straight ahead and stuff your ears with cotton so youcan't hear the trolleys, you can almost cheat yourself into thinkingthey're real woods with a mountain to climb at the end of them. Do youlike that little rustic seat I made beside the lake?"

"Did you make it?"

"Yes, Saturdays, for recreation last year. I'm afraid it doesn't fitvery well. " He smiled from out of the light of a sudden lamp-post. "You'll find a birch footstool some day pretty soon. I noticed your feetdidn't reach. By the way, " he broke off, "pardon me for quoting fromyou, but _I_ don't think back-season débutantes are like out-of-demandbest-sellers--not all of them. Anyhow, all best-sellers do notdeteriorate. And tell me, is this chap with the deep-purring car thevillain or the hero in your novel--the dark one with the hair blownstraight back?"

I almost stopped in my amazement. He was quoting from my life history. 

"I don't understand, " I began. I could feel the color in my cheeks. "Idislike mystery. Tell me. Please. How did you--I dislike mystery, " Irepeated. 

"Are you angry? It's so dark I can't see. Don't be angry. It waswritten on theme paper, in pencil, and in a university town themepaper is public property. I found them there one day--just two looseleaves behind the seat--and I read them. Afterwards I saw you--notuntil afterwards, " he assured me, "writing there every day. I askedto be introduced to you when I saw you tucked away in a corner therethis afternoon drinking tea behind a fern, so that I could returnyour property. "

"Oh, you've kept the leaves! Where are they?" I demanded. 

"Right here. Wait a minute. " And underneath an arc-light we stopped, and from out of his breast-pocket this surprising man drew a leathercase, and from out of that two crumpled pages of my life. "If any oneshould ask me to guess, " he went on, "I should say that the author ofthese fragments is a student at Shirley" (the girls' college connectedwith the University) "and that she had strolled out to my woods forinspiration to write a story for an English course. Am I right?" Hepassed me the leaves. "It sounds promising, " he added, "the story, I mean. "

I took the leaves and glanced through them. There wasn't a namementioned on either. "A student at Shirley!" I exclaimed. "Howperfectly ridiculous! A school girl! Well, how old do you thinkI am?" and out of sheer relief I rippled into a laugh. 

"I don't know, " he replied. "How old are you?" And he laughed, too. Thesound of our merriment mixing so rhythmically was music to my ears. Ithought I had forgotten how to be foolish, and inconsequential. 

"I don't know why it strikes me so funny, " I tried to explain--forreally I felt fairly elated--"I don't know why, but a story for anEnglish course! A college girl!" And I burst into peals of mirth. 

"That's right. Go ahead. I deserve it, " urged Mr. Jenningsself-depreciatively. "How I blunder! Anyhow I've found you can laughas well as cry, and that's something. Perhaps now, " he continued, "seeing I'm such a failure as a Sherlock Holmes, you will be so kindas to tell me yourself who you are. Do you live here? I never saw youbefore. I'm sure you're a stranger. Where is your home, Miss Vars?"

"Where is my home?" I repeated, and then paused an instant. Whereindeed? "A wardrobe-trunk is my home, Mr. Jennings, " I replied. 

"Oh!" he took it up. "A wardrobe-trunk. Rather a small house for youto develop your individuality in, very freely, I should say!"

"Yes, but at least nothing hangs within its walls but of my ownchoosing. "

"And it's convenient for house-cleaning, too, " he followed it up. "Butsee here, is there room for two in it, because I was just going to askto call. "

"I usually entertain my callers in the garden, " I primly announced. 

"How delightful! I much prefer gardens. " And we laughed again. "Whichway?" he abruptly inquired. "Which way to your garden, please?" We hadcome to a crossing. I stopped, and he beside me. 

"Why, I'm sure I don't know!" Nothing about me looked familiar. "Thesewinding streets of yours! I'm afraid I'm lost, " I confessed. "You'llhave to put me on a car--a Greene Hill Avenue car. I know my way alonethen. At least I believe it's a Greene Hill Avenue car. They've justmoved there--my sister. Perhaps you know her--Mrs. William Maynard. "

"Lucy Maynard!" he exclaimed. "I should say I did! Are you--why, areyou her sister?"

He had heard about me then! Of course. How cruel!

"Yes. Why?" I managed to inquire. 

"Oh, nothing. Only I've met you, " he brought out triumphantly. "I metyou at dinner, two or three years ago--at your sister's house. We'reold friends, " he said. 

"Are we?" I asked in wonder. "Are we old friends?" I wanted to add, "How nice!"

He looked so steady and substantial, standing there--so kind andunderstanding. Any one would prize him for an old friend. I gazed up athim. The drifting mist had covered his broad chest and shoulders with aglistening veil of white. It shone like frost on the nap of his softfelt hat. It sparkled on his eyebrows and the lashes of his fine eyes. "How nice, " I wanted to add. But a desire not to flirt with this manhonestly possessed me. Besides I must remember I was tired of men. Iwanted nothing of any of them. So instead I said, "Well, then, you knowwhat car I need to take. "

He ignored my remark. 

"You had on a yellow dress--let's walk along--and wore purple pansies, fresh ones, although it was mid-winter. I remember it distinctly. But ahat and a raincoat today make you look different, and I couldn't getnear enough to you in the woods. I remember there was a medical friendof your sister's husband there that night, and Will and he monopolizedthe conversation. I hardly spoke to you; but tell me, didn't you wearpansies with a yellow dress one night at your sister's?"

"Jennings? Are you Bob Jennings?" (Lucy's Bob Jennings! I rememberednow--a teacher of English at the University. ) "Of course, " I exclaimed, "I recall you now. I remember that night perfectly. When you came intomy sister's living-room, looking so--so unprofessor-like--I thought tomyself, 'How nice for me; Professor Jennings couldn't come; she's gotone of the students to take his place--some one nice and easy and mysize. ' I wondered if you were on the football team or crew, and itcrossed my mind what a perfect shame it was to drag a man like you awayfrom a dance in town, perhaps, to a stupid dinner with one of thefaculty. And then you began to talk with Will about--what wasit--Chaucer? Anyhow something terrifying, and I knew then that you_were_ Professor Jennings after all. "

"Oh, but I wasn't. I was just an assistant. I'm not a professor evenyet. Never shall be either--the gods willing. I'm trying hard to be alawyer. Circuitous route, I confess. But you know automobile guide-booksoften advise the longer and smoother road. Do you mind walking? It isn'tfar, and the cars are crowded. "

We walked. 

"I suppose, " I remarked a little later, "trying hard to become a lawyeris what keeps your life from being a vacuum. "

"Yes, that, and a little white-haired lady I call my mother, " he addedgallantly. 

"Do you want to know what keeps my life from being a vacuum?" I abruptlyasked. 

"Of course I do!"

"Well, then--a little brown Boston terrier whom I call Dandy, " Iannounced. 

He laughed as if it was a joke. "What nonsense! Your sister has told mequite a lot about you, Miss Vars, one time and another; that you writeverse a little, for instance. Any one who can create is able to fill allthe empty corners of his life. You know that as well as I do. "

I considered this new idea in silence for a moment. We turned in atLucy's street. 

"How long shall you be here, Miss Vars?" asked Mr. Jennings. "And, seriously, may I call some evening?"

How could I refuse such a friendly and straightforward request?

"Why, yes, " I heard myself saying, man though he was, "I suppose so. Ishould be glad, only----"

"Only what?"

"Only--well----" We were at Lucy's gate. I stopped beneath thelamp-post. "I don't believe my sister has told you all about me, Mr. Jennings. "

"Of course not!" He laughed. "I don't want her to. I don't want to knowall that's in a new book I am about to read. It's pleasanter to discoverthe delights myself. "

I felt conscience-stricken. There were no delights left in me. I oughtto tell him. However, all I replied was, "How nicely you put things!"

And he: "Do I? Well--when may I come?"

"Why--any night. Only I'm not a very bright book--rather dreary. Truly. I warn you. You found me in tears, remember. "

"Don't think again about that, " he said to me. "Please. Listen. I alwaystry to take home to the little white-haired lady something pleasantevery night--a rose or a couple of pinks, or an incident of some sort toplease her, never anything dreary. _You_, looking at the picture of thelittle sick girl, are to be the gift tonight. " And then suddenlyembarrassed, he added hastily, "I'm afraid you're awfully wet. I oughtto be shot. Perhaps you preferred to ride. You're covered with mist. Andperhaps it's spoiled something. " He glanced at my hat. 

"No, it hasn't, " I assured him, "and good night. I can get in allright. "

"Oh, let me----"

"No, please, " I insisted. 

"Very well, " he acquiesced. And I gave him my hand and sped up the walk. 

He waited until the door was opened to me, and then, "Good night, " camehis clear, pleasant voice to me from out of the rainy dark. 

I went straight upstairs to my room. I felt as if I had just drunk longand deep of pure cold water. Tired and travel-worn I had been, uncertainof my way, disheartened, spent; and then suddenly across my path hadappeared an unexpected brook, crystal clear, soul-refreshing. I hadrested by it a moment, listened to its cheerful murmur, lifted up alittle of its coolness in the hollow of my hand, and drunk. I went upto my room with a lighter heart than I had known for months, walked overto the window, raised it, and let in a little of the precious mistinessthat had enshrouded me for the last half hour. 

Standing there looking out into the darkness, I was interrupted by aknock on my door. 

"I was just turning down the beds, Miss, " explained Lucy's Delia, "andso brought up your letter. " And she passed me the missive I had notnoticed on the table as I came in, so blind a cheerful "good night"called from out of the rain had made me. 

"A letter? Thank you, Delia. Isn't it rainy!" I added impulsively. 

"It is, Miss. It is indeed, Miss Ruth!"

"Come, " I went on, "let me help you turn down the beds. I haven'tanother thing to do. " The letter could wait. Benevolence possessedmy soul. 

Later alone in my room I opened my note. It was from Edith. I hadrecognized her handwriting instantly. She seldom harbors ill-feelingfor any length of time. 

"Three cheers!" the letter jubilantly began. "Run up a flag. We win!" itshouted. "Prepare yourself, Toots. We have been bidden to Grassmere!Also I have received a personal note from the great Mogul herself. Youwere right, I guess, as always. Let's forgive and forget. Mrs. Sewallwrites to know if we will honor her by our presence at a luncheon atGrassmere. What do you say to that? With pleasure, kind lady, say I! Ienclose your invitation. You'll be ravishing in a new gown which I wantyou to go right in and order at Madame's--_on me_, understand, dearie. I'm going to blow myself to a new one, too. Won't the girls be surprisedwhen they hear of this? The joke will be on them, I'm thinking. Probablyyou and Breck will be patching up your little difference, too. I don'tpretend to fathom Mrs. S. 's change of front, but it's changed anyhow!That's all I care about. Good-by. Must hurry to catch mail. Hustle home, rascal. Love, Edith. "

Two weeks later on the morning after the luncheon, to which it isunnecessary to say I sent my immediate regrets, the morning paper couldnot be found at Lucy's house. Will went off to the University beratingthe paper-boy soundly. After I had finished my coffee and toast andmoved over to the front window, Lucy opened the wood-box. 

"I stuffed it in here, " she said, "just as you and Will were comingdownstairs. I thought you'd rather see it first. " And she put the lostpaper into my hands and left me. 

On the front page there appeared the following announcement:

"Breckenridge Sewall Engaged to be Married to Miss Gale Oliphant of NewYork and Newport. Announcement of Engagement Occasion for BrilliantLuncheon Given by Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall at her Beautiful Estate inHilton. Wedding Set for Early December. "

I read the announcement two or three times, and afterward the fineprint below, containing a long list of the luncheon guests withEdith's name proudly in its midst. The scene of my shame and theactors flashed before me. Ignominy and defeat were no part of the newcreature I had become since Lucy's tea. I read the announcement again. It was as if a dark cloud passed high over my head and cast a shadowon the sparkling beauty of the brook beside which I had been lingeringfor nearly two weeks. 

CHAPTER XII

A DINNER PARTY

Robert Jennings sees the plainest and commonest things of life throughthe eyes of an artist. He never goes anywhere without a volume of poetrystuffed into his pocket, and if he runs across anything that no one elsehas endowed with beauty, then straightway he will endow it himself. Crowded trolleys, railroad stations, a muddy road--all have some hiddenappeal. Even greed and discord he manages to ignore as such by lookingbeneath their exteriors for hidden significance. The simpler a pleasure, the greater to him its joy. 

He is tall, broad; of light complexion; vigorous in every movement thathe makes. Upon his face there is a perpetual glow, whether due to merecolor, or to expression, I cannot make up my mind. He enters the houseand brings with him a feeling of out-of-doors. His smile is likesunshine on white snow, his seriousness like a quiet pool hidden amongtrees, his enthusiasm like mad whitecaps on a lake stirred by a gale, his tenderness like the kind warmth of Indian summer caressing droopingflowers. I have never known any one just like him before. Instead ofinviting me in town to luncheon and the matinée, or to dinner and theopera, he takes me out with him to drink draughts of cold November air, and to share the glory of an autumn sunset. 

The first time he called he mentioned a course at Shirley offered tospecial students. I told him if he would use his influence and persuadethe authorities to accept me, I believed I should like to take a coursein college. I thought it would help to kill time while I was making upmy mind how better to dispose of myself. I have therefore become whatMr. Jennings thought I was in the beginning--a student at Shirley; not afull-fledged one but a "special" in English. I attend class twice a weekand in between times write compositions that are read out loud in classand criticized. Also in between times I occasionally see Mr. Jennings. 

Last week each member of the class was required to submit an originalsonnet. Mine is not finished yet. I am trying a rhapsody on the autumnwoods. This is the way I work. Pencil, pad, low rocking-chair by thewindow. First line:

"I see the saffron woods of yesterday!" Then fixedly I gaze at therubber on the end of my pencil. "I see the saffron woods of yesterday!"(What a young god he looked the day he called for me to go chestnutting!How his eyes laughed and his voice sang, and as we scuffled noisilythrough the leaf-strewn forest, how his long, easy stride put me in mindof the swinging meter of Longfellow's Hiawatha!)

"I see the saffron woods of yesterday!" (I see, too, the setting sunshining on the yellow leaves, clinging frailly. I see myself standingbeneath a tree holding up an overcoat--his overcoat, thrown across myoutstretched arms to catch the pelting burrs that he is shaking off. Isee his eyes looking down from the tree into mine. Later as we lean overa rock to crack open the prickly burrs, I feel our shoulders touch! Didhe feel them, too, I wonder? If he were any other man I would say thathe meant that our eyes should meet too long, our shoulders lean toonear, and our silence, as we walked home in the dark, continue tootense. But he is different. He is not a lover. He is a friend--acomrade. ) "I see the saffron woods of yesterday!"

Abruptly I lay aside my pad and pencil. I put on my coat and hat, pullon my gloves, and in self-defense plunge out into the cold Novemberafternoon. I avoid the country, and try to keep my recreant thoughts onsuch practical subjects as trolley cars, motor-trucks and deliverywagons, rumbling noisily beside me along the street. A sudden "To Let"card appears in a new apartment. I wonder how much the rent is. I wonderhow much the salary of an assistant professor is. Probably somethingunder five thousand a year. The income from the investments left me bymy father amounts to almost eight hundred dollars. Clothes alone cost memore than a thousand. Of course one wouldn't need so many, but what withrent, and food, and service, and--what am I thinking of? Why, I'veknown the man only four weeks, and considering my recent relations withBreckenridge Sewall such mad air-castling is lacking in good taste. Besides, a teacher--a professor! I've always scorned professors. I waspredestined to fill a high and influential place. A professor's wife? Itis unthinkable! And then abruptly appears a street vender beside me. Ismell his roasting chestnuts. And again--again, "I see the saffron woodsof yesterday!"

About two days after I went chestnutting with Mr. Jennings, I wentpicnicking. We built a fire in the corner of two stones and cooked chopsand bacon. Two days after that we tramped to an old farm-house, fivemiles straight-away north, and drank sweet cider--rather warm--from ajelly tumbler with a rough rim. Once we had some tea and thick slabs ofbread in a country hotel by the roadside. Often we pillage orchards forapples. Day before yesterday we stopped in a dismantled vegetable gardenand pulled a raw turnip from out of the frosty ground. Mr. Jenningsscraped the dirt away and pared off a little morsel with his pocketknife. He offered it to me, then took a piece himself. 

"Same old taste, " I laughed. 

"Same old taste, " he laughed back. And we looked into each other's eyesin sympathetic appreciation of raw turnip. As he wiped the blade of hisknife he added, "If I didn't know it wasn't so, I would swear we playedtogether as children. Most young ladies, of this age, do not care forraw turnips. "

A thrill passed through me. I blessed my brothers who had enriched mychildhood with the lore of out-of-doors. I blessed even the difficultcircumstances of my father's finances, which had forced me as a littlegirl to seek my pleasures in fields and woods and tilled gardens. Had Ionce said that my nature required a luxurious environment? I had beenmistaken. I gazed upon Robert Jennings standing there before me in theforlorn garden. Bare brown hills were his background. The wind sweptdown bleakly from the east, bearing with it the dank odor of frostbittencauliflower. Swift, sharp memories of my childhood swept over me. Smothered traditions stirred in my heart. All the young sweet impulsesof my youth took sudden possession of me, and through a mist thatblurred my eyes I recognized with a little stab in my breast--that washalf joy, half fear--I recognized before me my perfect comrade!

Last night Lucy had one of her dinners and one of the men invited wasRobert Jennings. She had increased the usual number of six to eight. "Areal party, " she explained to me, "with a fish course!"

For no other dinner party in my life did I dress with more care ortrembling expectation. Lucy's dinners are always at seven o'clock. I wasready at quarter of, with cold hands and hot cheeks. I knew the veryinstant that Mr. Jennings entered the room that evening. I was standingat the far end with my back toward the door, talking to the warveteran. At the first sound of Mr. Jennings' greeting as he met Lucy, Ibecame deaf to all else. I heard him speaking to the others nearher--such a trained and cultured voice--but I didn't turn around. I keptmy eyes riveted on the veteran. It was enough, at that instant, to be inthe same room with Robert Jennings. And when Lucy finally said, "Shallwe go out?" I wondered if I could bear the ordeal of turning around andmeeting his eyes. I needn't have been afraid. He spared me that. Therewas no greeting of any kind between us until we sat down. 

Lucy had placed him at the end of the table farthest away from me, andafter the guests were all settled, I dared at last to look up. A swift, sweeping glance I meant it to be, but his eyes were waiting for mine, and secretly, concealed by the noise and chatter all around, somewhereamong Lucy's carnations in the center of the table, we met. Only for aninstant. He returned immediately to his partner, and I to mine. Heanswered her, we both selected a piece of silver--and then, abruptly, ran away to each other again. Frequently, during that dinner, as wegained confidence and learned the way, we met among the carnations. 

Never before was I so glad of what good looks heaven had bestowed uponme as when I saw this man's eyes examine and approve. Never before did Ifeel so elated at a dinner, so glad to be alive. My pulse ran high. Myspirits fairly danced. And all without cocktails, too! Not only did oureyes meet in stolen interviews, but our voices, too. He couldn't speakbut what I heard him, nor did I laugh but what it was meant for him. 

During the hour occasions occurred when Mr. Jennings alone did thetalking, while the rest listened. I could observe him then without fearof discovery. He sat there opposite me in his perfect evening clothes, as much at home and at ease as in Scotch tweeds in the woods. As heleaned forward a little, one cuffed wrist resting on the table's edge, his fine head held erect, expressing his ideas in clear and well-turnedphrases, confident in himself, and listened to with attention, I glowedwith pride at the thought of my intimacy with him. A professor's wife?That was a mere name--but _his_, this young aristocrat's--what aprivilege!

We didn't speak to each other until late in the evening, when the ladiesrose from their chairs about the fire in the living-room and began totalk about the hour. I was standing alone by the mantel when I becameconscious that Mr. Jennings had moved away from beside Mrs. Van Breeze, and was making his way toward me. Everybody was saying good night toLucy. We were quite alone for a minute. He didn't shake hands--juststood before me smiling. 

"Well, who are _you_?" he asked. 

"Don't you recognize me?" I replied. 

He looked me up and down deliberately. 

"It is very pretty, " he said quietly. 

I felt my cheeks grow warm. I blushed. Somebody told me my dress waspretty, and I blushed! I might have been sixteen. 

"Your sister said I could stay a little after the others go if I wantedto, " Mr. Jennings went on. "Of course I want to. Shall I?"

"Yes, " I said, with my cheeks still on fire. "Yes. Stay. " And he wentaway in a moment. I heard him laughing with the others. 

I strolled over to the pile of music on the back of Lucy's pianoand became engrossed in looking it over. I felt weak and suddenlyincompetent. I felt frightened and unprepared. I was still there withthe pile of music when, fifteen minutes later, Lucy and Will, witheffusive apologies, excused themselves and went upstairs. Mr. Jenningsapproached me. We were alone at last, and each keenly conscious of it. 

"Any music here you know?" he asked indifferently, and drew a sheettowards him. 

"Not a great deal. "

"It looks pretty much worn, " he attempted. 

"Doesn't it?" I agreed. 

"I hardly know you tonight!" he exclaimed, suddenly personal. 

"Don't you? I wore a yellow dress and purple pansies on purpose, " Ireplied as lightly as I could, touching the flowers at my waist. 

"Yes, but you didn't wear the same look in your eyes, " he remarked. 

"No, I didn't, " I acknowledged. 

A silence enfolded us--sweet, significant. 

Mr. Jennings broke it. "I think I had better go, " he remarked. 

"Had you?" I almost whispered. "Well----" and acquiesced. 

"Unless, " he added, "you'll sing me something. Do you sing--or play?"

"A little, " I confessed. 

"Well, _will_ you then?"

"Why, yes, if you want me to. " And I went over and sat down before thefamiliar keys. 

It was at that moment that I knew at last why I had taken lessons for somany years; why so much money had been put into expensive instruction, and so many hours devoted to daily practise. It was for this--for thisparticular night--for this particular man. I saw it in a flash. I sang asong in English. "In a Garden, " it was called. Softly I played theopening phrases, and then raised my chin a little and began. My voiceisn't strong, but it can't help but behave nicely. It can't help buttake its high notes truly, like a child who has been taught prettymanners ever since he could walk. 

After I had finished Mr. Jennings said nothing for an instant. Then, "Sing something else, " he murmured, and afterward he exclaimed, "Ididn't know! I had no idea! Your sister never told me _this_!" Then, "Ihave come to a very lovely part in the beautiful book I discovered, " hesaid to me. "It makes me want never to finish the book. Sing somethingelse. " His eyes admired; his voice caressed; his tenderness placed mehigh in the sacred precincts of his soul. 

"Listen, please, " I said impulsively. "You mustn't go on thinking wellof me. It isn't right. I shall not let you. I'm not what you think. Listen. When I first met you, I had just broken my engagement--justbarely. I never said a word about it. I let you go on thinking thatI--you see it was this way--my pride was hurt more than my heart. I'mthat sort of girl. His mother is Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall. They have asummer place in Hilton, and--and----"

"Don't bother to go into that. I've known it all from the beginning, "Mr. Jennings interrupted gently. 

"Oh, have you? You've known then, all along, that I'm just a frivoloussociety girl who can't do anything but perform a few parlor tricks--andthings like that? I was afraid--I was so afraid I had misled you. "

"You've misled only yourself, " he smiled, and suddenly he put his handover mine as it rested beside the music rack. I met his steady eyes. Just for an instant. Abruptly he took his hand away, went over to thefireplace, and began poking the logs. When he spoke next he did not turnaround. 

"This is an evening of confessions, " he said. "There are some thingsabout me you might as well know, too. I am an instructor, with a salaryof two thousand five hundred dollars a year. I hope to make a lawyer outof myself some day, I don't know when. I've hoped to for a long while. Circumstances made it necessary after I graduated from college to findsomething to do that was immediately remunerative. I discovered that mymother was entirely dependent upon me. My ambitions had to be postponedfor a while. I had tutored enough during my college course to make itevident that I could teach, and I grasped this opportunity as afortunate one. There are hours each day when I can read law. There areeven opportunities to attend lectures. It's a long way around to mygoal, I know that, and a steep way. Everything that I can save is laidaside for the time when, finally admitted to the bar, I dare throw offthe security of a salary. My mother is quite alone. I must always lookout for her. I am all she has. I shall inherit little or nothing. Ifthere is any one who has allowed a possible delusion to continue abouthimself it is I--not you, Miss Vars. Hello, " he interrupted himself, "it's getting late. Quarter of twelve! I ought to be shot. " He turnedabout and came over toward me. "Your sister will be turning me outnext, " he said glibly. He was quite formal now. We might have been justintroduced. 

His manner forbade me to speak. He gave me no opportunity to tell himthat his circumstances made no difference. Salary or no salary I did notcare--nothing made any difference now. He simply wanted me to keepstill. He eagerly desired it. 

"Good night, " he said cheerfully. In matter-of-fact fashion we shookhands. "Forgive me for the disgraceful hour. Good night. "

CHAPTER XIII

LUCY TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE

It was an afternoon in late February. A feeling of spring had been inthe air all day. In the living-room a lingering sun cast a path of lightupon the mahogany surface of a grand piano. In _my_ living-room, Ishould say. For I am Mrs. Maynard, wife of Doctor William Ford Maynardof international guinea-pig fame; sister of Ruth Chenery Vars; one-timeconfidante of Robert Hopkinson Jennings. I haven't any identity of myown. I'm simply one of the audience, an onlooker--an anxious and worriedone, just at present, who wishes somebody would assure me that the playhas a happy ending. I don't like sad plays. I don't like being harrowedfor nothing. I've taken to paper simply because I'm all of a tremble forfear the play I've been watching for the last month or two won't comeout right. Sometimes I feel as if I'd like to dash across the footlightsand tell the actors what to say. 

Ruth is engaged to be married to Robert Jennings. At first it seemed tome too good to be true. After the sort of bringing up my sister has had, culminating in that miserable affair of hers with Breckenridge Sewall, I was afraid that happiness would slip by her altogether. 

Robert Jennings is the salt of the earth. I believe I was as happy asRuth the first four weeks of her engagement, and then these clouds beganto gather. The first time I was conscious of them was the afternoon Ihave just referred to, in late February. 

I went into my living-room that day just to see that it was in order incase of callers. It is difficult to keep a living-room in order whenyour spoiled young society-sister is visiting you. Today in the middleof one of the large cushions on the sofa appeared an indentation. Frombeneath one corner of the cushion escaped the edge of a crushedhandkerchief. Open, face down, upon the floor lay an abandoned book. Istraightened the pillow and then picked up the book. 

"Oh!" I exclaimed, actually out loud as my eyes fell on the title. "This!"

It was a modern novel much under discussion, an unpleasant book, reviewers pronounced it, and unnecessarily bold. I opened it. Certainpassages were marked with wriggling lines made with a soft pencil. Iread a marked paragraph or two, standing just where I was in the middleof the room. 

Suddenly the door-bell rang, twice, sharply, and almost immediatelyafterward I heard some one shove open the front door. 

I slipped the book behind the pillow which I had just straightened, walked over to a geranium in the window, and nonchalantly snipped off aleaf. 

"Hello!" a man's cheerful voice called out. "Any one at home?"

"Yes, in here, Bob, " I called back. "Come in. "

Robert Jennings entered. He glowed as if he had just been walking uphill briskly. He shook hands with me. 

"Hello, " he said, his gray eyes smiling pleasantly. "Been out today?Ought to! Like spring. Where's Ruth?"

"Just gone to the Square. She'll be right back. Run out of cotton foryour breakfast-napkins. "

"Breakfast-napkins!" he exclaimed, and laughed boyishly. I laughed, too. "It doesn't seem quite possible, does it? Breakfast-napkins, and fourmonths ago I didn't even know her! Mind?" he asked abruptly, holding upa silver case. He selected and lit a cigarette, flipping the charredmatch straight as an arrow into the fireplace. He smoked in silence amoment, smiling meditatively. "Mother's making some napkins, too!" hebroke out. "They're going to get on--Ruth and mother--beautifully. 'She's a dear!' That's what mother says of Ruth half a dozen times aday. 'She's a dear!' And somehow the triteness of the phrase from motheris ridiculously pleasing to me. May I sit down?"

"Of course. Do. "

He approached the sofa, but before throwing himself into one of itsinviting corners, manlike he placed one of the large sofa pillows rathergingerly on the floor against a table-leg. Behind the pillow appearedthe book. 

"Hello, " he exclaimed, "what's this?" And he held it up. 

I put out my hand. "I'll take it, thank you, " I said. 

"Whose is this, anyhow?" he asked, opening the book instead of passingit over to me. "Looks like Ruth's marks. " Then after a pause, "_Is_ itRuth's?"

"I don't know. Perhaps. "

"She shouldn't read stuff like this!" pronounced the young judge. 

"Oh, Ruth has always read everything she wanted to. "

"Yes, I suppose so--more's the pity--best-sellers, anything that'sgoing. But _this_--_this!_ It's not decent for her, for any girl. Idon't believe in this modern idea of exposure, anyhow. But here shecomes. " His face lighted. He put aside the book. "Here Ruth comes!"And he went out into the hall to meet her. 

I heard the front door open, the rustle of a greeting, and a momentlater my sister and Robert Jennings both came in. 

Ruth had become a shining roseate creature. Always beautiful, alwaysexquisite--flawless features, perfect poise, now she pulsated with life. A new brightness glowed in her eyes. Of late across her cheeks color waswont to come and go like the shadow of clouds on a hillside on a windyday. Even her voice, usually steady and controlled, now and againtrembled and broke with sudden emotion. She came into the room smiling, very pretty, very lovely (could we really be children of the sameparents?), with a pink rose slipped into the opening of her coat. Shedrew out her rose and came over and passed it to me. 

"There, " she said, "it's for you, Lucy. I bought it especially!" Such astrange new Ruth! Once so worldly, so selfish; now so sweet and full ofqueer tenderness. I hardly recognized her. "It's heavenly out-doors, "she went on. "I'll be back in a minute. " And she went out into the hallto take off her hat and coat. 

Robert went over to the book he had laid on the table and picked it up. When Ruth joined us he inquired pleasantly, "Where in the world did yourun across this, Ruth?"

"That?" she smiled. "Oh, I bought it. Everybody is talking about it, andI bought it. It isn't so bad. Some parts are really very nice. I'vemarked a few I liked. "

"Why, Ruth, " he said solicitously, "it isn't a book for you to read. "

"That's very sweet and protective, Bob, " she laughed gently, "but afterall I'm not--what do you call it--early Victorian. I'm twentiethcentury, and an American at that. Every book printed is for me to read. "

"Oh, no! I should hope not! Too much of this sort of stuff would rob agirl of every illusion she ever had. "

"Illusions! Oh, well, " she shrugged her shoulders, "who wants illusions?I don't. I want truth, Bob. I want to know everything there is to knowin this world, good, bad or indifferent. And you needn't be afraid. Itwon't hurt me. Truth is good for any one, whether it's pleasant truth ornot. It makes one's opinions of more value, if nothing else. And ofcourse you want my opinions to be worth something, don't you?" shewheedled. 

"But, my dear, " complained Bob, "this book represents more lies than itdoes truth. "

"Do you think so?" she asked earnestly. "Now I thought it was awonderfully true portrayal of just how a man and woman would feel underthose circumstances. "

Bob looked actually pained. "O Ruth, how can you judge of suchcircumstances? Of such feelings? Why, I don't like even to discuss suchrottenness with you as _this_. "

"How absurd, Bob, " Ruth deprecated lightly. "I'm not a Jane Austen sortof girl. I've always read things. I've always read everything I wantedto. " Bob was still standing with the book in his hands, looking at it. He didn't reply for a moment. Something especially obnoxious must havemet his eyes, for abruptly he threw the book down upon the table. 

"Well, " he said, "I'm going to ask you not to finish reading _this_. "

"You aren't serious!"

"Yes, I am, Ruth, " replied Bob. "Let me be the judge about this. Trustit to me. You've read only a little of the book. It's worselater--unpleasant, distorted. There are other avenues to truth--not thisone, please. Yes, I am serious. "

He smiled disarmingly. For the first time since their engagement I sawRuth fail to smile back. There was a perceptible pause. Then in a lowvoice Ruth asked, "Do you mean you ask me to stop reading a book rightin the middle of it? Don't ask me to do a childish thing like that, Bob. "

"But Ruth, " he persisted, "it's to guard you, to protect you. "

"But I don't want to be protected, not that way, " she protested. Hergray eyes were almost black. Her voice, though low and quiet enough, trembled. They must have forgotten I was in the room. 

"Is it such a lot to ask?" pleaded Bob. 

"You _do_ ask it then?" repeated Ruth uncomprehendingly. 

"Why, Ruth, yes, I do. If a doctor told you not to eat a certain thing, "Bob began trying to be playful, "that he knew was bad for you and----"

"But you're not my doctor, " interrupted Ruth. "That's just it. You're----It seems all wrong somehow, " she broke off, "as if I was achild, or an ignorant patient of yours, and I'm not. I'm not. Will youpass it to me, please--the book?"

Bob gave it to her immediately. "You're going to finish it then?" heasked, alarmed. 

"I don't know, " said Ruth, wide-eyed, a little alarmed herself, I think. "I don't know. I must think it over. " She crossed the room to thesecretary, opened the glass door, and placed the book on one of the highshelves. "There, " she said, "there it is. " Then turning around sheadded, "I'll let you know when I decide, Bob. And now I guess I'll goupstairs, if you don't mind. These walking-shoes are so heavy. Good-by. "And she fled, on the verge of what I feared was tears. 

Both Bob and Ruth were so surprised at the appearance of this sudden andunlooked-for issue that I felt convinced it was their first differenceof opinion. I was worried. I couldn't foretell how it would come out. Their friendship had been brief--perhaps too brief. Their engagement wasonly four weeks old. They loved--I was sure of that--but they didn'tknow each other very well. Old friend of Will's and mine as RobertJennings is, I knew him to be conservative, steeped in traditions sincechildhood. Robert idealizes everything mellowed by age, from picturesand literature to laws and institutions. Ruth, on the other hand, is apronounced modernist. It doesn't make much difference whether it's a hator a novel, if it's new and up to date Ruth delights in it. 

I poured out my misgivings to Will that night behind closed doors. Willhad never had a high opinion of Ruth. 

"Modernism isn't her difficulty, my dear, " he remarked. "Selfishness, with a big S. That's the trouble with Ruth. Society too. Big S. And apinch of stubbornness also. She never would take any advice from anyone--self-satisfied little Ruth wouldn't--and poor Bob is the salt ofthe earth too. It's a shame. Whoever would have thought fine old Bobwould have fallen into calculating young Ruth's net anyhow!"

"O Will, please. You do misjudge her, " I pleaded. "It isn't so. Sheisn't calculating. You've said it before, and she isn't--not always. Notthis time. "

"You ruffle like a protecting mother hen!" laughed Will. "Don't worrythat young head of yours too much, dear. It isn't _your_ love affair, remember. "

It _is_ my love affair. That's the difficulty. In all sorts of quiet andcovered ways have I tried to help and urge the friendship along. Always, even before Ruth was engaged to Breckenridge Sewall, have I secretlynursed the hope that Robert Jennings and my sister might discover eachother some day--each so beautiful to look upon, each so distinguished inpoise and speech and manner; Ruth so clever; Bob such a scholar; both ofthem clean, young New Englanders, born under not dissimilarcircumstances, and both much beloved by me. It _is_ my love affair, andit simply mustn't have quarrels. 

I didn't refer to the book the next day, nor did I let Ruth know by lookor word that I noticed her silence at table or her preoccupied manner. Imade no observation upon Robert's failure to make his daily call thenext afternoon. She may have written and told him to stay away. I didnot know. In mute suspense I awaited the announcement of her decision. It was made at last, sweetly, exquisitely, I thought. 

On the second afternoon Robert called as usual. I was in the living-roomwhen he came in. When Ruth appeared in the doorway, I got up to go. 

"No, please, " she said. "Stay, Lucy, you were here before. Hello, Bob, "she smiled, then very quietly she added, "I've made my decision. "

"Ruth!" Robert began. 

"Wait a minute, please, " she said. 

She went over to the secretary, opened the door and took down the book. Then she crossed to the table, got a match, approached the fireplace, leaned down, and set fire to my cherished selected birch-logs. She heldup the book then and smiled radiantly at Robert. "This is my decision!"she said, and laid the book in the flames. 

"Good heavens, " I wanted to exclaim, "that's worth a dollarthirty-five!"

"I've thought it all over, " Ruth said simply, beautiful in the dignityof her new-born self-abnegation. "A book is only paper and print, afterall. I was making a mountain out of it. It's as you wish, Bob. I won'tfinish reading it. "

We were very happy that night. Robert stayed to dinner. Will chanced tobe absent and there were only the three of us at table. There was amellow sort of stillness. A softness of voice possessed us all, evenwhen we asked for bread or salt. Our conversation was trivial, unimportant, but kind and gentle. Between Ruth and Robert there glowedadoration for each other, which words and commonplaces could notconceal. 

Robert stayed late. Upstairs in Will's study the clock struckeleven-thirty when I heard the front door close, and peeked outand saw Robert walking down over our flag-stones. 

A moment later Ruth came upstairs softly. She went straight to her ownroom. She closed the door without a sound. My sister, I knew, was filledwith the kind of exaltation that made her gentle even to stairs anddoor-knobs. 

Next morning she was singing as usual over her initialing. We went intotown at eleven-thirty to look up table linen. Edith met us for lunch. One of the summer colonists had told Edith about Robert's "connections"(he has several in Boston in the Back Bay and he himself was born in ahouse with violet-colored panes) and Edith had become remarkablyenthusiastic. She was going to present Ruth with all her lingerie. 

"After all, " she said one day in way of reassurance to Ruth, "you wouldhave been in a pretty mess if you'd married Breck Sewall. Some gay ladyin Breck's dark and shady past sprang up with a spicy little law suittwo weeks before he was to be married to that Oliphant girl. Perhaps yousaw it in the paper. Wedding all off, and Breck evading the law nobodyknows where. This Bob of yours is as poor as Job's turkey, I suppose, but anyhow, he's _decent_. An uncle of his is president of a bank inBoston and belongs to all sorts of exclusive clubs and things. I'm goingto give you your wedding, you know, Toots. I've always wanted a goodexcuse for a hack at Boston. "

CHAPTER XIV

BOB TURNS OUT A CONSERVATIVE

But Edith didn't give Ruth her wedding. There was no wedding. Ruthdidn't marry Robert Jennings!

I cannot feel the pain that is Ruth's, the daily loss of Bob's eyes thatworshiped, voice that caressed--no, not that hurt--but I do feelbitterness and disappointment. They loved each other. I thought thatlove always could rescue. I was mistaken. Love is not the most importantthing in marriage. No. They tell me ideals should be considered first. And yet as I sit here in my room and listen to the emptiness of thehouse--Ruth's song gone out of it, Ruth fled with her wound, I know notwhere--and see Bob, a new, quiet, subdued Bob, walking along by thehouse to the University, looking up to my window and smiling (a queersmile that hurts every time), the sparkle and joy gone out like a flame, I whisper to myself fiercely, "It's all wrong. Ideals to the winds. Theyloved each other, and it is all wrong. "

They were engaged about three months in all. They were so jubilant atfirst that they wanted the engagement announced immediately. The collegepaper triumphantly blazoned the news, and of course the daily paperstoo. Everybody was interested. Everybody congratulated them. Ruth hashosts of friends, Robert too. Ruth's mail for a month was enormous. Thehouse was sweet with flowers for days. Her presents rivaled a bride's. And yet she gave it all up--even loving Bob. She chose to facedisapproval and distrust. Will called her heartless for it; Tom, fickle; Edith, a fool; but I call her courageous. 

There was no doubt of the sincerity of Ruth's love for Robert Jennings. No other man before had got beneath the veneer of her worldliness. Robert laid bare secret expanses of her nature, and then, like warmsunlight on a hillside from which the snow has melted away, persuadedthe expanses into bloom and beauty. Timid generosities sprang forth inRuth. Tolerance, gratitude, appreciation blossomed frailly; and over allthere spread, like those hosts of four-petaled flowers we used to callbluets, which grew in such abundance among rarer violets or wildstrawberry--there spread through Ruth's awakened nature a thousand andone little kindly impulses that had to do with smiles for servants, kindwords for old people, and courtesy to clerks in shops. I don't believethat anything but love could work such a miracle with Ruth. If only shehad waited, perhaps it would have performed more wonderful feats. 

The book incident was the first indication of trouble. The second wasmore trivial. It happened one Sunday noon. We had been to church thatmorning together--Ruth, Will and I--and Robert Jennings was expectedfor our mid-day dinner at one-thirty. He hadn't arrived when we returnedat one, and after Ruth had taken off her church clothes and changed tosomething soft and filmy, she sat down at the piano and played a littlewhile--five minutes or so--then rose and strolled over toward the frontwindow. She seated herself, humming softly, by a table there. "Bob'slate, " she remarked and lazily reached across the table, opened myauction-bridge box, selected a pack of cards, and still humming began toplay solitaire. 

The cards were all laid out before her when Robert finally did arrive. Ruth gave him one of her long, sweet glances, then demurely began layingout more cards. "Good morning, Bob, " she said richly. 

Bob said good morning, too, but I discerned something forced andperemptory in his voice. I felt that that pack of playing cards laid outbefore Ruth on the Sabbath-day affected him just as it had me when firstRuth came to live with us. I had been brought up to look uponcard-playing on Sunday as forbidden. In Hilton I could remember whenpolicemen searched vacant lots and fields on Sunday for crowds of badboys engaged in the shocking pastime beneath secreted shade trees. Ruthhad traveled so widely and spent so many months visiting in variouscommunities where card-playing on Sunday was the custom that I knew itdidn't occur to her as anything out of the ordinary. I tried to listento what Will was reading out loud to me from the paper, but thefascination of the argument going on behind my back by the window heldme. 

"But, Bob dear, " I heard Ruth's surprised voice expostulate pleasantly, "you play golf occasionally on Sunday. What's the difference? Both agame, one played with sticks and a ball, and the other with black andred cards. I was allowed to play Bible authors when I was a child, andit's terribly narrow, when you look at it squarely, to say that one packof cards is any more wicked than another. "

"It's not a matter of wickedness, " Bob replied in a low, disturbedvoice. "It's a matter of taste, and reverence for pervading custom. "

"But----" put in Ruth. 

"Irreverence for pervading custom, " went on Bob, "is shown by certainmen when they smoke, with no word of apology, in a lady'sreception-room, or track mud in on their boots, as if it was a countryclub. Some people enjoy having their Sundays observed as Sunday, just asthey do their reception-rooms as reception-rooms. "

"But, Bob----"

"I think of you as such an exquisite person, " he pursued, "so fine, sosensitive, I cannot associate you with any form of offense or vulgarity, like this, " he must have pointed to the cards, "or extreme fashions, orcigarette smoking. Do you see what I mean?"

"Vulgarity! Cigarette smoking! Why, Bob, some of the most refined womenin the world smoke cigarettes--clever, intelligent women, too. And Inever could see any justice at all in the idea some people have thatit's any worse, or more vulgar, as you say, for women to smokecigarettes than for men. "

"Irreverence for custom again, I suppose, " sighed Bob. 

"Well, then, if it's a custom that's unjust and based on prejudice, whykeep on observing it? It used to be the custom for men to wear satinknickerbockers and lace ruffles over their wrists, but some one wassensible enough--or irreverent enough--" she tucked in good-naturedly, "to object--and you're the gainer. There! How's that for an answer?Doesn't solitaire win?"

"Custom and tradition, " replied Bob earnestly, anxiously, "is the workof the conservative and thoughtful majority, and to custom and traditionevery civilization must look for a solid foundation. Ignore them and wewouldn't be much of a people. "

"Then how shall we ever progress?" eagerly took up Ruth, "if we justkeep blindly following old-fogey laws and fashions? It seems to me thatthe only way people ever get ahead is by breaking traditions. Fatherbroke a few in his generation--he had to to keep up with the game--andso must I. "

"Oh, well, " said Bob, almost wearily, "let's not argue, you and I. "

"Why not?" inquired Ruth, and I heard her dealing out more cards as shewent on talking gaily. "I love a good argument. It wakes me upintellectually. My mind's been so lazy. It _needs_ to be waked up. Itfeels good, like the first spring plunge in a pond of cold water to asleepy old bear who's been rolled up in a ball in some dark hole allwinter. That's what it feels like. I never knew what fun it was to thinkand argue till I began taking the English course at Shirley. We argue bythe hour there. It's great fun. But I suppose I'm terribly illogical andno fun to argue with. That's the way with most women. It isn't ourfault. Men seem to want to make just nice soft pussy-cats out of us, with ribbons round our necks, " she laughed, "and hear us purr. There!wait a minute. I'm going to get this. Come and see. " Then abruptly, "Why, Bob, do the cards shock _you_?"

[Illustration: "'Men seem to want to make just nice soft pussy-cats outof us, with ribbons round our necks, and hear us purr'"--_Page 129_]

"No, no--not a bit, " he assured her. 

"They do, " she affirmed. "How funny. They do. " There was a pause. "Well, " she said at last (Will was still reading out loud and I couldbarely catch her answer). "Well, I suppose they're only pasteboard, justas the book was only paper and print. I can give them up. "

"I don't want you to--not for me. No, don't. Go right ahead. Please, "urged Bob. But it was too late. 

"Of course not, " replied Ruth, and I heard the cards going back into thebox. "If I offend--and I see I do--of course not. " And she rose and cameover and sat on the sofa beside me. 

From that time on I noticed a change in Robert and Ruth--nothing veryperceptible. Robert came as often, stayed as late--later. That was whatdisturbed me. Ruth rose in the morning, after some of those protractedsessions, suspiciously quiet and subdued. In place of the radiance thatso lately had shone upon her face, often I perceived a puzzled andtroubled expression. In place of her almost hilarious joy, a wistfulnessstole into her bearing toward Bob. 

"Of course, " she said to me one day, "I have been living a sortof--well, broad life you might call it for a daughter of father's, Isuppose. He was so straightlaced. But all the modes and codes I've beenadopting for the last several years I adopted only to be polite, to doas other people did, simply not to offend--as Bob said the other day. Ithought if I ever wanted to go back to the strict laws of my childhoodagain, I could easily enough. In fact I intended to, after I had had mylittle fling. But I've outgrown them. They don't seem reasonable to menow. I can't go back to them. Convictions stand in my way. "

"Women ought not to have convictions, " I said shortly. 

"Don't you think so?" queried Ruth. 

"Men, " I replied, "have so much more knowledge and experience of theworld. Convictions have foundations with men. "

"How unfair somehow, " said Ruth, looking away into space. 

"Just you take my advice, Ruth, " I went on, "and don't you let anyconvictions you may think you have get in the way of your happiness. Just you let them lie for a while. When you and Bob are hanging upcurtains in your new apartment, and pictures and things, you won't carea straw about your convictions, then. "

"I don't suppose so, " replied Ruth, still meditative. "No, I supposeyou're right. I'll let Bob have the convictions for both of us. I'myounger. I can re-adjust easier than he, I guess. "

A few days later Ruth went to a suffrage meeting in town; not becauseshe was especially interested, but because a friend she had made in acourse she was taking at Shirley College invited her to go. 

It was the winter that everybody was discussing suffrage at teas anddinner parties; fairs and balls and parades were being given in variouscities in its interest; and anti-organizations being formed to fight itand lend it zest. It was the winter that the term Feminism first reachedthe United States, and books on the greater freedom of women and theirliberalization burst into print and popularity. 

On the suffrage question Ruth had always been prettily "on the fence, "and "Oh, dear, do let's talk of something else, " she would laugh, whileher eyes invited. Her dinner partners were always willing. 

"On the fence, Kidlet, " Edith had once remonstrated to Ruth, "that'sstupid!" Edith herself was strongly anti. "Of course I'm anti, " shemaintained proudly. "Anybody who _is_ anybody in Hilton is anti. Thesuffragists--dear me! Perfect freaks--most of them. People you neverheard of! I peeked in at a suffrage tea the other day and mercy, suchsights! I wouldn't be one of them for money. We're to give an anti-ballhere in Hilton. I'm a patroness. Name to be printed alongside Mrs. Ex-Governor Vaile's. How's that? 'On the fence, ' Ruth! Why, goodheavens, there's simply no two sides to the question. You come along tothis anti-ball and you'll see, Kiddie!"

Well, as I said, Ruth went one day to a suffrage meeting in town. Shehad never heard the question discussed from a platform. When she cameinto the house about six o'clock, she was so full of enthusiasm that shedidn't stop to go upstairs. She came right into the room where Will andI were reading by the cretonne-shaded lamp. 

"I've just been to the most wonderful lecture!" she burst out, "onsuffrage! I never cared a thing about the vote one way or the other, butI do now. I'm _for_ it. Heart and soul, I'm for it! Oh, the mostwonderful woman spoke. Every word she said applied straight to me. Ididn't know I had such ideas until that woman got up and put them intowords for me. They've been growing and ripening in me all these years, and I didn't know it--not until today. That woman said that sacrificesare made again and again to send boys to college and prepare them toearn a living, but that girls are brought up simply to be pretty andattractive, so as to capture a man who will provide them with food andclothes. Why, Lucy, don't you see that that's just what happened in_our_ family? We slaved to send Oliver and Malcolm through college--butfor _you_ and for _me_--what slaving was there done to prepare us toearn a living? Just think what I might be had _I_ been prepared for lifelike Malcolm or Oliver, instead of wasting all my years frivoling. Why, don't you see I could have convictions with a foundation then? I feel sohelpless and ignorant with a really educated person now. Oh, dear, Iwish this movement had been begun when I was a baby, so I could haveprofited by it! That woman said that when laws are equal for men andwomen, _then_ advantages will be, and that every step we can make towardequalization is a step in the direction toward a fairer deal for women. Suffrage? Well, I should say I was for it! I think it's wonderful. Iwent straight up to that woman and said I wanted to join the League; andI did. It cost me a dollar. "

"Good heavens, Ruth, " exclaimed Will sleepily, from behind his paper. "Don't you go and get rabid on suffrage----Ease up, old girl. Steady. "

"I don't see how any one can help but get rabid, Will, as you say, anymore than a person could keep calm if he was a slave, when he firstheard what Abraham Lincoln was trying to do. "

"Steady there, old girl, " jibed Will. "Is Bob such a terrific master asall that?"

"That's not the point, Will. Convention is the master--that's what thewoman said. It isn't free of men we're trying to be. "

"We! we! Come, Ruth. You aren't one of them in an hour, are you? Betterwait and consult Bob first. "

"Oh, Bob will agree with me. I know he will. It's such a progressiveidea. And I _am_ one of them. I'm proud to be. I'm going to march in theparade next week. "

I came to life at that. "Oh, Ruth, not really--not in Boston!"

"What? Up the center of Washington Street in French heels and a shadowveil?" scoffed Will. 

"Up the center of Washington Street in something, " announced Ruth, "ifthat's the line of march. Remember, Will, French heels and shadow veilshave been my stock in trade, and not through any choice of mine, either. So don't throw them at me, please. "

Will subsided. "Well, well, what next? A raring, tearing littlesuffragette, in one afternoon, too!"

Ruth went upstairs. 

"Poor old Bob, " remarked Will to me when we were alone. 

CHAPTER XV

ANOTHER CATASTROPHE

I didn't know whether it was more "poor old Bob" or "poor old Ruth. "Ruth was so arduous at first, so in earnest--like a child with a new andengrossing plaything for a day or two, and then, I suppose, she showedher new toy to Bob, and he took it away from her. Anyway, she put it by. It seemed rather a shame to me. The new would have worn off after awhile. 

"And after all, Will, " I maintained to my husband, "Robert Jennings isterribly old-school, sweet and chivalrous as can be toward women, but hecan't treat Ruth in the way he does that helpless little miniature of amother of his. He simply lives to protect her from anything practical ordisagreeable. She adores it, but Ruth's a different proposition. Thetrouble with Robert is, he's about ten years behind the times. "

"And Ruth, " commented Will, "is about ten years ahead of the times. "

"That is true of the different members of lots of households, in thesetimes, but they don't need to come to blows because of it. Everybodyought to be patient and wait. Ruth has a pronounced individuality, forall you think she is nothing but a society butterfly. I can see it hurtsto cram it into Robert Jennings' ideal of what a woman should be. Itmakes me feel badly to see Ruth so quiet and resigned, like a littlebeaten thing, so pitiably anxious to please. Self-confidence became hermore. She hasn't mentioned suffrage since Robert called and stayed solate Wednesday, except to say briefly, 'I'm not going to march in theparade. ' 'Why not?' I asked. 'Doesn't Bob want you to?' 'Oh, certainly. He leaves it to me, ' she pretended proudly. 'But, you see, women inparades do offend some people. It isn't according to tradition, and Ithink it's only courteous to Bob, just before we are to be married, notto do anything offensive. After all, I must bear in mind, ' she said, 'that this parade is only a matter of walking--putting one foot in frontof the other. I'm bound to be happy, and I don't intend to allowsuffrage to stand in my way either. Even convictions are only a certaincondition of gray matter. ' Oh, it was just pitiful to hear her trying toconvince herself. I'm just afraid, Will, afraid for the future. "

Not long after that outburst of mine to Will, my fears came true. Onelate afternoon, white-faced, wide-eyed, Ruth came in to me. She closedthe door behind her. Her outside things were still on. I saw RobertJennings out the window going slowly down the walk. Before Ruth spoke Iknew exactly what she had to say. 

"We aren't going to be married, " she half whispered to me. 

"Oh, Ruth----"

"No. Please. Don't, don't talk about it, " she said. "And don't tellWill. Don't tell any one. Promise me. I've tried so hard--so hard. Butmy life has spoiled me for a man like Bob. Don't talk of it, please. "

"I won't, Ruth, " I assured her. 

"I can do it. I thought I couldn't at first. But I _can_!" she saidfiercely, "I _can_! I'll be misunderstood, I know. But I can't helpthat. We've decided it together. It isn't I alone. Bob has decided it, too. We both prefer to be unhappy alone, rather than unhappy together. "

"In every marriage, readjustments are necessary, " I commented. 

"Don't argue, " she burst out at me. "Don't! Don't you suppose Bob and Ihave thought of every argument that exists to save our happiness? Forheaven's sake, Lucy, don't argue. I can't quite bear it. " She turnedaway and went upstairs. 

She didn't want any dinner. "I'm going to bed early, " she told me anhour later when I knocked at her door. "No, not even toast and tea. Please don't urge me, " she begged, and I left her. At ten when I went tobed her room was dark. 

At half-past eleven I got up, stole across the hall, and stood listeningoutside her closed door. At long intervals I could hear her move. Shewas not sleeping. I waited an hour and stole across the hall again. Shewas still awake. Poor Ruth--sleepless, tearless (there was no sound ofsobbing) hour after hour, there she was lying all night long, staringinto the darkness, waiting for the dawn. At three I opened the doorgently and went in, carrying something hot to drink on a tray. 

"What is the matter?" she asked calmly. 

"Nothing, Ruth. Only you must sleep, and here is some hot milk with justa little pinch of salt. It's so flat without. Nobody can sleep on anempty stomach. "

"I guess that's the trouble, " she said, and sat up and took the milkhumbly, like a child. Her fingertips were like ice. I went into thebath-room, filled a hot-water bag, and got out an extra down-comforter. Iwas tucking it in when she asked, "What time is it?" And I told her. "Only three? Oh, dear--don't go--just yet. " So I wrapped myself up in awarm flannel wrapper and sat down on the foot of her bed with my feetdrawn up under me. 

"I won't, " I said, "I'll sit here. "

"You're awfully good to me, " Ruth remarked. "I _was_ cold and hungry, Iguess. Oh, Lucy, " she exclaimed, "I wish one person could understand, just _one_. "

"I do, Ruth. I do understand, " I said eagerly. 

"It isn't suffrage. It isn't the parade. It isn't any _one_ thing. It'sjust _everything_, Lucy. I'm made up on a wrong pattern for Bob. I hurthim all the time. Isn't it awful--even though he cares for me, and Ifor him, we hurt each other?"

I kept quite still. I knew that Ruth wanted to talk to some one, and Isat there hugging my knees, thankful that I happened to be the one. Always I had longed for this mysterious sister's confidence, and alwaysI had seemed to her too simple, too obvious, to share and understand. 

"You know, Lucy, " she went on wistfully, "I was awfully happy atfirst--so happy--you don't know. Why, I would do anything for Bob. I wasglad to give up riches for him. My worldly ambitions shriveled intonothing. Comforts, luxuries--what were they as compared to Bob's love?But, oh, Lucy, it is giving up little things, little independencies ofthought, little daily habits, which I can't do. I tried to give upthese, too. You know I did. I said that the book was just paper andprint and the cards just pasteboard. But all the time they were symbols. I could destroy the symbols easily enough, but I couldn't destroy whatthey stood for. You see, Bob and I have different ideals. That's at thebottom of all the trouble. We tried for weeks not to admit it, but ithad to be faced finally. "

"Your ideals aren't very different way down at their roots--both clean, true, sincere, and all that, " I said, with a little yawn, so she mightnot guess how tremblingly concerned I really was. 

"You don't know all the differences, Lucy, " she said sadly. "There'ssomething the trouble with me--something left out--something that Icannot blame Bob for feeling sorry about. I believe I'll tell you. Yousee, Bob met me under a misapprehension, and I've been trying to live upto his misapprehension ever since. The first time he ever saw me I wastucked away in a little room by myself looking at the picture of a sickchild. I was crying a little. He thought that I was feeling badly out ofsympathy for the mother of the child--the mother in me, you see, speaking to the mother in her. I wasn't really. I was crying because thehouse that the picture happened to hang in was so dull and grimy besideGrassmere. I was crying for the luxuries I had lost. I never told Bobthe truth about that picture until last week, and all this time he'sbeen looking upon me as an ideal woman--a kind of madonna, mother oflittle children, you understand, and all that--and I'm not. Somethingmust be wrong with me. I don't even long to be--yet. Oh, you see howunfitted I am for a man to weave idealistic pictures about--like that. It seemed to hurt Bob when I told him the truth about myself, hurt himterribly, as if I'd tumbled over and broken his image of me--at thecradle, you know. Oh, Lucy, what an unnatural girl I am! I don't admiremyself for it. I wish I could be what Bob thinks, but I can't. I can't. "

"You aren't unnatural. You're just as human as you can be, Ruth. I feltjust the way you do before I was married, and most every girl does asyoung as you, too. Bob ought to give you chance to grow up. "

"Grow up! Oh, Lucy, I feel so old! I feel used up and put by already. I've lived my life and haven't I made a botch of it?" She laughedshortly. "And what shall I do with the botch now? I can't stay here. Itwould break my heart to stay here where I had hoped to be sohappy--everything reminding me, you know. No, I can't stay here. "

"Of course you can't, Ruth. We'll think of a way. "

"And I simply can't go back to Edith, " she went on, "after knowing Bob. I don't want to go out to Michigan with Tom and Elise. I hate Michigan. Dear me! I don't know what I shall do. I'm discouraged. Once I was eagerand confident, filled with enthusiasm and self-pride. Like that oldhymn, you know. How does it go? 'I loved to choose my path and see, butnow lead Thou me on. I loved the garish day, and spite of fears, Prideruled my will. Remember not past years. ' That is what I repeat over andover to myself. 'Lead, kindly light, amidst th' encircling gloom. ' Theencircling gloom! Oh, dear!" She suddenly broke off, "I wish morningwould come. " It did finally, and with it, when the approaching sun beganto pinken the eastern sky, sleep for my tormented sister. 

CHAPTER XVI

A FAMILY CONFERENCE

We all were seated about the table at one of Edith's sumptuous Sundaydinners at the Homestead when Ruth broke her news to the family. Tom hadcome East on a business trip, and was spending Sunday with Alec inHilton; so Edith telephoned to all of us within motoring distance andinvited us up for "Sunday dinner. " This was two or three days after Ruthhad told me that she and Bob were not to be married. 

"Oh, yes, I'll go, " she nodded, when I had clapped my hand over thereceiver and turned to her questioningly, and afterward she said to me, "Concealing my feelings is one of the accomplishments my education _has_included. I'll go. I shan't tell them about Bob yet. I can't seem tojust now. "

I was therefore rather surprised when she suddenly abandoned herplay-acting. She hadn't figured on the difficult requirements, Isuppose, poor child. Bluff and genial Tom, grown rather gray and stoutand bald now, had met her with a hearty, "Hello, bride-elect!" Oliverhad shouted, "Greetings, Mrs. Prof!" And Madge, his wife, had tucked atissue-paper-wrapped package under Ruth's arm: "My engagement present, "she explained. "Just a half-a-dozen little guest-towels with yourinitials. "

Later at the table Tom had cleared his throat and then remarked, "I likeall I hear of this Robert Jennings. He's good stuff, Ruth. You'veworried us a good deal, but you've landed on your feet squarely at last. He's a bully chap. "

"And he's got a bully girl, too, now that she's got down to brasstacks, " said Alec in big-brother style. 

"Decided on the date?" cheerfully inquired Tom. "Elise said to be sureand find out. We're coming on in full force, you know. "

"Yes, the date's decided, " flashed Edith from the head of the table. "June 28th. It'll be hot as mustard, but Hilton will be lovely then, andall the summerites here. You must give me an hour on the lists afterdinner, Kidlet. Bob's list, people, is three hundred, and Ruth's four, so I guess there'll be a few little remembrances. The envelopes are halfdirected already. I want you people to know this wedding is only sevenweeks off, so hurry up and order your new gowns and morning coats. Simplicity isn't going to be the keynote of this affair. "

"Hello!" exclaimed Tom abruptly, "I haven't inspected the ring yet. Let's see it. Pass it over, Toots. "

Ruth glanced down at her hand. It was still there--Bob's unpretentiousdiamond set in platinum--shining wistfully on Ruth's third finger. 

She started to take it off, then stopped and glanced over at me. "Ithink I'll tell them, Lucy, " she said. "I've got something to tell youall, " she announced. "I'm wearing the ring still, but--we've broken ourengagement. I'm not going to marry Robert Jennings after all. "

It sounded harsh, crude. Everybody stared; everybody stopped eating; Isaw Tom lay down his fork with a juicy piece of duck on it. It had beenwithin two inches of his mouth. 

"Will you repeat that?" he said emphatically. 

"Yes, " complied Ruth, "I will. I know it seems sudden to you. I meant towrite it, but after all I might as well tell you. My engagement toRobert Jennings is broken. "

"Is this a joke?" ejaculated Edith. 

"No, " replied Ruth, still in that calm, composed way of hers. "No, Edith, it isn't a joke. "

"Will you explain?" demanded Tom, shoving the piece of duck off his forkand abandoning it for good and all. 

Ruth had become pale. "Why, there isn't much to explain, except I foundout I wouldn't be happy with Bob. That's all. "

"Oh, " said Tom, "you found out you wouldn't be happy with Bob! Will youkindly tell us whom you mean to try your happiness on next?"

Ruth's gray eyes darkened. A little pink stole into her cheeks. "There'sno good of your using that tone with me, Tom, " she said. 

"Did you know this?" asked Will of me from across the table. 

I nodded. 

"Do you mean to say it's _true_?" demanded Edith. 

I nodded again. 

"You're crazy, Ruth, " she burst out, "you're simply stark mad. It wouldbe a public disgrace. You've got to marry him now. You've simply got to. It's worse than a divorce. Why--the invitations are all ordered, eventhe refreshments. The whole world knows about it. You've _got_ to marryhim. "

"My own disgrace is my own affair, I guess, " said Ruth, dangerously low. 

"It's _not_ your own affair. It's ours; it's the whole family's; it'smine. And I won't stand it--not a second time. Here I have told_everybody_, got my Boston list all made up, too, and all my plans made. Didn't I have new lights put into the ball-room especially, and a lot ofrepairs made on the house--a new bath-room, and everything? And all myhouse-party guests invited? Why--we'll be the laughing-stock of thisentire town, if you play this game a second time. Good heavens, you'llbe getting the habit. No, sir! You _can't_ go back on your word in thisfashion. You've _got_ to marry Robert Jennings _now_. "

"I wouldn't marry Breck Sewall to please you, Edith, and I won't marryRobert Jennings to please you either, " said Ruth. "She wanted me toelope with Breck!" she announced calmly. 

"That isn't true, " replied Edith sharply. 

"Why don't you call me a liar and have done with it?" demanded Ruth. 

"I wanted to save you from disgrace, and you know it. I wanted----" Amaid came in. 

"Let us wait and continue this conversation later, " remarked Tom. 

"We don't want _you_, " flared Edith at the maid. "I didn't ring. Go outtill you're summoned. You're the most ungrateful girl I ever knew, Ruth. You're----"

"Come, " interrupted Alec. "This isn't getting anywhere. Let us finishdinner first. "

"I'm sure I don't want any more dinner, " said Edith. 

"Nor I, " commented Ruth, with a shrug. 

There were a salad fork and a dessert spoon still untouched beside ourplates. It would have been thoughtful if Ruth had waited and lit herfuse when the finger-bowls came on. It seemed a shame to me to waste twoperfectly good courses, and unnecessarily sensational to interrupt theceremony of a Sunday dinner. But it was impossible to sit there throughtwo protracted changes of plates. 

"I guess we've all had enough, " remarked Tom, disgustedly shoving awaythat innocent piece of duck. We rose stragglingly. 

"I don't care to talk about this thing any more, " said Ruth, as wepassed through the hall. "You can thrash it out by yourselves. Lucy, youcan represent me!" And she turned away to go upstairs. 

Tom called back, "No, Ruth. This is an occasion that requires yourpresence, whether you like it or not, " he said. "Come back, please. There are a few questions that need to be settled. "

Ruth acquiesced condescendingly. "Oh, very well, " she replied, andstrolled down the stairs and into the library. She walked over to thetable and leaned, half sitting, against it, while the rest of us came inand sat down, and some one closed the doors. 

"Fire away!" she said flippantly, turning to Tom. She picked up an ivorypaper-cutter with a tassel on one end, twisted the cord tight, and thenholding the cutter up by the tassel watched it whirl and untwist. 

Pretty, graceful, nonchalant, armored in a half smile, Ruth stood beforeher inquisitors. Bob never would have recognized this composed andunmoved girl as the anxious Ruth who had tried so hard to please andsatisfy. 

"First, " began Tom (he has always held the position of high judge in ourfamily), "first, I should be interested to know if you have any plansfor the future, and, if so, will you be kind enough to tell us what theymay be. "

"I have plans, " said Ruth, and began twisting the cord of thepaper-cutter again. 

"Will you put that down, please, " requested Tom. 

"Certainly, " Ruth smiled over-obligingly and laid the paper-cutter onthe table. She folded her arms and began tapping the rug with her toe. She was almost insolent. 

"Well, then--what are your plans?" fired Tom at her with an obviouseffort to control himself. 

"New York, " she announced mysteriously. 

"Oh, New York!" repeated Tom. It was a scornful voice. "New York! Andwhat do you intend to do in New York?"

"Oh, I don't know. I haven't decided. Something, " she said airily. 

"Ruth, " said Tom, "please listen to me carefully if you can for aminute. We've always given you a pretty loose rein. Haven't we?"

Ruth shrugged her shoulders. 

"You've had every advantage; attended one of the most expensive schoolsin this country; had all the money you required, coming-out party andall that; pleasures, flattery, attention--everything to make a girlcontented. You've visited any one you pleased from one end of the UnitedStates to the other; traveled in Europe, Florida--anywhere you wanted;come and gone at will. Nothing to handicap you. Nothing hard. Nothingdifficult. You'll agree. And what have you done with your advantages?_What_--I want to know?"

Ruth shrugged her shoulders again. 

"You can't blame any one but yourself. You haven't been interfered with. I believed in letting you run your own affairs. Thought you were made ofthe right stuff to do it creditably. I was mistaken. You've had a fairtrial at your own management and you've failed to show satisfactoryresults. Now _I'm_ going to step in. _I'm_ going to see if _I_ can saveyou from this drifting about and getting nowhere. I don't ask you to goback and anchor with Robert Jennings again. I'm shocked to confess thatI don't believe you're worthy of a man like Jennings. It is no smallthing to be decided carelessly or frivolously--this matter of marriage. Engaged to two men inside of one year, and now both affairs broken off. It's disgraceful! You've got to learn somehow or other that although youare a woman, you're not especially privileged to go back on decisions. "

"I don't want to be especially privileged, " said Ruth, and then sheadded, "special privileges would not be expected by women, if they weregiven equal rights. "

"Oh, Suffrage!!!" exclaimed Tom with three exclamation points. "Sothat's it! That's at the bottom of all this trouble. "

"That's at the bottom of it, " suddenly put in my husband, emphatically. 

"Oh, I see. Well, first, Ruth, you're to drop all that nonsense. Suffrage indeed! What do _you_ know about it? You ought to be marriedand taking care of your own babies, and you wouldn't be disturbed by allthese crazy-headed fads, invented by dissatisfied and unoccupiedfemales. Suffrage! And perhaps you think that this latest exhibition ofyour changeableness and vacillation is an argument in favor of it. "

"You needn't throw women's vacillation in their faces, Tom, " repliedRuth calmly. "Stable decisions are matters of training and education. Girls of my acquaintance lack the experience with the business world. They don't come in contact with big transactions. They're guarded fromthem. A lawyer does the thinking for a woman of property oftentimes, andso, of course, women do not learn the necessity of precise statements, accurate thought, and all that. From the time a girl is old enough tothink she knows she is just a girl, who her family hope will grow up tobe pretty and attractive and marry well. If her family believed she wasto grow up into a responsible citizen who would later control by hervote all sorts of weighty questions that affect taxes and tariffs andthings, they would have to devote more thought to making herintelligent, because it would have an effect upon their individualinterests. I'm interested in suffrage, Tom, not for the good it is goingto do politics, but for the good it's going to do women. "

Tom made an exclamation of disgust. He was beside himself with scorn anddisapproval. 

"Nonsense! Utter rot! Women were made to marry and be mothers. Womenwere----"

"But we'd be better mothers, " Ruth cut in. "Don't you see, if----"

"Oh, I don't want to discuss suffrage, " interrupted Tom; "I want todiscuss your life. Let's keep to the subject. I want to see you settledand happy some day, and as I'm so much older than you, you must putyourself into my hands, and cheerfully. First, drop suffrage. Drop it. Good Lord, Ruth, don't be a faddist. Then I want you to lay yourdecision about Jennings on the shelf. Let it rest for a while. Postponethe wedding if you wish----"

"But, Tom, " tucked in Edith, "that's impossible. The invitations----"

"Never mind, never mind, Edith, " interrupted Tom. Then to Ruth he wenton. "Postpone the wedding--oh, say a month or two, and then see how youfeel. That's all I ask. Reasonable, isn't it?" he appealed to us all. "I'll have a talk with Jennings in the meanwhile, " he went on. "Thissuffrage tommy-rot is working all sorts of unnecessary havoc. I'm sickof it. I didn't suppose it had caught any one in our family though. Youdrop it, Ruth, for a while. You wait. I'm going back home nextWednesday. Now I want you to pack up your things and be ready to startwith me Wednesday night from New York. We'll see what Elise and theyoungsters will do for you. "

"I'm sorry, Tom, " replied Ruth pleasantly, "but my decision about Bob isfinal; and as for going out West with you and becoming a fifth wheel inyour household--no, I've had enough of that. My mind is made up. I'mgoing to New York. "

"But I shan't allow it, " announced Tom. 

"Then, " replied Ruth, "I shall have to go without your allowing it. "

"What do you mean?" demanded Tom. 

"Why--just what I say. I'm of age. If I were a man, I wouldn't have toask my older brother's permission. "

"And how do you intend to live?"

"On my income, " said Ruth. "I bless father now for that stock he leftme. Eight hundred dollars a year has been small for me so far. I havehad to have help, I know, but it will support my new life. I never wasreally grateful to father for that money till now. It makes meindependent of you, Tom. "

Edith, glaring inimically from her corner, exclaimed, "Grateful to herfather! That's good!"

"My dear girl, " said Tom, "we've never told you before, because we hopedto spare your feelings, but the time has come now. That stock fatherleft you hasn't paid a dividend for a dozen years. It isn't worth itsweight in paper. I have paid four hundred dollars, and Edith has beenkind and generous enough to contribute four hundred dollars more, tokeep you in carfares, young lady. It isn't much in order to talk of yourindependence around here. "

The color mounted to Ruth's cheeks. She straightened. "What do youmean?" she asked. 

"Exactly what I say. You haven't a penny of income. Edith and I areresponsible for your living, and I want you to understand clearly that Ishall not support a line of conduct which does not meet with myapproval. Nor Edith either, I rather imagine. "

"No, indeed, I won't, " snapped out Edith. "I shan't pay a cent more. It's only rank ingratitude I get for it anyhow. "

"Do you mean to say, " said Ruth in a low voice--there was no flippancyto her now--"I've been living on Edith's charity, and yours, all theseyears? That I haven't anything of my own--not even my clothes--not even_this_, " she touched a blue enameled watch and chain about her neck, "which I saved and saved so for? Haven't I any income? Haven't I a centthat's mine, Tom?"

"Not a red cent, Ruth--just some papers that we might as well put intothe fireplace and burn up. "

"Oh, " she burst forth, "how unfair--how cruel and unfair!"

"There's gratitude for you, " threw in Edith. 

"To bring me up, " went on Ruth, "under a delusion. To let me go on, yearafter year, thinking I was provided for, and then suddenly, when itpleases you, to tell me that I'm an absolute dependent, a creature ofcharity. Oh, how cruel that is! You tell me I ought to be grateful. Well, I'm not--I'm not grateful. You've been false with me. You'vebrought me up useless and helpless. I'm too old now to develop whatevertalent I may have had. I can only drudge now. What is there I can do_now_? Nothing--nothing--except scrub floors or something like that. "

"Oh, yes, there is, too, " said Edith. "You can marry Robert Jennings andbe sensible. "

"Marry a man for support, whether I want to or not? I'll die first. You_all_ want me to marry him, " she burst out at us fiercely, "but Ishan't--I shan't. I'm strong and healthy, and I'm just beginning todiscover that I've got some brains, too. There's something I can do, surely, some way I can earn money. I shan't go West with you, Tom. Understand that. I can't quite see myself growing old in all yourvarious households--old and useless and dependent like lots ofunmarried women in large families. I can't see it without a fightanyhow. I don't care if I haven't any income. I can be a clerk in astore, I guess. Anyhow I shan't go West with you, Tom. I am of age. Youcan't make me. I know I'm just a woman, but I intend to live my own lifejust the same, and there's no one in this world who can bind and enslaveme either!"

"You go upstairs, Ruth, " ordered Tom. "I won't stand for such talk asthat. You go upstairs and quiet down, and when you're reasonable, we'lltalk again. We're not children. "

"No, we're not, " replied Ruth, "neither of us, and I shan't be sentupstairs as if I was a child either! You can pauperize me, and you cantake away every rag I have on my back, too, if you want to, but I'lltell you one thing, you can't take away my independence. You think, Tom, you can frighten me, and conquer me, perhaps, by bullying. But youcan't. Conditions are better for women than they used to be, anyhow, thank heaven, and for the courageous woman there's a chance to escapefrom just such masters of their fates as _you_--Tom Vars, even thoughyou are my brother. And I shall escape somehow, _sometime_. See if Idon't. Oh, I know what you all think of me, " she broke off. "You allthink I'm hard and heartless. Well--perhaps you're right. I guess I am. Such an experience as this would just about kill any softhearted person, I should think. But _I'm_ not killed. Remember that, Tom. You've gotmoney, support, sentiment on your side. I've got nothing but my owndetermination. But I'm not afraid to fight. And I will, if you force me. You'd better be pretty careful how you handle such an utterly depravedperson as you seem to think I am. Why, I didn't know you had such a pooropinion of me. "

She gave a short little laugh which ended in a sort of sob. I was afraidshe was going to cry before us. But the armor was at hand. She put it onquickly, the cynical smile, the nonchalant air. 

"There is no good talking any more, as I see, " she was able to go on, thus protected. "This is bordering on a scene, and scenes are such badtaste! I'm going into the living-room. "

She crossed the room to the door. "You all can go on maligning me toyour hearts' content. I've had about enough, thank you. Only remembersupper is at seven, and Edith's maids want to get out early Sundays. Consider the maids at least, " she finished, and left us, colors flying. 

CHAPTER XVII

RUTH GOES TO NEW YORK

The next morning when Will and I motored home we were alone. Weapproached the steeples of our town about noontime. I remember whistleswere blowing and bells ringing as we passed through the Square. We sawRobert Jennings coming out of one of the University buildings on his wayhome from a late morning recitation. We slowed down beside him, and Willsang out to him to pile in behind; which he did, leaning forward andchatting volubly with Will and me for the next ten minutes about a newstarter device for an automobile. When Will stopped in front of ourwalk, Robert hopped out of his back seat and opened the door for me. 

It was when Will had motored out of hearing that Robert turned sharplyto me and asked, "Did you leave her in Hilton?"

"No, Bob, Ruth isn't in Hilton. She's gone to New York, " I told himgently. 

"Whom is she staying with in New York? Your brother?" he asked. 

"No, not Malcolm. No. But she's all right. "

"What do you mean--'she's all right'?"

"Oh, I mean she has money enough--and all that. "

"She isn't _alone_ in New York!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean tosay----"

"Now, Bob, don't _you_ go and get excited about it. Ruth's all right. I'm just about worn out persuading my brother Tom that it is perfectlyall right for Ruth to go to New York for a little while if she wants to. I can't begin arguing with you, the minute I get home. I'm all worn outon the subject. "

"But what is she doing down there? Whom is she visiting? Who is lookingout for her? Who went with her? Who met her?"

"Nobody, nobody. Nobody met her; nobody went with her; she isn'tvisiting anybody. Good heavens, Bob, you'd make a helpless, simperinglittle idiot out of Ruth if you had your way. She isn't a child. Sheisn't an inexperienced young girl. She's capable of keeping out of sillydifficulties. She can be trusted. Let her use her judgment and goodsense a little. It won't hurt her a bit. It will do her good. Don't youworry about Ruth. She's all right. "

"But a girl--a pretty young girl like Ruth--you don't mean to say thatRuth--Ruth----"

"Yes, I do, too, Bob! And there are lots of girls just as pretty as Ruthin New York, and just as young, tapping away at typewriters, andbalancing accounts in offices, and running shops of their own, too, inperfect safety. You're behind the times, Bob. I don't want to be horrid, but really I'm tired, and if you stay here and talk to me, I warn youI'm going to be cross. "

We were in the house now. Bob had followed me in. I was taking off mythings. He stared at me as I proceeded. 

"I didn't see any sense at all in your breaking off your engagement, " Iwent on. "You both cared for each other. I should have thought----"

"It was inevitable, " cut in Bob gravely. "It was inevitable, Lucy. "

"Well, then, if it was, Bob, all right. I won't say another word aboutit. But now that Ruth is nothing to you----"

"Nothing to me!" he exclaimed. 

"Yes, that is what I said--nothing to you, " I repeated mercilessly, "Ibeg of you don't come here and show approval or disapproval about whatshe's up to. Leave her to me now. I'm backing her. I tell you, just as Itold Tom and the others, she's all right. Ruth's _all right_. "

But later in my room I wondered--I wondered if Ruth really was allright. Sitting in my little rocking-chair by the window, sheltered andprotected by kind, familiar walls, I asked myself what Ruth was doingnow. It was nearing the dinner hour. Where would Ruth be eating dinner?It was growing dark slowly. It would be growing dark in New York. Starswould be coming out up above the towering skyscrapers, as they were nowabove the apple trees in the garden. I thought of Ruth's empty bedacross the hall. Where would she sleep tonight? Oh, Ruth--Ruth--poor, little sister Ruth!

I remember when you were a little baby wrapped up in soft, pink, knittedthings. The nurse put you in my arms, and I walked very carefully intomy mother's room with you and stood staring down at you asleep. I wasonly a little girl, I was afraid I would drop you, and I didn't realizeas I stood there by our mother's bed that she was bidding her two littledaughters good-by. She couldn't take one of my hands because they wereboth busy holding you; but she reached out and touched my shoulder; andshe told me always to love you and take care of you and be generous andkind, because you were little and younger. And I said I would, andcarried you out very proud and happy. 

That was a long while ago. I have never told you about it--we haven'tfound it easy to talk seriously together--but I have always remembered. I used to love to dress you when you were a baby, and feed you, and takeyou out in the brown willow baby carriage like the real mothers. But, ofcourse, you had to outgrow the carriage; you had to outgrow the uglylittle dresses father and I used to select for you at the departmentstores in Hilton; you had to outgrow the two little braids I used toplait for you each morning when you were big enough to go to school; youhad to outgrow me, too. I am so plain and commonplace. 

Yesterday when you put your arms about me there in the smoky train-shedin Hilton, and cried a little as I held you close, with the great noisytrain that was to take you away snorting beside us, you became again tome the little helpless sister that mother told me to take care of. Allthe years between were blotted out. I remembered our mother's room, theblack walnut furniture. I saw the white pillows and mother's long, darkbraids lying over each of her shoulders. Again I heard her words; againI felt the pride that swelled in my heart as I bore you away. 

"I hope you are safe tonight. You can always call on me. I will alwayscome. Don't be afraid. And when you are unhappy, write to me. I shallunderstand. You are not hard, you are not heartless. You are tender andsensitive. Only your armor is made of flint. You are not changeable andvacillating. They didn't know. You are brave and conscientious. " Withsome such words as these last did I write to Ruth before I slept thatnight. I believed in her as I never had before. I cherished her with mysoul. 

This is what had happened in Hilton. After Ruth had left the room theafternoon of her inquisition, the rest of us had sat closeted in seriousconsultation for two hours or more. It was after five when we emerged. 

To Edith's inquiry as to Ruth's whereabouts, a maid explained that MissRuth had left word that she was going to walk out to the Country Club, and would return in time for supper at seven. I went upstairs to myroom. A feeling of despair possessed me. I sat down and gazed out ofthe window. A maid knocked lightly as I sat staring and came in with aletter. 

"Miss Ruth told me to wait until you were alone and then to give youthis, " she explained. 

I thanked her and she departed. I locked the door, then tore open Ruth'snote to me and read it. 

 "Dear Lucy, " it said. "I cannot help but overhear some of the conversation. Obviously, Tom is shouting so I may get the benefit of his remarks without effort. I must get out of this horrible place. How can I endure to meet the disapproval and bitterness and hatred--yes, _hatred_--when they come filing out upon me from that room across the hall. How can I sit down to supper with them all, ask for bread--for water? How can I keep up this farce of polite speech? I can't. 

 "You are in favor of my going away somewhere. I can hear you urging them. Well, then, if you are, let me go _now_--tonight. I can't go back with you tomorrow. Even though I am hard and heartless, don't ask me to run the risk of seeing Bob by mistake just now. I can't see him now. I can't. I _won't_ stay here at Edith's. I won't go with Tom. This isn't the Middle Ages. Then if ultimately I am to go away, alone somewhere, let me go immediately. After I've gone the responsibility of giving me permission will be lifted from Tom's shoulders. Don't you see? You can argue with him to better advantage if the step has been taken. 

 "I shan't be blindly running away. I've been considering a change in my plans for so long that I've been enquiring. I know of a position I can get in New York, and right off. I wrote about it last week. I heard of it through the Suffrage League. It's a position in the office there in New York. I would have explained all this to Tom if he had been decent, but he wasn't. He is narrow and prejudiced. Oh, Lucy, help me to escape. I've got fifteen dollars, of Tom's and Edith's, and I shall keep it, too! They owe _me_ a debt instead of _I_, them. That's the way I feel. But fifteen dollars is not enough to start to New York with. There's a train at 6. 20 and another at 8. 15. I am going down to the station now, this _minute_, and wait for you to come down there with more money and help me off. If you get out of that room before six, I could take the earlier train. If not, then the 8. 15. I will wait for you in the ladies' waiting-room where the couches are. If you think my going suddenly this way is out of the question, then I'll simply turn around and come back with you to the house here, and grin and bear the situation somehow. I'll have to. So meet me anyhow. Don't tell any one where I am. Just stroll out and we'll pretend we've been to the Country Club. 

 "I know that I've been horrid to you all my life, critical and pharisaic. You can pay me back for it now. You can refuse to help me if you want to. I shan't blame you. But, oh, dear, let me go away alone, just for a little while anyway. Let nature try and heal. 

 "I have my bag and toilet articles. Money is all I want--money and perhaps just one person in my family to wish me well. 

 "RUTH. "

I glanced at the clock It was just quarter of six. There was noopportunity of laying this question on the table and waiting for theclearing light of morning to help me make a wise decision. This was anoccasion when a woman's intuition must be relied upon. As I stood therewith Ruth's letter in my hand, swift and sure was the conviction thatcame to me. I must help Ruth get away. She would surely escape sometimefrom the kind of bondage Tom was planning to place her under. If nottonight, or next week, then a month hence. Was it not better for her togo, even though suddenly and shockingly, with the God-speed and thetrust of some one in her own family?

Is it ever wise to cut the last thread that holds a girl to those whohave loved and cherished her? I thought not. Perhaps the slender threadthat now existed between Ruth and me might be the means of drawing astouter cord, which in its turn might haul a cable, strong and reliable. I did not think then of the possible dangers in New York--thedifficulties, the risks; there was no time to discuss, no time fordoubts and misgivings; there was simply time for me to fill out twoblank checks for twenty-five dollars each, put on my hat and coat, andspeed with all possible haste to the station. 

I found Ruth eagerly awaiting me in the train-shed. There were crowds ofpeople hastening here and there with bags and suit-cases. There weretrucks and train-men. There was the roar of an incoming train. Throughthe confusion Ruth's anxious eyes looked straight into mine. 

"Well?"

"Is this your train?" I asked with a nod toward the sweating monsterthat had just come to a standstill on the first track. 

"It's the New York train, " said Ruth. 

"Well, I've brought some money, " I went on quickly. "Fifty dollars. Itwill last for a while. They don't know about it yet, back there at thehouse. I shall have to tell them when I go back. I can't predict. Tommay wire Malcolm to meet you and drag you back home. I don't know. ButI'll use all the influence I can against it. I'll do my very best, Ruth. "

Ruth's hand found mine in a sudden grasp and held it tightly. Anothertrain roared into the train-shed. 

"Where shall you stay tonight?" I shrieked at her. 

She gave the name of a well-known hotel reserved especially for women. "I shall be all right, " she called. "I'll drop you a line tomorrow. Youneedn't worry about me. I'll let you know if I need anything. "

A deep megaphoned voice announced the New York train. 

"Your ticket?" I reminded. 

"I have it. I was going anyway, " she replied. 

"Well, then, " I said, and opened my bag and produced the two checks. Shetook them. "Promise me, Ruth, promise _always_ to let me know--always ifyou need anything, or are unhappy. "

Her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. Her under lip quavered. She brokedown at last. I held her in my arms. 

"Oh, Lucy, Lucy, " she cried. "You're so good to me. I miss him so. Ileft the ring in the corner of your top drawer. You give it to Bob. Ican't. You're all I have. I've been so horrid to you all my life. I missBob so. I hate Tom. I almost hate Tom. Oh, Lucy, what's to become of me?Whatever is to become of me?"

The train gave a little jerk. 

"All aboard, Miss, " called a porter. 

"Your train, Ruth dear, " I said gently and actually pushed her a littletoward New York, which even now was beginning to appall me. She kissedme good-by. I looked up and saw her floating away in a cloud of fitfulsteam. 

CHAPTER XVIII

A YEAR LATER

That was nearly a year ago. Until one day last week I have not seen Ruthsince, not because of the busy life of a young mother--for such I havebecome since Ruth went away--no, though busy I have been, and proud andhappy and selfish, too, like every other mother of a first son in theworld, I suppose--but because Ruth hasn't wished to be seen. That is whyI have heard from her only through letters, why I direct my answers incare of a certain woman's club with a request to forward them, and why Ihave neither sent down Will, nor appointed Malcolm to look her up andfind out how she was getting along. 

Ruth has requested that I make no endeavor to drag her forth into thelight of criticism and comment. She has written every week punctually;she has reported good health; and has invariably assured me that she iscongenially employed. I have allowed her her seclusion. In olden daysbroken-hearted women and distracted men withdrew to the protection ofreligion, and hid their scars inside the walls of nunneries andmonasteries. Why not let Ruth conceal her wounds, too, for a while, without fear of disturbance from commenting friends and an inquisitivefamily?

However, a fortnight ago, I had a letter from Ruth that set me toplanning. It casually referred to the fact that she was going to marchin the New York suffrage parade. I knew that she is still deeplyinterested in suffrage. Any one of her letters bore witness to that. Idecided to see that parade. My son was six months old; I hadn't left himfor a night since he was born; he was a healthy little animal, gainingounces every week; and for all I knew the first little baby I had beenappointed to take care of was losing ounces. I made up my mind to godown to New York and have a look at Ruth anyway. I told Will about it;he fell in with my scheme; and I began to make arrangements. 

When I announced to Robert Jennings that we were going to New York, Itried to be casual about it. 

"I haven't been down there for two years, " I said one night when hedropped in upon us, as was his occasional custom. "I require a polishingin New York about every six months. Besides I want to begin discipliningmyself in leaving that little rascal of mine upstairs, just to provethat he won't swallow a safety-pin or develop pneumonia the moment myback's turned. Don't you think I'm wise?"

"New York?" took up Bob. "Shall you--do you plan to see anybody I know?"he inquired. 

He was a different man that falteringly asked me this question from theRobert Jennings of a year ago--the same eyes, the same voice, the samepersistent smile, and yet something gone out from them all. 

"No, Bob, " I replied, "I'm not going to look up Ruth. " We seldom spokeof her. When we did it was briefly, and usually when Will happened to beabsent. 

"There's a suffrage parade in New York, Wednesday, " Robert informed me. "While you're there, you know. Had you an idea that she might be in it?"

"Why, I shouldn't be a bit surprised, " I allowed. 

"Well, then, of course you'll see her, " he brought out. 

"Well, I might. It's possible. I shall see the parade, I hope. They saythey're rather impressive. "

"She's well?" asked Bob. 

"She writes so, " I told him briefly. 

"And happy?"

"She seems so. "

"What should you think of the idea of my seeing that parade, too?" heasked a little later. 

"I shouldn't think very well of it, Bob. "

"Should I be in the way?" he smiled, "interrupt yours and Will's_tête-à-tête_?"

"Oh, no, of course not. But--O Bob, " I broke off, "why keep on thinkingabout Ruth? I wish you wouldn't. Life has such a lot else in it. " Hecolored a little at my frankness. "Oh, I know you don't want me to talkabout it, but I can't help it. You knew her such a little while, scarcely six months in all, and besides she wasn't suited to you. I seeit now myself. She's stark mad about all these suffrage things. Youwouldn't have been happy. She's full of theories now. I wish you'd dropall thought of her and go about the next thing. I'm sure Ruth is goingabout the next thing. _You_ ought to. "

"Nevertheless, " he said, "should I be in the way?"

Of course he went. I could see his mind was made up in spite of what Imight say. The three of us--Robert Jennings and Will and I--stood fortwo hours on the edge of a curbing in New York City waiting for Ruth towalk up Fifth Avenue. 

We were a merry little party. A spark of Robert's old fun seemed to havestolen into his eyes, a little of the old crispness into his voice. 

"They're going to walk several abreast, " he explained. "It will be hardwork finding her in such a crowd. She might get by. So this is my plan. I'll take as my responsibility the rows farthest over, you take themiddle, Will, and Lucy, you look out for those nearest the curb. See?Now between the three of us we'll see her. Hello! I believe they'recoming!"

I looked down Fifth Avenue, lined with a black ribbon of people on eachside. It was free from traffic. Clear and uninterrupted lay the way forthis peculiar demonstration. I saw in the distance a flag approaching. Iheard the stirring strains of a band. 

Ruth was very near the front of the parade. One band had passed us anddisappeared into dimness and Ruth preceded the second one. 

It was a lovely sunny day, with a stiff sharp breeze that made militantevery flag that moved. Ruth wore no slogan of any sort. She carried onesymbol only--the American flag. She was not walking. Ruth rode, regally, magnificently. We were hunting for her in the rank and file, and thensome little urchin called out, "Gee! Look at the peach!"

And there she was--Ruth! Our Ruth, on a black horse, a splendid creatureflecked with foam. 

"Some girl!" said a man beside me. 

"Who's she?" exclaimed somebody else. 

Then abruptly the band that she immediately preceded broke intothundering music, and drowned everything but the sight of her. 

But oh, such a sight! She was in her black habit and wore the littletri-cornered hat that so became her. She has always ridden horseback. Confidently, easily she sat in her saddle, with one white-gloved handholding the reins, and the other one the pole of the flag, which wavedabove her head. In Ruth's eyes there was an expression that was ardent. Neither to left nor right did she look. She seemed oblivious of hersurroundings. Straight ahead she gazed; straight ahead she rode;unafraid, eager, hopeful; the flag her only staff. She epitomized for methe hundreds and hundreds of girls that were following after. Wherewould they all come out? Where, _where_ would Ruth come out? She hadsought liberty. Well, she had it. Where was it taking her? With achoking throat I watched my sister's stars and stripes vanish upFifth Avenue. I thought it would satisfy me to see Ruth well andhappy--for she looked well, she looked happy--but it didn't satisfy me. I was hungry for more of her. 

[Illustration: "Straight ahead she gazed; straight ahead she rode;unafraid, eager, hopeful; the flag her only staff"--_Page 170_]

None of us, Will, Robert or I, had spoken as she rode by. It had beentoo impressive. I had not looked at Robert. I had observed only his handas it grasped his coat sleeve as he stood with folded arms. One hand, Ithought, had tightened its grasp a little. We all stood perfectlyspeechless for at least three minutes after Ruth went by. Finally it wasRobert who spoke. 

"Have you had enough?" he asked of me, leaning down. 

"Have you?" I inquired. 

"Yes, I have. Let's go. Come on, Will, let's get out, " he said. Therewas a note of impatience in his voice. We wormed our way back to theentrance of a shop. 

"What's the rush?" said Will. 

Robert replied. I could see his emotion now. "It's this. I'll tell you. I'm going to clear right out of this crowd and look that girl up. You'vegot that address in Madison Avenue, Lucy. I'm going to look her up----"

"But, Bob, " I remonstrated. "She doesn't live there, and she doesn'twant to be looked up. She has asked me not to--and besides----"

"I can't help that--I shall be doing the looking up. I'll take theblame, " he rather snapped at me. 

"Now, look here, Bob, old man, " said Will, and he put a hand on one ofRobert's shoulders. "What's the good in it _now_? Don't you see she'llbe hotter than ever on this thing just now? Wait till she cools off abit. That's the idea!"

"Oh, it isn't to dissuade her. I don't care about that. It's simply tofind out if she's all right. She may need help of some kind or other. She's a proud girl. Good heavens, she isn't going to send for any one. Idon't know what we've been thinking of--a whole year down in this place, and no knowledge of what kind of a life she's had to live. That isn'tright--no. Lucy, if you'll be kind enough to give me that address, I'llbe off. "

"I don't believe you can trace her through that. "

"I'll see to that end of it. " He was really almost sharp with me. 

"What do you think, Will?" I inquired. 

"Oh, give it to him, give it to him, my dear. "

And so I did at last. 

Will and I went to the theater that night, and supper afterward. It wasafter midnight when we strolled into the hotel. Robert Jennings wassitting in one of the big chairs in the corridor with a paper up beforehis face. Will had gone to the desk to get our key, and I went up andspoke to Bob. 

"Well, hello!" I blurted out cheerfully. "What success? Did you seeher?"

He stood up, and I saw his face then. 

"Yes, I saw her, " he replied, then with difficulty added, "Don't ask meabout it, " and abruptly he turned away, tossed aside the paper, andwalked straight out of the hotel. He might have been in a play on thestage. 

We had arranged to leave for home the following morning. Will called upRobert's room about nine to find out if he was still planning to returnwith us. There was no answer. I felt anxious about Bob. Will felt simplyirritated. 

"Ought to have known more than to have gone pressing his suit on aperson in Ruth's frame of mind, " he grumbled. 

Robert Jennings didn't show up until three minutes before the trainpulled out. His reservation hadn't been canceled, but I had little hopeof his appearance. My heart gave a bound of relief when I saw him cominginto the car at the farther end. 

"Oh, here you are!" I said. "I'm so glad you've come. We've been lookingfor you. "

"Hello there, " put in Will. 

"Have you? That's good of you, " said Bob. He had himself well in handnow. I was glad of that. "I went out for breakfast, " he explained. "Iwas sure to show up, however. I have a five o'clock appointment thisafternoon, " and he took off his overcoat, swung his chair about, and satdown. 

For two hours he sat opposite me there without a single reference to thenight before. You might have thought I never had seen him cast thatnewspaper aside and unceremoniously burst out of the hotel. We talkedabout all sorts of indifferent subjects. Finally I leaned over and askedWill if he didn't want to go into the smoking-car. 

"Understand?" I inquired. 

"Surely, " he replied, "surely, I do, Miss Canny, " and left us. 

A half-an-hour outside New London Bob began to talk. "Do you want tohear about last night?" he asked me. 

"If you want to tell me, " I replied. 

"Well, I found her. I found Ruth. "

"Yes, I know you did, Bob. "

"Do you know _where_ I found her?"

"Why, no. Of course I don't. "

"Well, I'll tell you. After I left you I went first to the MadisonAvenue address. It wasn't until I gave the lady at the desk of that clubthe impression that I came bearing news of some serious nature connectedwith Ruth's family, that she gave me the address where Ruth's mail isforwarded. She told me it was Ruth's place of business. It was anaddress up near the region of the Park, no name, just the bare streetand number. I called 'information, ' and finally the house on the 'phone. I was informed Miss Vars would not be in until after dinner. So Iwaited, and about half-past eight went up there. I found the house--abig, impressive affair, grilled iron fence close to it in front, veryfine, very luxurious; all the windows curtained darkly, with a glow ofbrightness through the cracks here and there. I hesitated to presentmyself. I walked up and down twice in front of the house, wondering ifit would be wiser to call Ruth by telephone and make an appointment. Then suddenly some one inside opened an upper window--it was a warmnight. I saw a man draw aside the laces, raise the shade, and throw upthe sash. I saw beyond into the room. I saw Ruth. She was sittingbeneath a bright light, on a sofa. She was sewing. She seemed quite athome. I saw the man turn away from the window and go back and sit downon the sofa beside her. I saw him stretch out, put one hand in hispocket, lean back luxuriously, and proceed to smoke. It was all veryintimate. A policeman passed me as I stood there staring. 

"'Who lives there?' I asked him--and he told me. 'Oh, that's the Sewallplace, ' he said, 'Young Breckenridge Sewall, you know. ' I looked up atthe window again. The man was closing it now. Is he dark, quite dark, stoops a little, with a receding forehead?" asked Robert of me. 

I nodded. I couldn't speak. 

"It was he, it was Sewall without a doubt. What is Ruth doing in thathouse?" demanded Bob. "What is she doing, sitting there alone with thatman at nine o'clock at night--sewing? What does it mean? I didn't go in. I walked back to the hotel and sat there, and then I went out and walkedagain. What does it mean? For heaven's sake, Lucy--tell me what she'sdoing there?"

"O Bob, " I said tremblingly, "don't think anything awful about Ruth. Whatever she's doing there, it's all right. "

"You don't know, " he groaned. 

"I know Ruth, and that's enough. Of course she's all right. Don't let'sget absurd. I can't understand it, of course, but after all----"

"Oh, please, " almost shuddered Bob, "don't let's talk about it. I don'twant to think about it. She has been such a beautiful memory, andnow--please don't talk about it. "

"All right, " I said and leaned back and gazed out of the window, stunnedby his news, frightened more than I dared to show. 

We rumbled on in silence for half an hour. I was dimly aware that Bobbought a magazine. Will joined us later, sat down, and fell off tosleep. Bob got up and announced that he was going into the smoking-car. His composure of the early afternoon had left him. He appeared nervousand disturbed. He looked distressed. Just outside Providence he returnedto the car with a porter and began gathering up his belongings. 

"What is it?" I asked. 

"Nothing much, " he replied shortly, "only I'm going back to New York. I'm going back now--tonight, that's all. "

CHAPTER XIX

RUTH RESUMES HER OWN STORY

I had no idea what I was undertaking when I went to New York. I had hadno experience with the difficulties that exist between announcing youintend to live your own life, and living it. The world is a bewilderingplace for one unused to it. All the savoir-faire and sophisticationacquired in reception-rooms didn't stand me in very good stead when itcame to earning my own living in New York City. I was timid, full offears--imaginary and real. I had been to New York many times before, butthe realization that I was in the big city alone, unanchored, afloat, filled me with panic. I was like a young bird, featherless, naked, trembling, knocked out of its nest before it could fly. Every sound, every unknown shape was a monster cat waiting to devour me. I wasacutely aware of dangers lurking for young girls in big cities. For twoor three days I had all I could do to control myself and keep my nervesteady. 

I arrived on a cold, gray, cloudy morning; unaccustomed to reachingdestinies unmet; my heart torn and bleeding; nobody to turn to for helpand advice; no plan formed in my confused mind; afraid even to trustmyself to the care of a taxicab driver. For such a timid pilgrim inquest of freedom, to start out in search of an address she treasuresbecause of the golden apple of immediate employment that it promises, and to learn on arrival that the position already has been filled, isterribly disheartening. To wake up the second morning in a two-dollarhotel room, which she has locked and barred the night before with allthe foolish precautions of a young and amateurish traveler, to pay adollar for a usual breakfast served in her room and a dollar-and-a-halffor a luncheon of nothing but a simple soup and chicken-à-la-King, andthen to figure out on a piece of paper that at such a rate her fiftydollars will last just about two weeks, is enough to make any young foolof a girl wish she had been taught something else besides setting offexpensive gowns. I didn't know what I ought to do. I didn't know how tobegin. I was so self-conscious, at first, so fearful that my being atthat hotel, alone, unchaperoned, might be questioned and causeunpleasant comment, that I stayed in my room as much as possible. When Ilook back and see myself those first few days I have to smile out ofself-pity. If it hadn't been for my lacerated pride, for the memory ofTom's arrogance and Edith's taunts, I might have persuaded myself togive up my dangerous enterprise, but every time I rehearsed that sceneat the Homestead (and, imprisoned as I was, I rehearsed it frequently), something flamed up in me higher and higher each time. I could not goback with self-respect. It was impossible. I concluded that I might aswell get singed in New York, as bound in slavery by Tom and Edith. 

As soon as I became fully convinced that my lot was cast, I ventured outto look for cheaper accommodations. 

Ever since I have been allowed alone on a railroad train, theY. W. C. A. Has been preached to me as a perfectly safe place to askadvice in case of being stranded in a strange city. So I trudged downthere one late afternoon and procured a list of several lodging-houses, where my mother's young parlor-maid could stay for a week with safetywhile we were moving from our summer house. I didn't know whether Icould bring myself really to undress and get into the little cot inthe room which I finally engaged, but at least the room had a window. I could sit by that. I had been assured that the place was reputable. I moved down there in a taxicab one rainy Saturday afternoon. Lucy hadsent me my trunk, and I had to convey it somehow. I didn't sleep at allthe first night. There was a fire-escape immediately outside my openwindow, and there was not a sign of a lock on the door. On Monday Ibought a screw-eye and hook for fifteen cents, and put nails in thesash for burglar stops. 

At first I used to crawl back to that smelly little hall bedroom at theearliest sign of dusk; at first, if a man on the street spoke to me, Iwould tremble for five minutes afterward; at first the odor of thecontinual boiling of mutton bones and onions that met me every time Iopened the door of Mrs. Plummet's lodging-house used to make me feelsick to my stomach. I became hardened as time went on, but at first itwas rather awful. I don't like to recall those early experiences ofmine. 

I learned a great deal during my first fortnight at Mrs. Plummet's. Inever knew, for instance, that one meal a day, eaten at about fouro'clock in the afternoon, takes the place of three, very comfortably, ifaided and abetted in the morning by crackers spread with peanut butter, and a glass of milk, a whole bottle of which one could buy for a fewcents at the corner grocery store. The girl who roomed next door to megave me lots of such tips. I had no idea that there were shops on shabbyavenues, where one could get an infinitesimal portion of what one paidfor a last season's dinner-gown; that furs are a wiser investment thansatin and lace; and that my single emerald could be more easily turnedinto dollars and cents than all the enameled jewelry I owned puttogether. The feeling of reënforcement that the contents of my trunkgave me did a lot in restoring confidence. The girl next door and Ireckoned that their value in secondhand shops would see me through thesummer, at least. Surely, I could become established somewhere by fall. 

I didn't know how to approach my problem. I didn't know whatadvertisements in the newspapers were the false ones. I felt shy aboutapplying for work at stores and shops. For whom should I ask? To whatdepartment present myself? What should I say first? One day I told abenevolent-looking woman, one of the officers at the Y. W. C. A. , thetruth about myself, that I, and not my mother's parlor-maid, wasoccupying the room in the lodging-house. Not until that woman put herhand kindly on my shoulder and advised me to go home--did I realize howdetermined I had become. New York had not devoured me, the lodging-househad not harmed me. I had found I could sleep, and very well, too, on thelumpy, slumped-in cot with the soiled spread. No one climbed thefire-escape, no one tried my locked door at night. I had pawned my lastwinter's furs, but my character seemed quite clean and unsmirched. Gohome! Of course I wasn't going home. Not yet. The lady gave me a list ofreputable employment agencies at last. If Mrs. Plummet's hadn't dauntedme, employment offices couldn't either, I said. I was told to providesuitable references. 

Now references were just what I couldn't very well provide. I had lefthome under disagreeable circumstances. I tried to make it clear withouttoo much detail that, except for my sister, my connections with mypeople were severed, and I couldn't apply to Lucy. I hadn't even givenher my actual address. She would be sure to come looking me up, or sendsome one in her place. Very likely she would ask my brother Malcolm todrop in on me sometime. I was in deadly fear I would run across him onthe street, and if Malcolm had ever smelled the inside of the housewhere I roomed, I fear his nose never would have come down. If Lucy hadever seen the dirt on the stairs she would have pronounced the housedisreputable, and dragged me home. Secrecy was my only chance forsuccess, at least for a while. I would have to discover what could bedone without references. 

It was due to a little new trick I learned of looking on at myself thatit was not impossible for me to seek a position through an employmentagency. I had become, you see, one of those characters I had read aboutin short stories dozens of times before--an unemployed girl in New York, even to the hall-bedroom, the handkerchiefs stuck on my window-pane inprocess of ironing, the water-bugs around the pipes in the bath-room. Itwas this consciousness of myself that made many of the hardshipsbearable--this and the grim determination not to give up. 

I told the lady in charge of the intelligence office where I firstapplied that I was willing to try anything, but thought I was bestsuited as a mother's-helper, or a sort of governess. She shrugged when Itold her I had no reference, but occasionally she gave me an opportunityfor an interview. 

There was something about me that, lacking a reference, impressed mywould-be employers unfavorably; possibly it was the modish cut of thehundred-dollar spring suit I wore, or the shape of my hat. Anyhow, theyall decided against me. If I had persisted long enough, I might havefound some sort of place, but on the fourth or fifth day of my ordeal inintelligence offices, something happened. 

I was sitting with the rest of my unemployed sisters in the little innerroom provided for us off the main office, when I glanced through thedoor to see Henrietta Morgan and her mother. I looked hastily away. HereI had been avoiding Fifth Avenue and the region of shops, for fear someof my old friends about New York (and I have many) might run across me, and stupidly I had walked into the very place infested by them. Iaccomplished my escape easily enough. Naturally Mrs. Morgan wasn'tlooking for me in such a place, but I didn't take the chance again. 

I was lonely and discouraged many times during that first bitter summerof mine in New York. I felt no charity for Edith, no forgiveness forTom. I hadn't wanted to leave home--not really--I hadn't sought anexperience like this. They had forced me to it. If only Tom hadn'ttreated me like a naughty child! If only Bob--oh if _only_ Bob--(no, there were some things I could not dwell upon. It was wiser not to). Some pains are dull and steady. One can endure them and smile. Othersrecur at intervals, occasioned by some unimportant detail like a man onthe street selling roasted chestnuts, which reminds one of saffron woodsin late October. Such pain is like the stab of a sharp stiletto. 

Mine is the same old story of hope and despair, of periods of courageoccasioned by opportunities that flickered for a while and went out. Iwas not utterly without employment. The first three dollars I earned atdirecting envelopes in a department store made me happy for afortnight. It was a distinct triumph. I felt as if I had been initiatedinto a great society. I had been paid money for the labor of my hands!The girl who roomed next to me had helped me to get the position. I wasnot without associates. There were twenty-five girls besides myself whocarried away in their clothes each morning the odor of Mrs. Plummet'ssoup-stock. Mrs. Plummet let rooms to girls only, and only rooms. Wedidn't board with Mrs. Plummet. I wondered how she and old Mr. Plummetever consumed, alone, so much lamb broth. 

For a fortnight I was a model for trying on suits in a down-townwholesale house; several times the Y. W. C. A. Found opportunities forme to play accompaniments; in October when the suffrage activities beganI was able to pick up a few crumbs of work in the printing office of oneof their papers. But such a thing as permanent employment became averitable will-o'-the-wisp. I was strong and willing, and yet I couldnot--absolutely _could not_--support myself. I tried writing fiction. Ihad always yearned to be literary, but the magazines sent all my stuffback. I tried sewing in a dressmaker's shop, but after three days theMadam announced that her shop would be closed during August, the dullseason. She had hired me simply to rush a mourning order. From one thingto another I went, becoming more and more disheartened as fallapproached, and my stock of clothes and jewelry, on the proceeds ofwhich I was living, became lower and lower. My almost empty trunkstared at me forlornly from its corner; it foretold failure. What shouldI do when the last little frumpery of my old life had been turned intomoney to support my new one? To whom turn? I could not ask for help fromthose who had admonished and criticized. I had written Lucy weekly thatI was prospering. I could not acknowledge failure even to her. I bentevery nerve to the effort. 

One day in a magazine that some one had discarded in a subway train Iran across an advertisement for "a young lady of education and goodfamily, familiar with social obligations, to act as a private secretaryto a lady in a private home. " I answered that advertisement. I hadanswered dozens similar before. This, like the others no doubt, wouldend in failure. But I couldn't sit and fold my hands. I must keep ontrying. I answered it--and six others at the same time. Of the seven Ihad a reply only from the one mentioned above. 

It was a unique reply. It was typewritten. "If still interested in theposition referred to in attached clipping reply by complying torequirements enclosed--and mail answer by the evening of the day thatthis communication is received. 

"1st. Write a formal acceptance to a formal dinner. 

2nd. Write a few words on suffrage appropriate to an older woman who ismildly opposed. 

3rd. Write a polite note of refusal to the treasurer of a charitableinstitution in reply to a request to donate sum of money. 

4th. Write a note of condolence to an acquaintance upon the death of arelative. 

5th. Write a note of congratulation to a débutante announcing herengagement. 

6th. Write an informal invitation to a house-party in the country. 

7th. Acknowledge a gift of flowers sent to you during an illness. "

I sat down with zest to this task. It was an original way to weed outapplicants. I spent the whole afternoon over it. It was late in theevening before I had all my questions answered, neatly copied, sealed, and dropped inside a green letter-box. 

A day or two later I received in the same non-committal typewritten forma brief summons to appear the following morning between twelve and oneo'clock at a certain uptown hotel, and to inquire at the desk forMiss A. S. Armstrong. 

It was a clear starry night. I pinned a towel over my suit, put it on acoat-hanger, and hung it securely to the blind-catch outside my window. I didn't know who Miss A. S. Armstrong was, but at any rate I wouldoffer up to the stars what I possessed of Mrs. Plummet's soup-stock. 

CHAPTER XX

THE FIFTH WHEEL GAINS WINGS

Miss A. S. Armstrong proved to be a thin angular creature with noeyelashes. She saw me come in through the revolving doors of the hotelat sharp twelve o'clock. When I enquired for her at the desk, she was atmy elbow. She was not the lady I had come to be interviewed by; she wasmerely her present private secretary; the lady herself, she explained, was upstairs awaiting me. 

"You're younger than we thought, " she said, eyeing me critically. Shewas a very precise person. Her accent was English. My hopes dimmed as Ilooked upon her. If she had been selected as desirable, then there waslittle chance for me. My short experience in employment offices hadproved to me the undesirability of possessing qualities that impress awould-be employer as too attractive. 

"Do you have young men callers?" "Do you like 'to go'?" "Do you want tobe out late?" Such inquiries were invariably made when I was trying toobtain a position as a mother's-helper or child's-companion; and thoughI was able to reply in the negative, my inquisitors would look at mesuspiciously, and remain unconvinced. Now, again, I felt sure as weascended to the apartment above that my appearance (Miss Armstrong hadcalled it my youth) would stand in my way. 

I was ushered into a room high up in the air, flooded with New Yorksunshine. It dazzled me at first. Coming in from the dimness of thecorridor, I could not discern the features of the lady sitting in aneasy chair. 

"I beg your pardon, " ejaculated Miss Armstrong at sight of her, "Ithought you were in the other room. Shall we come in?"

"Certainly, certainly. " There was a note of impatience. 

Miss Armstrong turned to me. I was behind her, half hidden. "Come in, "she said. "I wish to introduce you to Mrs. Sewall--Mrs. F. RockridgeSewall. The applicant to your advertisement, Mrs. Sewall. "

Miss Armstrong stood aside. I stepped forward (what else could I do?)and stood staring into the eyes of my old enemy. It was she whorecovered first from the shock of our meeting. I had seen a slightflush--an angry flush I thought--spread faintly over Mrs. Sewall'sfeatures as she first recognized me. But it faded. When she spoke therewasn't a trace of surprise in her voice. 

"My applicant, did I understand you to say, Miss Armstrong?"

"Yes, " I replied in almost as calm a manner as hers, "I answered youradvertisement for a private secretary, and followed it by responding tothe test which you sent me, and received word to appear here thismorning. "

"I see, I see, " said Mrs. Sewall, observing me suspiciously. 

"But, " I went on, "I did not know to whom I was applying. I answered sixother advertisements at the same time. I have, of course, heard of Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall. I doubt if I would be experienced enough for you. Miss Armstrong spoke of my youth downstairs. " Mrs. Sewall stillcontinued to observe me. "To save you the trouble of interviewing me, " Iwent on, "I think I had better go. I am not fitted for the position, Iam quite sure. I am sorry to have taken any of your time. I would neverhave answered your advertisement had you given your name. " I movedtoward the door. 

"Wait a minute, " said Mrs. Sewall. "Kindly wait a minute, and be seated. Miss Armstrong, your note-book please. Are you ready?"

Miss Armstrong, seated now at a small desk, produced a leather-boundbook and fountain-pen. "Quite ready, " she replied. 

Mrs. Sewall turned to me. "I always finish undertakings. I haveundertaken an interview with you. Let us proceed with it, then. Let ussee, Miss Armstrong, what did the young lady sign herself?"

"Y--Q--A. "

"Yes. 'Y--Q--A. ' First then--your name, " said Mrs. Sewall. 

It was my impulse to escape the grilling that this merciless woman wasevidently going to put me to; my first primitive instinct to strike myadversary with some bitterly worded accusation and then turn and fly. But I stood my ground. Without a quiver of obvious embarrassment, ormore than a second's hesitation, I replied, looking at Mrs. Sewallsquarely. 

"My name is Ruth Chenery Vars. "

Miss Armstrong scratched it in her book. 

"Oh, yes, Ruth Chenery Vars. Your age, please, Miss Vars?" Mrs. Sewallcoldly inquired. 

I told her briefly. 

"Your birthplace?"

And I told her that. 

"Your education?" she pursued. 

"High-school, " I replied, "one year of boarding-school, one year comingout into society, several years stagnating in society, some travel, somehotel life, one summer learning how to live on seven dollars a week. "

"Oh, indeed!" I thought I discerned a spark of amusement in Mrs. Sewall's ejaculation. "Indeed! And will you tell me, Miss Vars, " shewent on, a little more humanely, "why you are seeking a position asprivate secretary?"

"Why, to earn my living, " I replied. 

"And why do you wish to earn your living?"

"The instinct to exist, I suppose. "

"Come, " said Mrs. Sewall, "why are you here in New York, Miss Vars? Youappear to be a young lady of good birth and culture, accustomed to thecomforts, and I should say, the luxuries of life, if I am a judge. Whyare you here in New York seeking employment?"

"To avoid becoming a parasite, Mrs. Sewall, " I replied. 

"'To avoid becoming a parasite'!" (Yes, there was humor in those eyes. Icould see them sparkle. ) "Out of the mouths of babes!" she exclaimed, "verily, out of the mouths of babes! You are young to fear parasitism, Miss Vars. "

"I suppose so, " I acknowledged pleasantly, and looked out of the window. 

Beneath Mrs. Sewall's curious gaze I sat, quiet and unperturbed, contemplating miles of roofs and puffing chimneys. I was notembarrassed. I had once feared the shame and mortification that would bemine if I should ever again encounter this woman, but in some miraculousfashion I had opened my own prison doors. It flashed across me thatnever again could the bogies and false gods of society rule me. I wasfree! I was independent! I was unafraid! I turned confident eyes back toMrs. Sewall. She was considering me sharply, interrogatively, tapping anarm of her chair as she sat thinking. 

"Well, " I said smiling, and stood up as if to go. "If you are throughwith me----"

"Wait a minute, " she interrupted. "Wait a minute. I am not through. Beseated again, please. I sent out about thirty copies of the papers suchas you received, " she went on. "Some fifteen replies were sent back. Yours proved to be the only possible one among them. That is why I havesummoned you here today. The position of my private secretary is apeculiar one, and difficult to fill. Miss Armstrong has been with mesome years. She leaves to be married. " (Married! This sallow creature. )"She leaves to marry an officer in England. She is obliged to sailtomorrow. Some one to take her place had been engaged, but a death--asudden death--makes it impossible for the other young lady to keep hercontract with me. Now the season is well advanced. I am returning totown late this year. My town house is being prepared for immediateoccupancy. The servants are there now. I return to it tomorrow. OnThursday I have a large dinner. My social calendar for the month is veryfull. You are young--frightfully young--to fill a position of suchresponsibility as Miss Armstrong's. My private secretary takes care ofpractically all my correspondence. But many of the letters I asked youto write in the test I sent are letters which actually must be writtenwithin the next few days. Your answers pleased me, Miss Vars--yes, pleased me very much, I might say. " She got up (I rising too) andprocured a fresh handkerchief from a silver box on a table. She touchedit, folded, to her nose. 

"The salary to begin with is to be a hundred and twenty-five dollars amonth, " she remarked. She shook out the handkerchief, then she added, coughing slightly first behind the sheer square of linen, "I should likeyou to start in upon your duties, Miss Vars, as soon aspossible--tomorrow morning if it can be arranged. "

I was taken unawares. I had not expected this. 

"Why--but do you think--I'm sorry, " I stumbled, "but on furtherconsideration I feel that I----"

"Wait a minute, please. Before you give me an answer it is fair toexplain your position more in detail. It is an official position. Yourhours are from ten to four. You are in no sense maid or companion. Youlive where you think best, are entirely independent, quite free, themistress of your own affairs. I am a busy woman. The demands upon mytime are such that I require a secretary who can do more than addcolumns of figures, though that she must do too. She must in many casesbe my brains, my tact, convey in my correspondence fine shades offeeling. It is a position requiring peculiar talent, Miss Vars, and one, I should say, which would be attractive to you. During the protractedabsence of an only son of mine, who is occupying my London house, Ishall be alone in my home this winter. You may have until this eveningto think over your answer. Don't give it to me now. It is better form, as well as better judgment, never to be hasty. I liked your letters, "she smiled graciously upon me now. "After this interview I like themstill. I like _you_. I think we would get on. "

A hundred and twenty-five dollars a month! The still unmarried Brecksafe in England! My almost empty trunk! Why not? Why not accept theposition? Was I not free from fear of what people would say? Had I notalready broken the confining chains of "what's done, " and "what isn'tdone?" I needed the work; it was respectable; Breck was in England; ahundred and twenty-five dollars a month; my trunk almost empty. 

"Well, " I said, "I need a position as badly as you seem to need asecretary, Mrs. Sewall. We might try each other anyway. I'll think itover. I won't decide now. I will let you know by five o'clock thisafternoon. "

I accepted the position. Mrs. Plummet shed real tears when I told her mygood news at six o'clock that night; and more tears a fortnight laterwhen I moved out of my little hall bedroom, and my feather-weight trunk, lightsomely balanced on the shoulders of one man, was conveyed to theexpress-wagon and thence to new lodgings in Irving Place. 

It was in the new lodgings that my new life really began. Its birth hadbeen difficult, the pains I had endured for its existence sharp andrecurring, but here it was at last--a lovely, interesting thing. I couldobserve it almost as if it was something I could hold in my two hands. Here it was--mine, to watch grow and develop; mine to tend and nurtureand persuade; my life at last, to do with as I pleased. 

At the suffrage headquarters I had run across a drab-appearing girl bythe name of Esther Claff, and it was with her that I shared the room inIrving Place. 

She was writing a book, and used to sit up half the night. She was acollege-educated girl, who had been trained to think logically. Socialand political questions were keen delights to Esther Claff. She took meto political rallies; we listened to speeches from anarchists andsocialists; we attended I. W. W. Meetings; we heard discussions onethical subjects, on religion, on the white-slave traffic, equalsuffrage, trusts. Life at all its various points interested EstherClaff. She was a plain, uninteresting girl to look at, but she possesseda rare mind, as beautifully constructed as the inside of a watch, andabout as human, sometimes I used to think. 

She was very reticent about herself, told me almost nothing of her earlylife and seemed to feel as little curiosity about mine. I lived withEsther Claff a whole winter with never once an expression from her ofregard or affection. I wondered sometimes if she felt any. Esther was anexample, it seemed to me, of a woman who had risen above the details ofhuman life, petty annoyances of friendships, eking demands of acommunity. I had heard her voice tremble with feeling about some reformsshe believed in, but evidently she had shaken off all desire for thehuman touch. I wished sometimes that Esther wasn't quite so emancipated. 

My associates were Esther's associates--college friends of hers for themost part, a circle of girls who inspired me with their enthusiasms andstar-high aspirations. They were living economically in various placesin New York, all keenly interested in what they were doing. There wasFlora Bennett, sleeping in a tiny room with a skylight instead ofuptown with her family, because her father wouldn't countenance hisdaughter's becoming a stenographer, making her beg spending money fromhim every month like a child. There was Anne DeBois who had left atyrannical parent who didn't believe in educating girls, and worked herway through college. There was a settlement worker or two; there waspoor, struggling Rosa who tried to paint; Sidney, an eager littlesculptor; Elsie and Lorraine, two would-be journalists, who livedtogether, and who were so inseparable we called them Alsace andLorraine; there was able Maria Brown, an investigator who used to spenda fortnight as an employee in various factories and stores and write upthe experience afterwards. 

There were few or no men in our life. Esther and I frequented ourfriends' queer little top-story studios in dark alleys for recreation, and got into deep discussions on life and reforms. Sometimes wecelebrated to the extent of a sixty-cent table d'hôte dinner intucked-away restaurants. We occupied fifty-cent seats at the theateroccasionally, and often from dizzying heights at the opera would gazedown into the minaret boxes below, while I recalled with a littlefeeling of triumph that far-distant time when I had sat thus emblazonedand imprisoned. 

I had cut loose at last. I was proud of myself. In the secret of my soulI strutted. I was like a boy in his first long trousers. I might not yetshow myself off to the family. They would question the propriety of myoccupation with Mrs. Sewall, but nevertheless I had not failed. Sometimes lying in my bed at night with all the vague, mysterious roarof New York outside, my beating heart within me seemed actually to swellwith pride. I was alone in New York; I was independent; I wasself-supporting; I was on the way to success. I used to drop off tosleep on some of those nights with the sweet promise of victorypervading my whole being. 

One day I ran across an advertisement in the back of a magazinerepresenting a single wheel with a pair of wings attached to its hub. It was traveling along without the least difficulty in the world. Sowas I. The fifth wheel had acquired wings!

CHAPTER XXI

IN THE SEWALL MANSION

In spite of Mrs. Sewall's crowded engagement calendar, she was a womanwith very few close friends. She was very clever; she could converseably; she could entertain brilliantly; and yet she had been unable toweave herself into any little circle of loyal companions. She wasterribly lonely sometimes. 

For the first half-dozen weeks our relations were strictly official. Andthen one day just as I was leaving to walk back to my rooms as usual, Mrs. Sewall, who was just getting into her automobile, asked me if Iwould care to ride with her. The lights were all aglow on Fifth Avenue. We joined the parade in luxurious state. This was what I once haddreamed of--to be seated beside Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall in herautomobile, creeping slowly along Fifth Avenue at dusk. Life works outits patterns for people cunningly, I think. I made some such remark as Isat there beside Mrs. Sewall. 

"How? Tell me, " she said, "how has it worked out its pattern cunninglyfor you?"

We had never mentioned our former relations. I didn't intend to now. 

"Oh, " I said, side-stepping what was really in my mind, "cunningly, because here I am, in a last winter's hat and a sweater for warmthunderneath my old summer's suit, and yet I'm happy. If life has woven meinto such a design as that--I think it's very clever of it. "

"_Are_ you happy?" questioned Mrs. Sewall. 

"Yes, I believe I am, " I replied honestly. "That, of course, isn'tsaying I am not just a little lonely sometimes. But I'm interested. I'mterribly interested, Mrs. Sewall. "

"Well, but weren't you interested when you were a débutante? Youreferred to having been a débutante, you remember, once. Weren't you, asyou say, terribly interested _then_?"

"Yes, in a way, I suppose I was. But I believe _then_ I was interestedin myself, and what was good for my social success, and now--it soundspainfully self-righteous--but now I'm interested in things outside. I'minterested in what's good for the success of the world. " I blushed inthe dusk. It sounded so affected. "I mean, " I said, "I'm interested inreforms and unions, and suffrage, and things like that. I used to be soawfully individualistic. "

"Individualistic! Where do you run across these ideas? A girl like you. Parasitism, and suffrage! Is my secretary a suffragette?" she asked mesmilingly. 

"Well, " I replied, "I believe that woman's awakening is one of thegreatest forces at work today for human emancipation. "

"Well, well, " ejaculated Mrs. Sewall. "So my secretary thinks if womenvote, all the wrinkles in this old world will be ironed out. "

I knew I was being made fun of a little, but I was willing nevertheless. 

"The influence suffrage will have on politics will not be so importantas the influence it will have on ethics and conventions, " I replied, "and I believe it will have such a beneficial influence that it will beworth Uncle Sam's trouble to engage a few more clerks to count theincreased number of ballots. "

"Well--well. Is that so?" smiled Mrs. Sewall, amused. "Do you thinkwomen competent to sit on juries, become just judges, and make unbiasedand fair decisions? What have you to say to that, Miss Enthusiast?"

"Women are untrained now, of course, but in time they will learn themanners of positions of trust, as men have, through being ridiculed inprint, through bitter experiences of various kinds. If they are given afew years at it, they'll learn that they can't afford to be hasty andpettish in public positions, as they could in their own little narrowspheres at home. A child who first goes to school is awfully new at it. He sulks, cries, wants his own way; he hasn't learned how to work withothers. Neither have women yet, but suffrage will help us toward it. "

"I had no idea you were such a little enthusiast. Come, don't you wantto have tea with me and my friend Mrs. Scot-Williams? I'm to meet herat the Carl. She enjoys a girl with ideas. "

"In this?" I indicated my suit. We were drawing up to the lightedrestaurant, where costly lace veiled from the street candle-lightedtables. 

"In that?" Mrs. Sewall looked at me and smiled. "Talk as you have to me, my dear, and she will not see what your soul goes clothed in. "

My enemy--Mrs. Sewall! My almost friend now! She could sting, but shecould make honey too. Bittersweet. I went with her to drink some tea. 

That was the beginning of our intimate relations. Mrs. Sewall invited methe very next day to lunch with her in the formal dining-room, with theSewall portraits hanging all around. We talked more suffrage. It seemedto amuse her. She was not particularly interested in the woman'smovement. It simply served as an excuse. 

One stormy evening not long after the luncheon invitation Mrs. Sewallinvited me to stay all night. She was to be alone and had no engagement. She asked me frequently after that. We slipped into relations almostaffectionate. I discovered that Mrs. Sewall enjoyed my reading aloud toher. I found out one day, when her maid, who was an hourly irritation toher, was especially slow about arranging her veil, that my fingerspleased and satisfied. Often, annoyed beyond control, she would exclaim, "Come, come, Marie, how clumsy you are! All thumbs! Miss Vars, do youmind? Would you be so kind?" Often I found myself buttoning gloves, untangling knots in platinum chains, and fastening hooks. 

As late fall wore into early winter, frequently I presided at thetea-table in Mrs. Sewall's library--the inner holy of holies, upstairsover the drawing-room. "Perkins is so slow" (Perkins was the butler)"and his shoes squeak today. Would you mind, Miss Vars? You're so swiftand quiet with cups. "

Once she said, in explanation of her friendliness: "I've never hadanything but a machine for a private secretary before. Miss Armstrongwas hardly a companionable person. No sense of humor. But an excellentmachine. Oh, yes--excellent. Better at figures than you, my dear MissVars, but oh, her complexion! Really I couldn't drink tea with MissArmstrong. I never tried it, but I'm sure it would not have beenpleasant. You have such pretty coloring, my dear. Shan't I call you Ruthsome day?"

Spontaneously it burst out. I had never had the affection of an olderwoman. I grasped it. 

"Do, yes, do call me Ruth, " I exclaimed. 

I had once believed I could please this difficult woman. I had not beenmistaken. It was proved. I did please her. She called me Ruth!

I wrote her letters for her, I kept her expenses, I cut her coupons, Iall but signed her generous checks to charitable institutions. Mostwillingly I advised her in regard to them. She sent five hundred dollarsto Esther Claff's settlement house in the Jewish quarter on mysuggestion, and bought one of Rosa's paintings, which she gave to me. She wanted me to go with her to her dressmaker's and her milliner's. Sheconsulted me in regard to a room she wanted to redecorate, a bronze thatshe was considering. She finally confided in me her rheumatism and herdiabetes. I was with her every day. Always after her late breakfastserved in her room, she sent for me. After all it wasn't surprising. Ishould have to be very dull and drab indeed not to have become herfriend. I was the only one in her whole establishment whom she wasn'tobliged to treat as servant and menial. 

[Illustration: "I was the only one in her whole establishment whom shewasn't obliged to treat as a servant and menial"--_Page 203_]

Of everything we talked, even of Breckenridge--of Breckenridge as ababy, a boy, a college-man. She explained his inheritance, hisweaknesses, his virtues. She spoke of Gale Oliphant and the interruptedmarriage. Once--once only--she referred to me. 

"Oh, dear, oh, dear, " she began one day with a sigh, "'the best-laidplans of mice and men'----Oh, dear, oh, dear! Sometimes I think I havemade a great many mistakes in my life. For instance, my son--thisBreckenridge I talk so much about--he, well, he became very fond of someone I opposed. A nice girl--a girl of high principles. Oh, yes. But notthe girl whom his mother had happened to select for him. No. His motherwished him to marry his second cousin--this Gale you've heard me speakof--Gale Oliphant. Breckenridge was fond of her--always had been. Shewas worth millions, _millions_!

"You see, a short time before Breckenridge formed the attachment for theyoung lady with the high principles, his mother's lawyer had persuadedher into a most precarious investment. For two years, a large part ofher fortune trembled uncertainly on the edge of a precipice. Shebelieved that her son required less a girl with high principles ofliving, than a girl with principles represented by quarterly dividends. Breckenridge would not make a success as a man without means. But as Isaid--'the best-laid plans of mice and men!'

"Oh, well, perhaps you read the story. Most unfortunate. It was in thepapers. It nearly broke me. A law-suit on the eve of my son's marriageto Miss Gale Oliphant. After I had successfully brought the affair tothe desired climax too! Oh, most unfortunate!

"The suit was brought by a creature who had no claims. Put up to it byunscrupulous lawyers of no repute. We paid the money that she asked tohush up the notoriety of the affair, but not before the mischief ofbreaking off the relations with Miss Oliphant had been nicelyaccomplished. That was over a year ago. My investments have provedsuccessful. Gale is married to a man twice her age. Breckenridge isstill in England. "

"And what's become of the girl you didn't approve of?" I asked lightly, threading my needle. I was sewing that day. 

"The girl with the high principles?" Mrs. Sewall queried. "I don'tknow, " she said distinctly, slowly. "I don't know, I wish I did. If youshould ever run across her, tell her to come and make herself known tome, please. I've something to say. "

"I will, " I said, carefully drawing the thread through my needle andmaking a knot. "If I ever run across her. I doubt if I do. I've learnedthat _that_ girl has gone on a long journey to a new and engrossingcountry. "

"Oh? I must send a message to her somehow then. Come here, my dear. Comehere. I've got my glasses caught. "

I laid down my work and crossed over to Mrs. Sewall. It was true. Thechain was in a knot. I untangled it. 

"How deft you are!" she exclaimed softly. "Thank you, dear. Thank you. "Then she put her cold white fingers on my arm, and patted it a little. She smiled very sweetly upon me. 

"My private secretary pleases me better every day!" she said. 

CHAPTER XXII

THE PARADE

I didn't tell Lucy that I was with Mrs. Sewall. I had my mail directedto Esther's college club. I rather hated to picture the terrible cursesthat Edith would call down upon my head when she heard that I wasoccupying a position which she would certainly term menial. I dreaded tolearn what Tom would say of me. Already I had seen Malcolm one day onFifth Avenue, and bowed to him from the Sewall automobile. Surely, hewould report me; but either he didn't recognize me, or else he didn'trecognize Mrs. Sewall, for Lucy's letters proved she was still ignorantof my occupation. I accepted kind fate's protection of me; I lived inprecious and uninterrupted seclusion. 

Of course, I marched in the suffrage parade when it took place in May. Irode on Mrs. Scot-Williams' beautiful, black, blue-ribbon winner. Mrs. Scot-Williams, Mrs. Sewall, and a group of other New York society womentossed me flowers from a prominent balcony as I rode up Fifth Avenue. Icarried only the American flag. It was my wish. I wanted no slogan. "Lether have her way, " nodded Mrs. Scot-Williams to the other ladies. "Thedear child's eyes will tell the rest of the story. "

The parade was a tremendous experience to me. Even the long tedioushours of waiting before it started were packed with significance. Therewe all were, rich and poor; society women and working girls; teachers, stenographers, shirtwaist makers; actresses, mothers, sales-women;Catholic and Protestant; Jew and Gentile; black and white; German, French, Pole and Italian--all there, gathered together by one greatcommon interest. The old sun that shone down upon us that day had neverwitnessed on this planet such a leveler of fortune, station, country andreligion. The petty jealousies and envies had fallen away, for a period, from all us women gathered there that day, and the touch of our joinedhands inspired and thrilled. Not far in front of me in the line of marchthere was a poor, old, half-witted woman, who became the target of gibesand jeers; I felt fierce protection of her. Behind me were dozens ofothers who were smiled or laughed at by ridiculing spectators; I feltprotection of them all. 

For hours before the parade started I sat on the curbing of theside-walk with a prominent society woman on one side, and a plain littlefarmer's wife from up state on the other. We talked, and laughed, andate sandwiches together that I bought in a grimy lunch-room. 

When finally the parade started, and I, mounted on Mrs. Scot-Williams'beautiful Lady F, felt myself moving slowly up Fifth Avenue to themartial music of drums, brass horns, and tambourines; sun shining, banners waving, above me my flag making a sky of stars and stripes, andbehind me block upon block of my co-workers; I felt uplifted and at thesame time humbled. 

"Here we come, " I felt like saying. "Here we come a thousand strong--allalike, no one higher than another. Here we come in quest. We come inquest of a broader vision and a bigger life. We come, shoe-stringsdragging, skirts impeding, wind disheveling, holding on to inappropriatehead-gear, feathers awry, victims of old-time convictions, unadapted tomodern conditions, amateur marchers, poorly uniformed--but here wecome--just count us--here we come! You'll forget the shoe-strings afteryou've watched a mile of us. You'll forget the conspicuous fanaticsamong us (every movement has its lunatic fringe, somebody has said), you'll forget the funny remarks, the jokes of newsboys, and the humorousman you stood beside, after your legs begin to feel stiff and weary, andstill we keep on coming, squad upon squad, band upon band, banner uponbanner. "

As I rode that day with all my sisters I felt for the first time in mylife the inspiration of coöperation. It flashed across me that thepicture of the wheel with the wings was as untrue as it was impossible. I had made a mistake. I was not that sort of wheel. I wasn'tsuperfluous. I was a tiny little wheel with cogs. I was set in a big andtremendous machine--Life, and beside me were other wheels, which intheir turn fitted into other cogs of more and larger wheels. And tomake life run smoothly we all must work together, each quietly turninghis own big or small circumference as he had been fashioned. Alonenothing could be accomplished. Wings indeed! Fairy-tales. Cog-wheelsmust mesh. Human beings must coöperate. 

That night I had promised to spend with Mrs. Sewall. I didn't want to. Iwanted to see Esther Claff. I wanted to hear the tremor of her voice, and watch her faint blue eyes grow bright and black. Tonight she wouldput on her little ugly brown toque and gray suit, and join the othergirls, in somebody's studio or double bedroom. There would be great talktonight! We had all marched in one company or another. I wanted to hearhow the others felt. My feelings were tumultuous, confused. I longed forEsther's fervor and calm eloquence. But I had promised Mrs. Sewall; shehad been particularly anxious; I couldn't go back on my word now; shedreaded lonely evenings; and I was glad that I hadn't telephoned anddisappointed her when I finally did arrive a little before dinner. 

She took my hand in both of hers; she looked straight into my eyes, andif I couldn't hear Esther's voice tremble, then instead I could hearMrs. Sewall's. 

"My dear, " she said, "I am very proud of you. You were very beautiful, this afternoon. You will always do me credit. "

I leaned and kissed her hand half playfully. "I shall try anyhow, " Isaid lightly. 

Mrs. Sewall took out her handkerchief and touched it to her eyes, thenslipped one of her arms through mine, and rested her jeweled hand on mywrist, patting it a little. 

"What a dear child you are!" she murmured. "I have grown fond of you. Iwant you to know--tonight, when your eyes are telling me the fervor thatis glowing in that arduous soul of yours, how completely you satisfy me. It may be one more little triumph to add to your day's joy. I want youto know that if ever it was in my power to place my wealth and myposition on you, dear child, it would be the greatest happiness of mylife. I have given myself the liberty of confiding much in you, oftaking you into the inner courts, my dear. You are as familiar with myexpenditures as with your own; you are acquainted with my notions upondistribution, charitable requests, wise and foolish investments; youappreciate my ideas in regard to handling great fortunes; you agree withme that masters of considerable amounts of money are but temporarykeepers of the world's wealth, and must leave their trust for the nextsteward in clean, healthy, and growing condition; you have beenapprenticed to all my dearest hopes and ambitions. Ah, yes, yes, verycreditably would you wear my crown. With what grace, intelligence, andappreciation of values would you move among the other monitors of greatfortunes, admired by them, praised, and loved, I think. What a factorfor good you could become! Your expansive sympathies--what resourcesthey would assume. Ah, well, well, you see I like to paint air-castles. I like to put you into them. This afternoon when I saw you mounted likesome inspired goddess on that superb creature of Mrs. Scot-Williams', and caught the murmur that passed over the little company on the balconyas you approached, I thought to myself, 'She's made for somethingsplendid. ' And you are, my dear--you are. Something splendid. Who knows, my air-castles may come true. "

"O Mrs. Sewall, " I said softly, "I'm not worthy of such kind wordsas those. "

"There, there, " she interrupted. She had heard the catch in my voice. "There. Think nothing more about it. We won't talk seriously anothermoment. Dinner will be announced directly. Let us have Perkins light afire. "

CHAPTER XXIII

AN ENCOUNTER WITH BRECK

Mrs. Sewall didn't remain long with me in the library after dinner. Sheexcused herself to retire early. I was to read aloud to her later, whenMarie called me. I was dawdling over a bit of sewing as I waited. Mythoughts were busy, my cheeks hot. The experience of the day, climaxingin Mrs. Sewall's warm words, had excited me, I suppose. I wondered iffirst nights before footlights on Broadway could be more thrilling thanthis success of mine. Was it my new feeling of sisterhood that so elatedme--or was it, more, Mrs. Sewall's capitulation? Was I still susceptibleto flattery?

"Well, hello!" suddenly somebody interrupted. 

I recognized the voice. My heart skipped a beat, I think, but mypracticed needle managed to finish its stitch. 

"Hello, there, " the voice repeated, and I looked up and saw BreckenridgeSewall smiling broadly at me from between heavy portières. 

"Hello, Breck, " I said, and holding my head very high I inquired, "Whatare you doing _here_?"

"Oh, I'm stopping here, " he grinned. "What are _you_ doing?"

"You know very well what I'm doing, " I replied. "I'm your mother'sprivate secretary. What are you doing around here, Breck?"

He laughed. "You beat 'em all. I swear you do! What am I doing aroundhere! You'd think I didn't have a right in my own house. You'd think itwas your house, and I'd broken in. Well, seeing you ask, I'll tell youwhat I'm doing. I'm observing a darned pretty girl, sitting in thecorner of one of my sofas, in my library, and I don't object to it atall--not at all. Make yourself quite at home, my girl. Look here, aren'tyou glad to see a fellow back again?" He came over to me. "Put your handthere in mine and tell me so then. I've just come from the steamer. Nobody's extended greetings to me yet. I'm hurt. "

"Haven't you seen your mother?" I inquired coolly. 

"Not yet. The old lady'll keep. You come first on the program, littleprivate secretary. Good Lord--private secretary! What do you know aboutthat? Say, you're clever. Gee!" he broke off, "but it's good to getback. You're the first one I've seen except Perkins. Surprised?" Herested both hands on the table beside me, and leaned toward me. I kepton sewing. "Come, come, " he said, "put it down. Don't you recollect Inever was much on patience? Come, little private secretary, I'm justabout at the end of my rope. "

"I think you ought to go upstairs and see your mother, " I repliedcalmly. "Did she expect you?"

"Sure. Sure, my dear. I 'phoned the mater to vanish. Savvy?" He wasstill leaning toward me. "Come, we're alone. I dropped everything on thespot to come to _you_. Now don't you suppose you can manage to drop thatfancy-work stuff to say you're glad to see me?"

"Please, Breck, " I said, moving away from him a little. He was very nearme. "Don't be in such a hurry. Please. You always had to give me time, you know. Would you mind opening a window? It's so warm in here. Andthen explain this surprising situation? I'd thank you if you would. "

"It is hot in here, " he said, leaning still nearer, "hot as hell, orelse it's the sight of you that makes my blood boil, " he murmured. 

I moved away again, reeled off some more thread and threaded my needle. 

"You don't fall off!" Breck went on. "You don't lose your looks. By gad, you don't!"

"If you touch the bell by the curtain there, " I said, "Perkins will comeand open the window for us. "

"Good Lord, " Breck exclaimed, "you're the coolest proposition I ever ranacross. All right. Have your own way, my lady. You always have been ableto twist me around your little finger. Here goes. " And he strode acrossto the front window, pulled the hangings back and threw open a sash. Ifelt the cool air on the back of my neck. Breck came back and stoodlooking down at me quizzically. I kept on taking stitches. "Keep rightat it, industrious little one, " he smiled. "Sew as long as you want to. _I_ don't mind. I don't have to go out again to get home tonight. I'msatisfied. Stitch away, dear little Busy Bee. " He took out a cigaretteand lit it; then suddenly sat down on the sofa beside me, leaned backluxuriously, and in silence proceeded to send little rings of smokeceilingward. "Lovely!" he murmured. "True felicity! I've dreamed ofthis! This is something like home now, my beauty. This is as it ought tobe! I always wear holes in the heels too, my love. And no knots, kindly. "

"Breck, " I interrupted finally, "is your mother in this?"

"We're all in it, my dear child. "

"Will you explain?"

"Sure, delighted. Sit up on my hind legs and beg if you want me to. Anything you say. It was this way. I was in London when mater happenedto mention the name of her jewel of a secretary. I was about to startoff on a long trip in the yacht--Spain, Southern France, Algiers. Stocked all up. Supplies, crew, captain--everything all ready. 'I don'tcare what becomes of 'em, ' I said, when I got news where you were. 'Idon't care. Throw 'em overboard. Guests too. I don't give a hang. Throwthem over--Lady Dunbarton, and the Grand Duke too. Drown 'em! There'ssomebody back in New York who has hung out her little Come-hither signfor me, and I'm off for the little home-burg in the morning. '"

"Come-hither sign! O Breck, you're mistaken. I----"

"Hold on, my innocent little child, I wasn't born day before yesterday. But let that go. I won't insist. I've come anyhow. " He leaned forward. "I'm as crazy about you as ever, " he said earnestly. "I never cared aturn of my hand for any one but you. Queer too, but it's so. I'm notmuch on talking love--the real kind, you know--but I guess it must bewhat I feel for you. It must be what is keeping me from snatching awaythat silly stuff there in your hand, and having you in my armsnow--whether you'd like it or not. Say, " he went on, "I've come home tomake this house really yours, and to give you the right of asking whatI'm doing around here. You've won all your points--pomp, ceremony, bigwedding, all the fuss, mater's blessing. The mater is just daffy aboutyou--ought to see her letters. You're a winner, you're a great littlediplomat, and I'm proud of you too. I shall take you everywhere--France, England, India. You'll be a queen in every society you enter--you will. By Jove--you will. Here in New York, too, you'll shine, you littlejewel; and up there at Hilton, won't we show them a few things? You bet!Say--I've come to ask you to marry me. Do you get that? That's what I'vecome for--to make you Mrs. Breckenridge Sewall. "

I sat very quietly sewing through this long speech of Breck's. The calm, regular sticking in and pulling out of my needle concealed the tumult ofmy feelings. I thought I had forever banished my taste for pomp andglory, but I suppose it must be a little like a man who has forswornalcohol. The old longing returns when he gets a smell of wine, and seesit sparkling within arm's reach. 

As I sat contemplating for a moment the bright and brilliant picture ofmyself as Breck's wife, favored by Mrs. Sewall, envied, admired by myfamily, homaged by the world, the real mistress of this magnificenthouse, I asked myself if perhaps fate, now that I had left it to its ownresources in regard to Breck, did not come offering this prize as justreward. And then suddenly, borne upon the perfumed breeze that blewthrough the open window, I felt the sharp keen, stab of a memory of aSpring ago--fields, New England--fields and woods; brooks; hills; alittle apartment of seven rooms, bare, unfurnished; and somebody'shonest gray eyes looking into mine. It seemed as if the very embodimentof that memory had passed near me. It must have been that some floweringtree outside in the park, bearing its persuasive sweetness through theopen window, touched to life in my consciousness a memory imprintedthere by the perfume of some sister bloom in New England. I almost feltthe presence of him with whom I watched the trees bud and flower aSpring ago. Even though some subtle instinct prompted Breck at thisstage to rise and put down the window, the message of the trees hadreached me. It made my reply to Breck gentle. When he came back to me Istood up and put aside my needle-work. 

"Well?" he questioned, "I'm so sorry. I can't marry you, Breck. I can't. "

"Why not? Why can't you? What's your game? What do you want of me?Don't beat around. I'm serious. What do you mean 'you can't?'"

"I'm sorry, but I don't care enough for you, Breck. I wish I did, but Ijust don't. "

"Oh, you don't! That's it. Well, look here, don't let that worry you. I'll make you care for me. I'll attend to that. Do you understand?" Andsuddenly he put his arms about me. "I'll marry you and make you care, "he murmured. I felt my hot cheek pressed against his rough coat, andsmelled again the old familiar smell of tobacco, mixed with the queereastern perfume which Breck's valet always put a little of on hismaster's handkerchief. "You've got to marry me. You're helpless to doanything else--as helpless as you are now to get away from me when Iwant to hold you. I'm crazy about you, and I shall have you some daytoo. If it's ceremony you want, it's yours. Oh, you're mine--_mine_, little private secretary. Do you hear me? You're mine. Sooner or lateryou're mine. "

He let me go at last. 

I went over to a mirror and fixed my hair. 

"I wish you hadn't done that, " I said, and rang for Perkins. He camecreaking in, in his squeaky boots. 

"Perkins, " I said, "will you call a taxi for me? I'm not staying withMrs. Sewall now that she has her son here. Please tell her that I amgoing to Esther's. "

"I shall see that you get there safely, " warned Breck. "I've rightswhile you're under this roof. "

"It isn't necessary, Breck. I often walk. I'm used to going about alone. But do as you please. However, if you do come, I'm going to ask you notto treat me as if--as if--as you just did. I've given all that tosomebody else. "

"Somebody else, " he echoed. 

"Yes, " I nodded. "Yes, Breck; yes--somebody else. "

"Oh!" he said. "Oh!" and stared at me. I could see it hit him. 

"I'll go and put my things on, " I explained, and went away. 

When I came back he was standing just where I had left him. Somethingmoved me to go up and speak to him. I had never seen Breckenridge Sewalllook like this. 

"Good-night, Breck, " I said. "I'm sorry. "

"You! Sorry!" he laughed horribly. Then he added, "This isn't the lastchapter--not by a long shot. You can go alone tonight--butremember--this isn't the last chapter. "

I rode away feeling a little uneasy. I longed to talk to some one. Whatdid he mean? What did he threaten? If only Esther--but no, we had neverbeen personal. She knew as little about the circumstances of my life asI about hers. She could not help me. Anyway it proved upon my arrival atthe rooms in Irving Place that Esther was not there. 

I sat down and tried to imagine what Breck could imply by the "lastchapter. " At any rate I decided that the next one was to resign myposition as Mrs. Sewall's secretary. That was clear. I wrote to her inmy most careful style. I told her that until she was able to replace me, I would do my best to carry on her correspondence in my rooms in IrvingPlace. She could send her orders to me by the chauffeur; I was sorry; Ihoped she would appreciate my position; she had been very good to me;Breckenridge would explain everything, and I was hers faithfully, RuthChenery Vars. 

Esther didn't come back all night--nor even the next day. I could havesallied forth and found some of our old associates, I suppose; but Iknew that they would all still be discussing the parade, and somehow Iwanted no theorizing, no large thinking. I wanted no discussion of thepros and cons of big questions and reforms. I wanted a little practicaladvice--I wanted somebody's sympathetic hand. 

About seven o'clock the next evening, the telephone which Esther and Ihad indulged in interrupted my lonely contemplations with two abruptlittle rings. I got up and answered it weakly. I feared it would be Mrs. Sewall--or Breck, but it wasn't. 

"Is that you, Ruth?"

Bob! It was Bob calling me! Bob's dear voice!

"Yes, " I managed to reply. "Yes, Bob. Yes, it's I. "

"May I see you?"

"Yes, you may see me. "

"When? May I see you now?"

"Why, yes. You may see me _now_. "

"All right. I'm at the Grand Central. Just in. I called your othernumber and they gave me this. I don't know where it is. Will you tellme?"

I could feel the foot that my weight wasn't on trembling. "Yes, I'lltell you, " I said, "but I'd rather meet _you_--some nicer place. Couldn't I meet you?"

"Yes--if you'd rather. Can you come _now_?"

"Yes, now, Bob, this very minute. "

"All right, then. " He named a hotel. "The tea-room in half an hour. Good-by. "

"Good-by, " I managed to finish; and I was glad when I hung up thereceiver that Esther wasn't there. 

CHAPTER XXIV

THE OPEN DOOR

No one would have guessed who saw a girl in a dark-blue, tailored suitenter the tea-room that evening about seven o'clock, and greet a man, with a brief and ordinary hand-shake, that there was a tremor of kneesand hammering of heart underneath her quiet colors; and that the touchof the man's bare hand, even through her glove, sent somethingzigzagging down through her whole being, like a streak of lightningthrough a cloud. All she said was: "Hello, Bob. I've come, you see. " Andhe quietly, "Yes, I see. You've come. "

He dropped her hand. They looked straight into each other's eyes aninstant. 

"Anything the matter with anybody at home?" she questioned. 

"Oh, no, nothing, " he assured her. "Everybody's all right. Are you allright, Ruth?"

"Yes, " she smiled. (How good it was to see him. His kind, kind eyes! Helooked tired--a little. She remembered that suit. It was new lastSpring. What dear, intimate knowledge she still possessed of him. )"Yes, " she smiled, "I'm all right. "

"Had dinner?" he questioned. 

"No, not a bite. " She shook her head. (How glowing and fresh he was, even in spite of the tired look. She knew very well what he had donewith the half-hour before he met her; he had made himself beautiful forher eyes. How well acquainted she was with all the precious, homelysigns, how completely he had been hers once. There was the fountain-pen, with its peculiar patent clasp, in its usual place in his waistcoatpocket. In that same pocket was a pencil, nicely sharpened, and a smallnote-book with red leather covers. She knew! She had rummaged in thatwaistcoat pocket often. )

They went into the dining-room together. They sat down at a small tablewith an electric candle on it, beside a mirror. A waiter stood beforethem with paper and raised pencil. They ordered, or I suppose they did, for I believe food was brought. The girl didn't eat a great deal. Another thing I noticed--she didn't trust herself to look long at a timeinto the man's eyes. She contented herself with gazing at his cuffedwrist resting on the table's edge, and at his hands. His familiar hands!The familiar platinum and gold watch chain too! Did it occur to him, when at night he wound his watch, that a little while ago it had been aservice she was wont to perform for him? How thrillingly alive the goldcase used to seem to her--warmed by its nearness to his body. Oh, dear, oh, dear--what made her so weak and yearning tonight? What made her soin need of this man? What would Esther Claff think? What would Mrs. Scot-Williams say?

"Well, Ruth, " the man struck out at last, after the waiter had broughtbread and water and butter, and the menu had been put aside, "Well--whenyou're ready, I am. I am anxious to hear all that's happened--if you'rehappy--and all that. "

The girl dragged her gaze away from him. "Of course, Bob, " she said, "ofcourse you want to know, and I am going to tell you from beginning toend. There's a sort of an end tonight, and it happens I need somebody totell it to, quite badly. I needed an old friend to assure me that I'venothing to be afraid of. I think you're the very one I needed mosttonight, Bob. " And quite simply, quite frankly, the girl told him herstory--there was nothing for her to hide from him--it was a relief totalk freely. 

The effect of her story upon the man seemed to act like stimulant. Itelated him; she didn't know why. "What a brick you are, Ruth, " he brokeout. "How glad I am I came down here--what a little brick you are! Iguess you're made of the stuff, been dried and baked in a kiln thatinsures you against danger of crumbling. It's only an unthinking foolwho would ever be afraid for you. You need to fear nothing but asplendid last chapter to your life, whoever may threaten. Oh, it's goodto see you, Ruth--how good you cannot quite guess. I saw you yesterdayin the parade--Lucy and Will too--and I got as near home as Providence, when suddenly I thought I'd turn around and come back here. I was alittle disturbed, anxious--I'll acknowledge it--worried a bit--but now, _now_--the relief!"

"You thought I was wasting away in a shirtwaist factory!" she laughed. 

He laughed too. "Not quite that. But, never mind, we don't need to gointo what I thought, but rather into what I think--what I _think_, Ruth--what I shall always think. " Compelling voice! Persuasive gaze! Shelooked into his eyes. "Ruth!" The man leaned forward. "We've made amistake. What are you down here for all alone, anyhow? And what am Idoing, way up there, longing for you day after day, and missing youevery hour? My ambitions have become meaningless since you have droppedout of my future. What is it all for? For what foolish notion, whatabsurd fear have we sacrificed the most precious thing in the world?Yesterday when I saw you----Oh, my dear, my dear, I need you. Come asyou are. I shan't try to make you over. There's only one thing thatcounts after all, and that is ours. "

With some such words as these did Bob frighten me away from the sweetliberties my thoughts had been taking with him. I had been like somehungry little mouse that almost boldly enters human haunts if he thinkshe is unobserved, but at the least noise of invitation scampers awayinto his hole. I scampered now--fast. My problems were not yet solved. Ihad things I must prove to Lucy, to Edith, to Tom--things I must testand prove to myself. I could not go to him now. Besides, all thereasons that stood in the way of our happiness existed still, in spiteof the fact that our joy of meeting blinded us to them for the moment. Itried to make it clear to Bob. 

"You can't have changed in a winter, Bob, and I haven't. We decided socarefully, weighed the consequences of our decision. We were wise andcourageous. Let's not go back on it. I don't know what conclusions aboutlife I may reach finally, but I want to be able to grow freely. I'm likea bulb that hasn't been put in the earth till just lately. I don't knowwhat sort of flower or vegetable I am, and you don't either. It's beengood to see you, Bob, and I needed some one to tell me that I was allright, but now you must go away and let me grow. "

"You wouldn't want to come and grow in my green-house then?" he smiledsadly. 

I shook my head. "That's just it, Bob. I don't want to grow in anygreen-house yet. I want to be blown and tossed by all the winds of theworld that blow. "

"I'll let you grow as you wish, " he persisted. 

"Please, Bob, " I pleaded. "Please----"

He turned away. I didn't want to hurt him. 

"Bob, " I said gently, "please understand. It isn't only that I think thereasons for our decision of a year ago still exist, but I've just _got_to stay here now, Bob, even though I don't want to. I've got it firmlyfixed in my mind _now_ that I'm going to see my undertaking through to asuccessful end. I'm bound to show Tom and the family what sort of stuffI'm made of. I'm going to prove that women aren't weak and vacillating. Why, I haven't been even a year here yet. I couldn't run to cover thefirst time I found myself out of a position. Besides the first positionwasn't one I could exhibit to the family. I _must_ stay. I'm just asanxious to prove myself a success as a young man whose family doesn'tthink he's got it in him. Please understand, and help me, Bob. "

"Shall we see each other sometimes?" he queried. 

"It's no use. It doesn't help, " I said. "I do care for you, somehow, andseeing you seems to make foggy what was so clear and crystal, as if Iwere looking at it through a mist. I mean sitting here with you makes mefeel--makes me forget what I marched for day before yesterday. I was sofull of it--of all it meant and stood for--and now----No, Bob. No. Youmust let me work these things out alone. I shall never be satisfied nowuntil I do. "

He left me at my door. There was a light in the windows upstairs, and Iknew that Esther had come home. Bob left me with just an ordinaryhand-shake. It hurt somehow--that formal little ceremony from him. Ithurt, too, afterward to stand in the doorway and watch him walking away. It hurt to hear the sound of his steady step growing fainter andfainter. O Bob, you might have turned around and waved!

I went upstairs. "Hello, " said Esther. "Where have you been?" and I toldher to dinner with a man from home. A little later I announced to herthat I had resigned my position as private secretary to Mrs. Sewall. She asked no questions but she made her own slow deductions. 

I must have impressed her as restless and not very happy that night. Icaught her looking at me suspiciously, once or twice, over hergold-bowed reading-glasses. Once she inquired if I was ill, or feltfeverish. My cheeks did burn. 

"Oh, no, " I said, "but I guess I'll go to bed. It's almost midnight. "

Esther took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. 

"One gets tired, sometimes, climbing, " she observed. I waited. "Thetrail up the mountain of Self-discovery is not an easy one. One'sunaccustomed feet get sore, and one's courage wavers when the trailsometimes creeps along precipices or shoots steeply up over rocks. But Ithink the greatest test comes when the little hamlets appear--quiet, peaceful little spots, with smoke curling out of the chimneys ofnestling houses. They offer such peace and comfort for weary feet. It'sthen one is tempted to throw away the mountain-staff and accept theinvitation of the open door and welcoming hearth. "

"Oh, Esther, " I exclaimed, "were you afraid I was going to throw away mymountain-staff?"

"Oh, no, no. I was simply speaking figuratively. " She would not bepersonal. 

"I'm not such a poor climber as all that, " I went on. "I am a bitdiscouraged tonight. You've guessed it, but I am not for giving up. "

"If one ever gets near the top of the mountain of Self-discovery, "Esther pursued dreamily, "he becomes master not only of his own littlepeak, but commands a panorama of hundreds of other peaks. He not onlyconquers his own difficult trail, but wins, as reward for himself, vision, far-reaching. "

I loved Esther when she talked like this. 

"Well, " I assured her, "I am going to get to the top of my peak, if ittakes a life-time. No hamlets by the wayside for me, " I laughed. 

"Oh, no, " she corrected. "Never to the top, Ruth--not _here_. The top ofthe mountain of Self-discovery is hidden in the clouds of eternity. Wecan simply approach it. So then, " she broke off, "you aren't desertingme?"

"Of course I'm not, Esther, " I assured her. 

"What do you mean to do next, then--if you're leaving Mrs. Sewall?"

"I don't know. Don't ask. I'm new at mountain-climbing, and when mytrail crawls along precipices, I refuse to look over the edge and getdizzy. Something will turn up. "

The next morning's mail brought a letter from Mrs. Sewall. My serviceswould not be needed any longer. Enclosed was a check which paid me up tothe day of my departure. In view of the circumstances, it would be wiserto sever our connections immediately. Owing to the unexpected return ofher son, they were both starting within a few days for the Pacificcoast. Therefore, she would suggest that I return immediately byexpress all papers and other property of hers which chanced to be in mypossession. It was a regret that her confidence had been so misplaced. 

I read Mrs. Sewall's displeasure in every sentence of that curt littlenote. If I had been nursing the hope for understanding from my oldemployer, it was dead within me now. The letter cut me like a whip. 

My feeling for Mrs. Sewall had developed into real affection. Her years, her reserve, her remoteness had simply added romance to the peculiarfriendship. I had thrilled beneath the touch of her cold fingertips. There had been moments lately when at the kindness in her eyes as theydwelt upon me, I had longed to put my arms around her and tell her howhappy and proud I was to have entered even a little way into the warmregion near her heart. I loved to please her. I would do anything forher except marry Breck, and she could write to me like this! She couldmisunderstand! She could all but call me traitor!

Very well. With bitterness, and with grim determination never to pleador to explain, I sent back by the next express the check-books andpapers I was working on evenings in my room, and also by registered mailreturned the bar of pearls she had once playfully removed from her owndress and pinned at my throat. "Wear it for me, " she had said. "If I hadhad a daughter I would have spoiled her with pretty things, I fear. Allow an old lady occasionally to indulge her whims on you, my dear. "

I lay awake a long time that night, preparing myself for the strugglethat awaited me. I had as little chance now to obtain steady employmentas when I made my first attempt. I was still untrained, and, stripped ofMrs. Sewall's favor, still unable to provide the necessary letters ofreference. I hadn't succeeded in making any tracks into which, on beingpushed to the bottom again, I could stick my toes, and mount the way asecond time more easily. Lying awake there, flat on my back, I wasreminded of a little insect I once watched climbing the slippery surfaceof a window-pane. It was a stormy day, and he was on the outside of thewindow, buffeted by winds. I saw that little creature successfully covermore than half his journey four successive times, only to fall wrigglingon his back at the bottom again. When he fell the fourth time, rightedhimself, and, dauntless and determined, began his journey again, Ipicked him up bodily and placed him at the top. Possibly--how could sucha small atom of the universe as I know--possibly my poor attempts werebeing watched too!

However, I didn't wait to find out. At least I didn't wait to be pickedup. The very next day I set forth for employment agencies. 

CHAPTER XXV

MOUNTAIN CLIMBING

There followed a long hot summer. There followed days of hopelessness. There followed a wild desire for crisp muslin curtains, birds to wake mein the morning, a porcelain tub, pretty gowns, tea on somebody's broadveranda. There were days in mid-July when if I had met Bob Jennings, andhe had invited me to green fields, or cool woods, I wouldn't havestopped even to pack. There were days in August when a letter fromBreck, post-marked Bar Harbor, and returned like three preceding lettersunopened, I didn't dare read for fear of the temptation of blue sea, anda yacht with wicker chairs and a servant in white to bring me things. 

If it hadn't been for Esther's quiet determination I might have crawledback to Edith any one of those hot stifling nights and begged foradmittance to the cool chamber with the spinet desk. My head ached halfthe time; my feet pained me; food was unattractive. The dead air of theNew York subway made me feel ill. In three minutes it could sap me ofthe little hope I carried down from the surface. I used to dream nightsof the bird-like speed of Breckenridge Sewall's powerful automobiles. Iused to wake mornings longing for the strong impact of wind against myface. 

The big city, the crowds of working people that once inspired, the greatmass of congregated humanity had lost its romance. Even my ownparticular struggle seemed to have no more "punch" in it. The novelty ofmy undertaking, the adventure had worn away. They had been right at theY. W. C. A. When they advised me a year ago to go home and give up myenterprise. I had been dauntless then, but now, although toughened andweathered, discouragement and despair possessed me. I allowed myself tosit for days in the room in Irving Place, without even trying for aposition. 

It was Esther who obtained a steady job for me at last, in abook-binding factory down near the City Hall. From eight in the morninguntil five at night I folded paper, over and over and over again, with abone folder; the same process--no change--no variation. The muscles thatI used ached like a painful tooth at first. Some nights we worked untilnine o'clock. Accuracy and speed were all that was required to be anefficient folder--no brains, no thought--and yet I never became expert. The sameness of my work got on my nerves so at last--the everlastingrepetition of sound and motion--that occasionally I lost all sense oftime and place. It was like repeating some common word over and overagain until it loses all significance except that of a peculiar sound. 

It broke me at last. I became ill. What hundreds of other girls wereable to do every day the year round, had finished me in three weeks. Iwas as soft as a baby. It was my nerves that gave way. I got to cryingone night over some trivial little thing, and I couldn't stop. They tookme to a hospital, I don't remember how or when. I became aware oftrained nurses. I drifted back to the consciousness of a queer gratingsound near the head of my bed, which they told me was an elevator; Ismelled anesthetics. I realized a succession of nights and days. Therewere flowers. There was a frequent ringing of bells. Heaven couldn'thave been more restful. I loved to lie there and watch a breeze blow thesash-curtains at the windows, in and out with a gentle, ship-likemotion. Esther visited me often. Sometimes she sat by the window alone, correcting proof (she had secured a position in a publishing house thefirst of the summer), and sometimes one of the other girls of our littlecircle was with her. I never talked with them; I never questioned; theycame and went; I felt no curiosity. They tell me I lay there like thatfor nearly three weeks, and then suddenly with no warning and with nosense of shock or surprise the veil lifted. 

Esther and the struggling artist we called Rosa were by the window. Theyhad both come from the same little town in Pennsylvania. I'd beenwatching them for half an hour or more. They had been talking. I hadliked the murmur of their low voices. In the most normal fashion in theworld I began to listen to their conversation. 

"I wouldn't have had the courage, " I heard Rosa say. 

"Why not?" replied Esther. "Her family could do no more than is beingdone. If they took her home now, she'd never come back again. Her spiritwould be broken. That wouldn't be good for her. Besides _they_ don'tneed her, while I--why, she's the only human being in the world that'sever meant anything in my life, and I am thirty-three. It has beenalmost like having had a child dependent on me--having had _her_, givingher a new point of view, taking care of her _now_. "

"Well, but how long can you stand the expense of this private room, andthe doctors?"

"You needn't worry about that, " Esther shrugged. 

"But it seems a shame, Esther, " burst out Rosa, "just when your father'sestate begins to pay you enough income to live on, and you could devotethe best of yourself to your book--it seems a shame not to be able totake advantage of it. You've always said, " she went on, "that a womancan't successfully begin to create after she's thirty-five. This willcertainly put you behind a while. And the room rent too! Does she knowyet that you didn't tell her the truth about the price of the room inIrving Place?"

"No, Ruth doesn't know, " replied Esther. "She's very proud about suchmatters. When she first came she had only an empty trunk, a new job, anda few dollars. Later, when I was going to explain, she lost herposition with Mrs. Sewall. I was thankful I hadn't told her then. "

"Well, I must say!" exclaimed Rosa warmly, "I must say!"

"Rosa, " said Esther. "You don't understand. If Ruth did pay her fullshare of the room, she would be obliged to leave me sooner. Don't yousee? My motives are selfish. You're the one person who knew me backthere at home. You have seen all along how stark and empty my life hasbeen--just my independence, my thoughts, my ambitions. That's all. Noone to care, no one to make sacrifices for, no man, no child----Goodheavens, if some human being has fallen across my way, don't besurprised if I prize my good fortune. "

I lay very still listening to Esther's voice. I closed my eyes for fearshe might glance up and meet the tears in them, and suddenunderstanding. I had never known her till now. I could feel the tears, in spite of me, creeping down my cheeks. 

I left the hospital a week later. They sent me back to the room inIrving Place with orders for long walks in the fresh air, two-hour restperiods morning and afternoon, and a diet of eggs, chicken, cream andfresh green vegetables. Ridiculous orders for a working girl in NewYork! They disturbed Esther. She was very quiet, more uncommunicativethan ever. I used to catch her looking at me in a sort of anxious way. It seemed as if I couldn't wait to help her with her too-heavy burden. Although I had brought back from the hospital fifteen pounds less fleshon my bones, there was something in my heart instead that was sure tomake me strong and well. My new incentive was the secret knowledge ofEsther's devotion. To prove to her that her sacrifices had not been invain became my ambition. For a few days I idled in the room, as thedoctor ordered; strolled about Gramercy Park near-by, feeding my eyes ongreen grass and trees; indulged in bus rides to the Park occasionally;and walked for the exercise. 

It's strange how easily some opportunities turn up, and others can't bedug with spade and shovel. One day, aimlessly strolling along a sidestreet, up among the fifties, a card in a milliner's shop chanced tomeet my eye. "Girl Wanted, " it said, in large black letters. 

It was late in the afternoon. If I had set out in quest of thatopportunity, the position would have been filled before I arrived. Butthis one was still open. They wanted a girl to deliver, and perhaps tohelp a little in the work-room--sewing in linings, and things like that. The hours were short; the bundles not heavy; I needed exercise; it hadbeen ordered by the hospital. 

The work agreed with me perfectly. It was very easy. I liked the variedrides, and the interesting search for streets and numbers. It was justdiverting enough for my mending nerves. The pay was not much. I didn'tobject. I was still convalescing. 

Crossing Fifth Avenue one day, rather overloaded with two largebandboxes which, though not heavy, were cumbersome, I saw Mrs. Sewall!A kindly policeman had caught sight of me on the curbing and signaledfor the traffic to stop. As I started across, I glanced up at theautomobile before which I had to pass. Something familiar about thechauffeur caught my attention. I looked into the open back of the car. Mrs. Sewall's eyes met mine. She didn't smile. There was no sign ofrecognition. We just stared for a moment, and then I hurried along. 

I didn't think she knew me. My illness had disguised me as if I wore amask. 

I was, therefore, surprised the next morning to receive a brief notefrom Mrs. Sewall asking me to be at my room, if possible, that eveningat half-past eight. 

CHAPTER XXVI

THE POT OF GOLD

Esther was out canvassing for suffrage. She canvassed every otherevening now. She had not touched the manuscript of her book for weeks. 

Esther could earn a dollar an evening at canvassing. One evening'scanvassing made a dozen egg-nogs for me. Esther poured them down mythroat in place of chicken and fresh vegetables. I couldn't stop her. Iwasn't allowed even to say "Thank you. "

"I'd do the same for any such bundle of skin and bones as you, " shebelittled. "Don't be sentimental. You'd do it for me. We'd both do itfor a starved cat. It's one of the unwritten laws of humanity--women andchildren first, and food for the starving. "

She was out "egg-nogging, " as I used to call it, when Mrs. Sewallcalled. I had the room to myself. Mrs. Sewall had never visited myquarters before. I lit the lamp on our large table, drew up theMorris-chair near it, straightened our couch-covers, and arranged thescreen around the chiffoniers. Mrs. Sewall was not late. I heard hermotor draw up to the curbing, scarcely a minute after our alarm clockpointed to the half-hour. 

Marie accompanied her mistress up the one flight of stairs to our room. I heard them outside in the dim corridor, searching for my name amongthe various calling cards tacked upon the half-dozen doors. It wasdiscovered at last. There was a knock. I opened the door. 

"That will do, " said Mrs. Sewall, addressing herself to Marie, whoturned and disappeared, and then briefly to me, "Good evening. "

"Good evening, Mrs. Sewall. Come in, " I replied. We did not shake hands. I offered her the Morris-chair. 

"No, " she said, "no, thank you. This will do. " And she selected astraight-backed, bedroom chair, as far away as possible from thefriendly circle of the lamp-light. "I'm here only for a moment, " shewent on, "on a matter of business. "

I procured a similar straight-backed chair and drew it near enough toconverse without too much effort. It was awkward. It was like trying toplay an act on a stage with nothing but two straight chairs in themiddle--no scenery, nothing to elude or soften. Mrs. Sewall, sittingthere before me in her perfect black, a band of white neatly edging herneck and wrists, veil snugly drawn, gloves tightly clasped, was likesome hermetically sealed package. Her manner was forbidding, her gazepenetrating. 

"So this is where you live!" she remarked. 

"Yes, this is where I live, " I replied. "It's very quiet, and a mostdesirable location. "

"Oh! Quiet! Desirable! I see. " Then after a pause in which my oldemployer looked so sharply at me that I wanted to exclaim, "I know I'm alittle gaunt, but I'm not the least disheartened, " she inquiredfrowning, "Did you remain in this quiet, desirable place all summer, mayI ask?"

"Well--not all summer. I was away for three weeks--but my room-mate, Miss Claff, was here. It isn't uncomfortable. "

"Where were you then, if not here?"

"Why, resting. I took a vacation, " I replied. 

"You have been ill, " Mrs. Sewall stated with finality, and there was nokindness in her voice; it expressed instead vexation. "That is evident. You have been ill. What was the trouble?"

"Oh, nothing much. Nerves, I suppose. "

"Nerves! And why should a girl like you have nerves?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, " I smiled. "I went into book-binding. It'squite the fad, you know. Some society women take it up for diversion, but I didn't like it. "

"Were you in a hospital? Did your people know? Were you properly caredfor?" Each question that she asked came with a little sharper note ofirritation. 

"Yes. Oh, yes. I was properly cared for. I was in a private room. I haveloyal friends here. "

"Loyal friends!" scoffed Mrs. Sewall. "Loyal friends indeed! And may Iask what loyal friend allows you to go about in your presentdistressing condition? You are hardly fit to be seen, Miss Vars. "

I flushed. "I'm sorry, " I said. 

"Disregard of one's health is not admirable. "

"I'm being very careful, " I assured Mrs. Sewall. "If you could but knowthe eggs I consume!"

"Miss Vars, " inquired Mrs. Sewall, with obvious annoyance in her voice, "was it you that I saw yesterday crossing Fifth Avenue?"

"With the boxes? It was I, " I laughed. 

She frowned. "I was shocked. Such occupation is unbecoming to you. "

"It is a perfectly self-respecting occupation, " I maintained. 

The frown deepened. "Possibly. Yes, _self-respecting_, but, if I may sayso, scarcely respecting your friends, scarcely respecting those who havecared deeply for you--I refer to your family--scarcely respecting yourbirth, bringing-up, and opportunities. It was distinctly out of place. The spectacle was not only shocking to me, it was painful. Not that whatI think carries any weight with you. I have been made keenly aware ofhow little my opinions count. But----"

"Oh, please--please, Mrs. Sewall, " I interrupted. "Your opinions _do_count. I've wanted to tell you so before. I was sorry to leave you as Idid. I've wanted to explain how truly I desired to please you. I wouldhave done anything within my power except----I couldn't do that onespecial thing, _anything_ but that. "

Mrs. Sewall raised her hand to silence me. There was displeasure in hereyes. "We will not refer to it, please, " she replied. "It is over. Iprefer not to discuss it. It is not a matter to be disposed of with afew light words. I have not come here to discuss with you what is beyondyour comprehension. Pain caused by a heedless girl, or a steel knife, isnot less keen because of the heartlessness of either instrument. I havecome purely on business. We will not wander further. "

There was a pause. Mrs. Sewall was tapping her bag with a rapid, nervouslittle motion. I was keeping my hands folded tightly in my lap. We wereboth making an effort to control our feelings. We sat opposite eachother without saying anything for a moment. It was I who spoke at last. 

"Very well, " I resumed. "What is the business, Mrs. Sewall? Perhaps, " Isuggested coldly, "I have failed to return something that belongs toyou. "

"No, " replied Mrs. Sewall. "On the contrary, I have something here thatbelongs to _you_. " She held up a package. "Your work-bag. It was foundby the butler on the mantel in the library. "

"Oh, how careless! I'm sorry. It was of no consequence. " My cheeksflamed. It hurt me keenly that Mrs. Sewall should insult the dignity ofour relations by a matter so trivial. My work-bag indeed! Behind her, inthe desk, were a few sheets of her stationery!

I rose and took the bag. "Thank you, " I said briefly. 

"Not at all, " she replied. 

I waited a moment. Then, as she did not move, I inquired, "Shall I callyour maid, or will you allow me to take you to your car?"

Mrs. Sewall did not reply. I became aware of something unnatural in herattitude. I noticed her tightly clasped hands. 

"Oh, Mrs. Sewall!" I exclaimed. She was ill. I was sure of it now. Shewas deathly pale. I kneeled down on the floor and took her hands. "Youare not well. Let me help--please. You are in pain. "

She spoke at last. "Call Marie, " she ordered, and drew her hands away. 

I sped down to the waiting car. Marie seemed to comprehend before Ispoke. 

"Oh! Another attack! Mon Dieu! The tablets! I have them. They are here. Make haste. It is the heart. They are coming more often--the attacks. Emotion--and then afterwards the pain. She had one yesterday, late inthe afternoon. And now tonight again. Mon Dieu--Mon Dieu! The pain isterrible. " All this from Marie as we hastened up the stairs. 

Mrs. Sewall sat just where I had left her in the straight-backed chair. She made no outcry, not the slightest moan, but there were tiny beads ofperspiration on her usually cool brow, and when she took the glass ofwater that I offered, her hand shook visibly. She would not lie down. She would have nothing unfastened. She would not allow me to touch her. 

"No, no. Marie understands. No. Kindly allow Marie. Come, Marie. Hurry. Stop flying about so. I'm not going to die. Hurry with the tablets. Don't be a fool. Make haste. There! Now I shall be better. Go away--bothof you. Leave me. I'll call when I'm ready. "

We stepped over to the window and stood looking out, while behind us theheroic sufferer, silently and alone, fought a fresh onslaught of pain. Ilonged to help her, and she would not let me. I might not even assisther to her automobile. Ten minutes later on her own feet and with headheld erect she left my room. The only trace of the struggle was a ripacross the back of one of the tight black gloves, caused by desperateclenching of hands. I had heard the cry of the soft kid as I stood bythe window with Marie. 

I opened my work-bag later. The square of fillet lace was there, thethread and the thimble, the needle threaded just as I had left it whenBreck stepped in and interrupted. There was something else in the bag, too--something that had not been there before, a white box, long andthin. It contained the bar of diamonds and pearls, with a note wrappedaround it. 

 "This pin, " the note said, "was not a loan as your returning it assumes. My other employees received extra checks at Easter-time when you received this. If you prefer the money, you can, at any time, receive the pin's value at ----'s, my jewelers, from my special agent, Mr. Billings. It is my hope that you will make such use of this portion of your earnings with me that I may be spared the possibility of the spectacle you afforded me this afternoon on the Avenue. 

 "FRANCES ROCKRIDGE SEWALL. "

The next night when Esther came in from canvassing, there lay upon herdesk the neglected manuscript of her book, found in a bottom drawer. Before it stood a chair; beside it a drop-light. A quill pen, brand new, bright green and very gay, perched atop a fresh bottle of ink. Near-byappeared a small flat book showing an account between Esther Claff andRuth Vars and an uptown bank. Inside, between roseate leaves of thinblotting paper, appeared a deposit to their credit of five hundreddollars. 

The tide of my fortune had changed. One good thing followed another. Itis always darkest before the storm breaks that clears the sky. Myhorizon so lately dim and obscure began to clear. As if five hundreddollars, safely deposited in a marble-front bank, wasn't enough for oneweek to convince me that life had something for me besides misfortune, three days after Mrs. Sewall called I received a summons from Mrs. Scot-Williams, whose horse I rode in the suffrage parade. Out of a skyalready cleared of its darkest clouds there shot a shaft of light. Icould see nothing at first but the brightness of Mrs. Scot-Williams'proposition. It blinded me to all else. I felt as if some enormoussearchlight from heaven had selected poor, battered Ruth Chenery Varsfor special illumination. 

Mrs. Scot-Williams had observed that my place at Mrs. Sewall's was nowfilled by another. Therefore it had occurred to her that I might be freeto consider another proposition. If so, she wanted to offer me aposition in a decorator's shop which she was interested in. I might haveheard of it--Van de Vere's, just off Fifth Avenue. 

Van de Vere's--good heavens--it was all I could do to keep the tears outof my eyes! Five hundred dollars in the bank--and now kind fate offeringme a seat in heaven that I hadn't even stood in line for! What did itmean?

Mrs. Scot-Williams, across a two by four expanse of tablecloth (we werelunching at her club), slowly unfolded her proposition to me, held it upfor me to see, turned it about, as it were, so that I could catch thelight shining on it from all sides, offered it to me at last to have andto hold. I accepted the precious thing. 

"Rainbows really do have pots of gold, then!" I remember I exclaimed. 

CHAPTER XXVII

VAN DE VERE'S

Van de Vere's was a unique shop. It had grown from a single ill-lightedsort of studio into a very smart and beautifully equipped establishment, conveniently located in the shopping district. It looked like a privatehouse, had been, originally. There were no show windows. The door-platebore simply the sign V. De V's. A maid in black and white met you at thedoor (you had to ring), and while she went to summon Miss Van de Vere orher assistant, you were asked to be seated in a reception-room, done inblack and white stripes. 

Virginia Van de Vere was as unique as her shop. She wore long, looseclinging gowns, with heavy, silver chains clanking about her neck orwaist. She wore an enormous ring on her forefinger. Her hair, done verylow and parted, covered both her ears. It was black, so were her eyes. She hadn't any color. She led a smart and fashionable life outsidebusiness hours, going out to dinner a good deal (I had seen her once atMrs. Sewall's) and making an impression with free and daring speech. Shelived in a gorgeous apartment of her own, and for diversion had adopteda little curly-headed Greek boy, for whom she engaged the services of aFrench nurse. She was very temperamental. 

Mrs. Scot-Williams had found Virginia Van de Vere some half dozen yearsbefore, languishing in the ill-lighted studio, on the verge of shuttingup shop and going home for want of patronage. It was just that kind oftalented girl that Mrs. Scot-Williams liked to help and encourage. Sheestablished Virginia Van de Vere. 

Mrs. Scot-Williams is a philanthropic woman, and enormously wealthy. Herpet charity is what she calls "the little-business woman. " New York isfilled with small industries run by women, in this loft, or thatshop--clever women, too, talented, many of them, and it is to that classthat Mrs. Scot-Williams devotes herself. She takes keen delight instudying the tricks and secrets of business success. When some youngwoman to whom she has lent capital to start a cake and candy shopcomplains of dull trade, or a little French corsetier finds hercustomers falling off, Mrs. Scot-Williams likes to investigate thedifficulties and suggest remedies--more advertising, a better location, a new superintendent in the workshop, one thing or another--perhaps evena little more capital, which, if she lends and loses it, she simply putsdown under the head of charity in her distribution of expenses. 

I had occurred to Mrs. Scot-Williams as a possible means for improvingconditions at Van de Vere's. Miss Van de Vere possessed so highly adeveloped artistic temperament that her manner sometimes antagonized. Her assistant's duty, therefore, would be that of a cleverly constructedfly, concealing beneath tact and pretty manners ("and pretty gowns, mydear, " added Mrs. Scot-Williams) a hook to catch reluctant customers. 

I was fitted for such a position. I had been used as bait before, forother kind of fish. I purchased my fine feathers. Within a fortnightafter my interview with Mrs. Scot-Williams, I was cast upon the waters. 

There was no jealousy between Virginia Van de Vere and me. Beauty to herwas something pulsing and alive. If any one suggested marring it, ittortured her. I was not so sensitive. The result was, I took charge ofthe customers who mentioned leatherette dens and Moorish libraries, andVirginia's genius was spared injury. She loved me for it. We workedbeautifully together. 

Van de Vere's was my great chance. It was indeed my pot of gold. I hadalways loved beautiful things, and here I was in the midst of theircreating! Heaven had been kind. The joy of waking in the morning to aday of congenial work, setting forth to labor that was constructing forme a trade of my own, was like a daily tonic. I was very happy, full ofambition. I used to lie awake nights planning how I could make myselfable and efficient. I discovered a course I could take evenings inDesign and Interior Architecture, and I took advantage of it. I readvolumes at the library on period furniture and decorating. I hauntedantique shops. I perused articles on good salesmanship. Mornings I wasup with the birds (the pigeons, that is) and half-way to my place ofbusiness by eight o'clock. It agreed with me. I grew fat on it. Iregained the pounds of flesh that I had lost at the hospital withprodigious speed. Color came back to my cheeks, song to my lips. 

Esther's book actually towered. It wasn't necessary for her to keep herposition in the publishing house any longer. It wasn't necessary for herto conceal from me the price of our room. My salary was generous, andwith Esther's little income we were rich indeed. We could drink all theegg-nogs we wanted to. We could even fare on chicken and greenvegetables occasionally. We could buy one of Rosa's paintings fortwenty-five dollars, and lend fifteen, now and then, if one of the girlswas in a tight place. We could afford to canvass for suffrage fornothing. We could engage a bungalow for two or three weeks at the seanext year. 

As soon as I felt that my success at Van de Vere's was assured, I wroteto my family and asked them to drop in and see me. The first of thefamily to arrive was Edith, one day in February. Isabel, the maid, announced Mrs. Alexander Vars to me. I sent down for her to come up. 

The second floor of Van de Vere's looks almost like a private house--adining-room with a fine old sideboard, bedroom hung with English chintz, a living-room with books and low lamps--sample rooms, of course, all ofthem, but with very little of the atmosphere of shop or warehouse. 

I met Edith in the living-room. 

"Hello, Edith, " I said. She looked just the same, very modish, in somebrand-new New York clothes, I suppose. 

"Toots!" she exclaimed, and put both arms about me and kissed me. Thento cover up a little sign of mistiness in her eyes that would show, sheexclaimed, "You're just as good-looking as ever. I declare you are!"

"So are you, too, Edith!" I said, misty-eyed, too, for some reason. Ihad fought, bled and died with Edith once. 

"Oh, no, I'm not. I've got a streak of gray right up the front. "

"Really? Well, it doesn't show one bit, " I quavered, and then, "It'sterribly good to see some one from home. "

Edith got out her handkerchief. 

"I, for one, just hate squabbles, " she announced. 

And "So do I, " I agreed. 

Later we sat down together on the sofa. She looked around curiously. 

"What sort of a place is this, anyhow?" she asked in old, characteristicfrankness. "I didn't know what I was getting into. It seems sort of--Idon't know--not quite--not quite--I feel as if I might be shut up inhere and not let out. "

I laughed. Later I took her up to our showrooms on the top floor. 

"Good heavens, do you sell people things, Ruth?" she demanded. 

"Of course I do, " I assured her. 

"Just the same as over a counter almost?"

"Yes--not much difference. "

"But don't you feel--oh, dear--that seems so queer--what _is_ yoursocial position?"

"Oh, I don't know. I've cut loose from all that. "

"I know, but still you've got to think about the future. For instance, how would we feel if Malcolm wrote he was going to marry a clerk--orsomebody like that--or a manicurist?"

"If she had education to match his--I should think it was very nice. "

"Oh, no, you wouldn't. That's talk. Most people wouldn't anyhow. You areawfully queer, Ruth. You aren't a bit like anybody I know. Don't yousometimes feel hungry for relations with people of your own class?Friendly relations, I mean? Something different from the relations of aclerk to a customer? I would. You are just queer. " Then suddenly sheexclaimed, "Who's that?"

Virginia had passed through the room. 

"Oh, that's Virginia. That's Miss Van de Vere. "

"My dear, " said Edith, impressed, "she was a guest at Mrs. Sewall'sonce, when you were out West. She's so striking! I saw her at thestation when she arrived--Van de Vere--yes, that was the name. It wasin the paper. They spoke of her as a talented artist. Everybody was justcrazy about her in Hilton. She was at Mrs. Sewall's two weeks. She wasreported engaged to a duke Mrs. Sewall had hanging around. I rememberdistinctly. What is she doing around here?"

"Why, she and I run this establishment, " I announced. 

"Good heavens! Does she sell people things?"

"Why, of course, Edith, why not?"

"Well--of all things! I don't know what we're coming to. I should thinkEngland _would_ call us barbarians. Why, in England, even a man who isin trade has a hard time getting into society. But do introduce me toher if there's a chance before I go. "

Later Edith exclaimed, "By the way, my dear, you'll be interested toknow I've turned suffrage. "

"How did that happen?"

"Of course I wouldn't march or anything like that, and I think militancyis simply awful, but you'd be surprised how popular suffrage is gettingat home. I gave a bridge in interest of it. Lots of prominent people aretaking it up. Look here, " she broke off abruptly, "when can you come upfor a Sunday? I'm just crazy to get hold of you and have a good oldtalk. "

"Oh, almost any time. I'm anxious to see nice old Hilton again. "

"Well, we must plan it. How would you like to bring that Miss Van deVere? In the spring when the summer people get here. She has quite anumber of admirers among them. I'd just love to give you a little teaor something. "

Same old Edith! A wave of tenderness swept over me for her--faults andall. "Of course we'll come, " I laughed. "I'll arrange it. "

I knew in a flash that I should never quarrel with my sister-in-lawagain. She was no more to blame than a child with a taste for sweets. Why feel bitterness and rancor? She was only a victim of her environmentafter all. My tenderness--was a revelation. I hadn't realized thattolerance had been part of my soul's growth--tolerance even toward theprinciples from which I had once fled in righteous indignation. 

Tom dropped in at Van de Vere's some time in the spring. 

"Looks like a woman's business, " he almost sneered, critically surveyingthe striped walls of the reception-room; and later, "Impractical andaffected, I call it, " he said. "If I was building a house I'd steerclear of any such place as this. "

"Wait a minute, " I replied pleasantly. "Come with me, " and I took Tominto the well-lighted rooms at the rear, where our workers were engaged, at the time, on a rush order. "Does that look affected, Tom?" I asked. "Every one of those girls is living a decent and self-respecting life, many of them are helping in their family finances; and besides, the fewstockholders of Van de Vere's are going to get a ten per cent dividendon their holdings next year. Does that strike you as impractical andaffected, too?"

Tom looked at me, shut his mouth very tight, and shook his head. "Isuppose all this takes the place of babies in your life. It wouldn'tsatisfy some women ten minutes. Elise wouldn't give up one of her babiesfor a business paying thirty per cent. "

"But Tom, " I replied calmly. "We all can't marry. Some of us----"

"_You_ could have. This is not natural. 'Tisn't according to nature. No, sir. Abnormal. Down here in New York living like a man. What do you wantto copy men for? Why don't you devote yourself to becoming an idealwoman, Ruth? That's what I want to know. I don't approve of this sort ofthing at all. "

I felt no anger. I felt no impulse to strike back. I had reached such anelevation on my mountain of Self-discovery, as Esther would have put it, that I commanded vision at last. Tom and his ideas did not obstruct myprogress, like the huge blow-down that he had once been in my way, against which I had blindly beaten my fists raw. I had found my wayaround Tom. I could look down now and see him in correct proportion toother objects in the world about me. I saw from my height that suchobstructions as Tom could be circumvented--a path worn around him, asmore and more girls pursued the way I had chosen. I looked down andperceived, already, girls trooping after me. There was no use hackingaway at Tom any more. Nature herself removes blow-downs onmountain-trails in time, by a process of slow rot and disintegration. When time accomplishes the same with the Toms of the world then weshan't need even to walk around. We can walk over!

So, "I know you don't approve, Tom, " I replied almost gently, "andthere's truth in what you say--that women are made to run homes andfamilies, instead of businesses, most of them. Of course Elise wouldn'tgive up one of her babies! She's one of the 'most-of-them. ' How are thebabies anyway?"

CHAPTER XXVIII

A CALL FROM BOB JENNINGS

One day, however, I realized that I hadn't walked around Tom. I reallyhadn't circumvented, by persistence and determination, the obstaclesthat lay in the way to triumph. Some one, like a fairy godmother fromGrimm's, had waved a wand and wished the obstacles away. Virginia toldme about it. I learned that except for Mrs. Sewall I might still bedelivering bandboxes. The searchlight following me about wherever I wentfor the last six months, making my way bright and easy, came not fromheaven. It came instead from a lady in black who chose to conceal hergood offices beneath an unforgiving manner, as she hid the five hundreddollars inside a trivial bag. 

Mrs. Sewall called one day at the shop. She asked for Miss Van de Vere. She was contemplating redecorating a bed-chamber, it seemed. Virginiacame to me in the workshop, and told me about it. 

"Your old lady is out there, " she said. "You'd better take her order. "

"My old lady?"

"Yes, Mrs. Sewall, who landed you in our midst, my dear. "

I stared at Virginia. 

"Certainly, and pays a portion of your ridiculous salary, baby-mine. "She went on pinching my cheek playfully. She delights in patronizing me. "You're an expensive asset, my dear--not but what I am glad. I alwaysurged somebody of your sort to relieve me. Mrs. Scot-Williams never sawit that way, however, until the old lady Sewall came along and crammedyou down our throats. I wasn't to tell you, but I see no harm in it. Goon in, and whatever the tiff's about make it up with the old veteran. She's not a bad sort. "

I went upstairs. My heart was bursting with gratitude. I had vexed, displeased, cruelly hurt my benefactress--she had likened me to a steelknife--and yet she had bestowed upon me my greatest desire. Much in thesame way as I had rescued the little bug, buffeted by winds, Mrs. Sewallhad picked me up and placed me at the zenith of my hopes. But for her, no Mrs. Scot-Williams, no Van de Vere's, no trade of my own, no preciousbusiness to work for, and make succeed!

"Mrs. Sewall, " I began eagerly (I found her alone in the living-room), "Mrs. Sewall----" and then I stopped. There was no encouragement in herexpression. 

"Ah, Miss Vars, " she remarked frostily. 

"Mrs. Sewall--please, " I begged, "please let me----"

"My time is limited this morning, " she cut in. "Doubtless Miss Van deVere has sent you to me to attend to my order. If so, let us hastenwith it. I am hunting for a cretonne with a peacock design for abed-chamber. I should like to see what you have. "

"But Mrs. Sewall----"

"My time is limited, " she repeated. 

"I know, but I simply _must_ speak. "

She raised her hand. "I hope, " she said, "that you are not going to makeme ill again, Miss Vars. "

I surrendered at that. "No, no, " I assured her. "No, I'm not. I'mthoughtless. I think only of myself. I'll go and call Miss Van de Vere. "

"That will not be necessary, " said Mrs. Sewall. "You may show me thecretonne, now that you are here. "

For half an hour we hunted for peacocks. I had the samples brought downto the living-room, piled on a chair near-by, and then dismissed theattendant. Mrs. Sewall appeared only slightly interested. In fact, Ithink we both were observing each other more closely than the cretonnes. They acted simply as a screen, through the cracks of which we mightsurreptitiously gaze. 

I noted all the familiar points--the superb string of pearls about Mrs. Sewall's neck; the wealth of diamonds on her slender fingers when shedrew off her glove; the band of black on the lower edge of the veil, setting off her small features in a heavy frame. I noted, too, theincreased pallor beneath the veil. There was a sort of emaciatedappearance just behind the ears, which neither carefully-set earring norcleverly arranged coiffure could conceal. The veins on Mrs. Sewall'shands, moreover, were prominent and blue. 

But for a tangle in the chain of Mrs. Sewall's glasses she would haveleft me with no sign of friendliness. It was when I passed her a smallsample in a book, and she attempted to put on her glasses, that Iobserved the fine platinum cord was in a knot. I offered my services. Ididn't suppose she would accept them. I was surprised at her cool, "Yes, if you will. "

Mrs. Sewall was sitting down. I had to kneel to my task. The chainproved to be in a complicated snarl. My fingers trembled. I was veryclumsy. I was afraid Mrs. Sewall would become exasperated. "Just amoment, " I said, and looked up. Our eyes met. I was so close I couldsee the tiny network of wrinkles in the face above me. I could seethe sudden tenderness in the eyes. 

"It seems to be a particularly difficult snarl, " I quavered, then bentmy head and worked in silence for a moment. We were so near, we couldhear each other breathe. 

Suddenly in a low voice, almost a whisper, Mrs. Sewall asked, "Are youhappy here?"

"Oh, so happy, " I replied. 

"Are you better? Are you well?" she pursued. 

I dropped my hands in her lap, looked up, and nodded. I could not trustmyself to speak. I knelt there in silence for a moment. 

Finally I said, "Are _you_ happy? Are _you_ better? Are _you_ well, dearMrs. Sewall?"

"What does it matter? I am an old woman, " she replied, in thatdisparaging little way of hers. 

Our old intimacy shone clear and bright in that stolen moment. We werelike two lovers forbidden to each other, whispering there together, whenthe lights suddenly go out, and they are enfolded in the protectingdark. "You are not too old to have created great happiness!" I exclaimedsoftly. 

She shrugged and smiled. 

It was a rare moment. I did not mean to spoil it. I ought to have beencontent. My eagerness was at fault. 

"Oh!" I burst out crudely, "if you knew how sorry I am to have doneanything to _you_, of all people, that displeased. If----" She recoiled;she drew back. I had ventured where angels feared to tread. The chainwas not yet untangled, but she would not let me kneel there any longer. She rose; I too. 

"My time is limited, as I said, " she reminded me; "I am here onbusiness. Let us endeavor to complete it, Miss Vars. "

"Yes, " I said, blushing scarlet, "let us, by all means. I'm sorry, excuse me, I'll go upstairs and see what else we have. "

* * * * *

When Bob finally called at Van de Vere's I hadn't seen him for over ayear. While I had been working so hard to establish myself in my newventure, Bob had been starting a brand-new law firm of his own, in alittle town I had never heard of in the Middle West. He had severed allconnections with the University when his mother had died. I knew as wellas if he had told me that when he broke loose from any sort of steadysalary he had abandoned all hope of persuading me to come and grow inhis green-house, as he had once put it. It had been our original planthat Bob would work gradually into a law firm in Boston, at the sametime retaining some small salaried position at the University enablingus to be married before he became established as a lawyer. Bob had beenable to lay little by. His mother had required specialists and trainednurses. When I first realized that Bob had gone West and set aboutplanning his life without reference to me I felt peculiarly free andunhampered. When he as much as told me that it was easier for him not tohear from me at all, than in the impersonal way I insisted upon, I wasglad. I cared for Bob too much not to feel a little pang in my breastevery time I saw my name and address written by his hand. And I wantednothing to swerve me away from the goal I had my eyes set on--the goalof an acknowledged success as an independent, self-supporting humanbeing. 

When Bob first dropped in at Van de Vere's I hardly recognized him asthe romantic figure who had wandered over brown hillsides with me, avolume of poetry stuffed into his overcoat pocket. No one would haveguessed from this man's enthusiastic interest in the progressive spiritof the West that he had been born on Beacon Hill behind violet-shadedpanes of glass. No one would have guessed, when he talked aboutcleaning out a disreputable school-board by means of the women's vote, that he had once opposed parades for equal suffrage in Massachusetts. When Bob shook hands with me, firmly, shortly, as if scarcely seeing meat all, I wondered if it might have slipped his mind that I was the girlhe had once been engaged to marry. 

He explained that he was in town on business, leaving the same evening. He could give me only an hour. There was a man he had to meet at hishotel at five. Bob was all nerves and energy that day. He talked abouthimself a good deal. They wanted to get him into politics out there inthat wonderful little city of his. He'd been there only fourteen months, but it was a great place, full of promise--politics in a rather rottencondition--needed cleaning and fumigating. He'd a good mind to get intothe job himself--in fact, he might as well confess he was in it to someextent. He was meeting the governor in Chicago the next night, or elsehe'd stay over and ask me to go to the theater with him. 

I don't suppose Bob would have referred to the old days if I hadn't. Itwas I, who, when at last a lull occurred, said something about that timewhen he had found me struggling in a mire that threatened to drown, andI had grasped his good, strong arm. 

"Wasn't it better, Bob, " I asked, "that I should learn to swim myself, and keep my head above water by my own efforts?"

"It certainly seems to be what women are determined to do, " he dodged. 

"Well, isn't it better?" I insisted. 

"I'll say this, Ruth, " he generously conceded. "I think there would beless men dragged down if all women learned a few strokes inself-support. "

"Oh, Bob!" I exclaimed. "Do you really think that? So do I. Why, _so doI!_ We agree! Women would not lose their heads so quickly in times ofcatastrophe, would they? You see it, too! Women would help carry some ofthe burden. All they'd need would be one hand on a man's shoulder, whilethey swam with the other and made progress. "

He laughed a little sadly. "Ruth, " he said, for the first time becomingthe Bob I had known, "I fear you would not need even one hand on ashoulder. It looks to me, " he added, as he gazed about the luxuriouslyfurnished living-room of Van de Vere's, "that you can reach the shorequite well alone. "

CHAPTER XXIX

LONGINGS

The days at Van de Vere's grew gradually into a year, into two years, into nearly three. From assistant to Virginia Van de Vere I becameconsultant, from consultant, partner finally. Van de Vere's grew, expanded, spread to the house next door. To the two V's upon thedoor-plate was added at last a third. Van de Vere's became Van de Vereand Vars. 

My life, like that of a child's, assumed habits, personality, settleddown to characteristics of its own. I remained with Esther in IrvingPlace, in spite of Virginia's urgent invitation to share her apartment, adding to the room an old Italian chest, a few large pieces of copperand brass, and a strip or two of antique embroidery. I preferred IrvingPlace. It was simple, quiet, and detached. 

I came and went as I pleased; ate where I wanted to and when; wanderedhere and there at will. Evenings I sometimes went with Esther, when shecould leave the book, or with Rosa, or with Alsace and Lorraine, tovarious favorite haunts; sometimes with Virginia to the luxuriousstudios of artists who had arrived; sometimes with Mrs. Scot-Williams tosuffrage meetings, where occasionally I spoke; sometimes to dinner andopera with stereotyped Malcolm; sometimes simply to bed with a generousbook. A beautiful, unhampered sort of existence it was--perfect, I wouldhave called it once. 

My relations with the family simmered down to a friendly basis. Theyaccepted my independence as a matter of course. It had been undesiredby them, true enough, its birth painful, but like many an unwantedchild, once born, once safely here, they became accustomed to it, fond, even proud, as it matured. I spent every Christmas with Edith inHilton, going up with Malcolm on the same train, and returning withhim in time for a following business day. I often ran up for aweek-end with Lucy and Will. Once I spent a fortnight with Tom andElise in Wisconsin. The family seldom came to New York withouttelephoning to me, and often we dined together and went to thetheater. I ought to have been very happy. I had won all I had lefthome for. I worked; I produced. At Van de Vere's my creative geniushad found a soil in which to grow. I, as well as Virginia, conceiveddream rooms, sketched them in water-colors, created them in wood, andpaint, and drapery. I had escaped the stultifying effects ofparasitism, rescued body and brain from sluggishness and inactivity, successfully shaken off the shackles of society. Freedom of act andspeech was mine; independence, self-expression--yes, all that, butwhere--where was the promised joy?

When I look back and observe my life, I see the sharp, difficult ascentthat led to my career at Van de Vere's with clearness. As if it was apicture taken on a sunny day I observe the details of the first joyousdays of realized ambition. Just when my happiness began to blur I do notknow. Less distinct are the events that led to my discontent. Gradualwas the tarnishing of the metal I thought was gold within the pot. Iclosed my eyes to the process, at first refused to recognize it. Iwouldn't admit the possibility of lacks and deficiencies in my life. When they became too obvious to ignore, I searched for excuses. I wastired; I had overworked; I needed a change. Never was it because I was awoman, and just plain hungry for a home. The slow disillusion that creptupon me expressed itself at odd and unexpected moments. In the middle ofa fine discussion with the girls of the old circle, the"mountain-climbers, " as Esther sometimes called us, the ineffectualnessof our lives would sweep over me. To my chagrin, immediately after aninspired argument on suffrage a kind of reactionary longing to bepetted, and loved, and indulged occasionally would possess me. Sometimescoming home to the room in Irving Place, after a long day at the shop, Iwould be more impressed by the loneliness of my life than the freedom. 

I hid these indications of what I considered weakness, buried them deepin my heart, at first, and covered them over with a bright green patchof exaggerated zest and enthusiasm. One never realizes how many peopleare suffering with a certain disease until he himself is afflicted. Ididn't know, until my little patch of green covered a longing, how manyother longings were similarly concealed. As I became more intimatelyacquainted with the members of our little circle I discovered that therewas frequently expressed a desire for human ties. I recalled Esther'sconfession at the hospital. Her words came back to me with startlingsignificance. "A stark and empty life, " she had said, "no man, no child, no one to make sacrifices for--just my thoughts, my hopes and myambitions--that's all. " Virginia, too--successful and brilliant VirginiaVan de Vere! For what other reason had Virginia adopted the curly-headedGreek boy except to cover a lack in her life? For what reason than for adesire for some one to love and to be loved by were Alsace and Lorraineso devoted to each other? I read that a philanthropist of world renown, a woman whose splendid service had been praised the country over, wasquoted as saying she would give up her public life a second time andchoose the seclusion and the joy of a home of her own. At first Istoutly said to myself, "Well, anyhow, _I_ shall not run to cover. Ineeded no one two years ago. Why should I now?" Why, indeed? A nest ofgray hairs, discovered not long after, answered me. They set me tothinking in earnest. Gray hairs! Growing old! Creative years slippingby! Good heavens--was there danger that my life would become stark andempty too? I had chosen the mountain trail. Had I lost then the joy andthe comfort of the nestling house and curling smoke? There were stillinteresting contracts of course, engrossing work. There was still thesuccess of Van de Vere's to live for, but the ecstasy had all faded bythe time I first realized that I was no longer a young girl. 

Mrs. Sewall never came again to the shop after that single call. I wastold she was in Europe. I never heard from her. Her son--poor Breck--haddied at sea when a huge and luxurious ocean liner had tragically plungedinto fathoms of water. I learned that an English girl had become Mrs. Sewall's companion. They were occupying the house in England. No doubtthey were very happy together. Sometimes it would sweep over me withdistressing reality that nobody really needed me--Breck, or Mrs. Sewall, or self-sufficient Bob in his beloved West. Bob was fast becomingnothing but a memory to me. If I thought of him at all it was as if mymind gazed at him through the wrong end of a pair of opera glasses. Heseemed miles away. He must have come to New York occasionally but hedidn't look me up. I heard of his activities indirectly through Lucy andWill. With the help of the women voters he had succeeded in cleaning outa board of aldermen, and now the women wanted him to run for mayor. Thisall interested me, but it didn't make me long for Bob. I wasn'tconscious of wanting anything specific. My discontent was simply avague, empty feeling, a good deal like being hungry, when no food youcan call to mind seems to be what you want. 

Mrs. Scot-Williams of her own accord suggested a vacation of two monthsfor me. I know she must have observed that my spirits had fallen belownormal. Mrs. Scot-Williams said she was afraid I had been working toosteadily, and needed a change. I was looking a little tired. She invitedme to go to Japan with her, starting in mid-July. We'd pick up someantiques for the shop in the East. It would do me a world of good. Perhaps Mrs. Scot-Williams was right. Such a complete change might helpme to regain my old poise. I told her I would go with pleasure. 

However, before I ever got started my loneliness culminated one dismalnight, two days before the Fourth of July. I had been away for two weekswith Mrs. Scot-Williams on a suffrage campaign, combining a littlebusiness en route. Mrs. Scot-Williams had had to return in time tocelebrate the holiday with her college-boy son and some friends of hisat her summer place on Long Island. 

I arrived at the Grand Central alone, hot and tired. It was anexceedingly warm night. I felt forlorn, returning to New York for anuncelebrated holiday. I took the subway down town. The air was stifling. It always manages to rob me of good-cheer. When I reached the room inIrving Place I found Esther writing as usual. Esther had grown pale andanemic of late. Her book had met with success, and it seemed to make hera little more impersonal and remote than ever. I had been away twoweeks, but Esther didn't even get up as I came in. That was all right. We're never demonstrative. 

"Hello, " she said, "you back?" She dipped her pen into the ink-well. 

"I'm back, " I replied, and went over and raised the shade. A girl all inwhite and a young man carrying her coat went by, laughing intimately. Oh, well! What of it? I shrugged. I had my career, my affairs, Van deVere's. "Want to come out somewhere interesting for dinner?" I suggestedto Esther. 

"Sorry, " she said. "Can't possibly. Got to work. "

I stared at Esther's back a moment in silence. Her restricted affectionwas inadequate tonight. I glanced around the room. It was unbeautiful inJuly. Where was the lure of it? Where had disappeared the charm of mylife anyhow? Why should I be standing here, fighting a desire to cry? Icould go out and find some one to dine with me. Of course--of course Icould. I went to the telephone. Should it be Virginia, Rosa, Alsace andLorraine, Flora Bennett? None--none of them! My heart cried out forsomebody of my own tonight, upon whom I had a claim of some kind orother. I called Malcolm, my own older brother. We had grown a littleformal of late. That was true. Never mind. I'd break through the reservesomehow. I'd draw near him. There was the bond of our parents. I wantedbonds tonight. 

I got Malcolm's number at last. I was informed by a house-mate ofhis that my brother had gone to a reunion with his people for overthe Fourth of July. His people! What a sound it had for my hungrysoul. His people! _My_ people, too, bound in loyalty by identicaltraditions. I, too, would go to them for a day or two. There wouldprobably be a letter for me. 

I went to my desk and glanced through my waiting mail. There wasnothing, absolutely nothing. I looked through the pile twice. A familyreunion and they had not notified me! I had become as detached as allthat! I glanced at Esther again. She was scratching away like mad. Iheard the drone of a hurdy-gurdy outside. I would not stay here. Thethought of a holiday in Irving Place became suddenly unendurable. I mustescape it somehow. There was a train north an hour later. My suitcasewas still packed. 

"Esther, " I said quietly, "I believe I'll go up to Hilton for theholiday. I don't seem to be especially needed here. "

"Mind not interrupting?" said Esther, scratching away hard. "I'm rightin the midst of an idea. "

I picked up my suitcase, and stole out. 

CHAPTER XXX

AGAIN LUCY NARRATES

No one was more surprised than I on the morning of the Fourth of July, when Ruth unexpectedly arrived from New York. 

We Vars were all at Edith's in Hilton, even to Tom and Elise, who hadtaken a cottage on the Cape for the summer and were able to run up andjoin us all for the holiday. Will and I had motored up from ouruniversity town, and even Malcolm had put in an appearance. I hadadvised Edith not to bother to write Ruth about the impromptu reunion. I had understood that she was traveling around somewhere with herprominent suffrage leader, Mrs. Scot-Williams. Ruth is a woman ofaffairs now, and I try not to disturb her with family trivialities. The reunion was not to be a joyful occasion anyhow. A cloud hoveredover it. We're a loyal family, and if one of us is in trouble, theothers all try to help out. Oliver was the one to be helped just atpresent. The Fourth of July holiday offered an excellent opportunityfor us all to meet and talk over his problem. 

Oliver has always been financially unfortunate. In fact, life has dealtout everything in the line of blessings stingily to Oliver, except, possibly, babies. To Oliver and Madge had been born four children. Withthe last one there had settled upon Madge a persistent little cough. Wedidn't consider it anything serious. She didn't herself, and when Oliverdropped in one night at Will's and my house, just a week before theFourth of July, and said something about spots on her lungs, andColorado immediately, it was a shock. The doctor wanted Madge to startwithin a week. He was going out to Colorado with another patient andcould take her along with him at the same time. He would allow onlyMarjorie, the oldest little girl, to accompany her mother. The othersmust positively be left behind. He couldn't predict anything. The lungswere in a serious condition. However, if the climate proved beneficial, Madge would have to stay in Colorado at least six months. 

Now Oliver and Madge live very economically. They can't affordgovernesses and trained nurses. Madge, poor girl, had to go away notknowing what arrangement was to be made for the care of the two littlegirls and infant son, the first Vars heir, by the way, whom she leftbehind. Oliver went as far as Hilton with her and got off there with hismotherless brood, joining us at Edith's, while Madge and Marjorie werewhisked away out West with the doctor and the other patient. 

I felt sorry for Oliver. He was anxious and worried, seemed helpless andinadequate. The children hung on him and asked endless questions. Hewas tired, poor boy, and disheartened. The arrangement we suggested forthe children did not please him. Edith had generously offered to assumethe care of the little Vars heir. I had said that I would take. Emily, and to Elise was allotted Becky, aged three. We were all in Edith'sliving-room talking about it, when Ruth suddenly appeared on the scene. 

Now Ruth is an interior decorator. Her shop is one of the mostsuccessful and exclusive in New York City. We're all very proud of Ruth. When she appeared that day so unexpectedly at the Homestead, I spied herfirst coming up the walk to Edith's door. 

"Well--look what's coming!" I exclaimed, for Ruth was not alone. She wascarrying Oliver's littlest girl, Becky. 

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Edith. 

"Is it Ruth?" asked Malcolm, staring hard through his thick, near-sighted glasses. 

"Has she got Becky?" inquired Oliver. 

"Explain yourself, " laughed Alec, going to the screen door and lettingRuth in. 

We all gathered round her. 

"Hello, everybody, " she smiled at us over Becky's shoulder. She was warmwith walking. "Nothing to explain. Just decided to run up here, that'sall, and found this poor little thing crying down by the gate. It'sBecky, isn't it, Oliver? I haven't seen her for a year. "

"It's just a shame you didn't let us meet you, " said Edith. "Walking inthis weather! I declare it is. Come, give that child to me, and you goon upstairs and get washed up. She's ruining your skirt. Come, Becky. "

Becky is an extremely timid little creature. She hadn't let any one butOliver touch her since Madge had gone the day before. She had beencrying most of the time. Her lip quivered at the sight of Edith'soutstretched hands. I saw her plump arm tighten around Ruth's neck. 

"Here, come, Becky, " said Oliver sternly, and offered to take herhimself. She turned away even from him. "She takes fancies, " explainedOliver. "You're in for it, I'm afraid, Ruth. "

"Am I?" Ruth said, flushing unaccountably. "Well, you see, " she went onapologetically, "I came upon her down there by the gate just as she hadfallen down and hurt her knee. I was the only one to pick her up, so shehad to let me. I put powder on the bruised knee. It interested her. Itmade her laugh. We had quite a game, and when I came away she insistedupon coming, too. "

"You see, Madge has started for Colorado, " I explained, "and Becky----"

"Colorado!" exclaimed Ruth. Of course she didn't know. 

We told her about it. 

"Poor little lonely kiddie, " Ruth said softly afterward, giving Becky astrange little caress with the tip of her finger on the end of thechild's infinitesimal nose. "Most as forlorn as some one they don'tinvite to family reunions any more. "

"Why, Ruth, " I remonstrated. "We thought--you see----"

"Never mind, " she interrupted lightly. "I wasn't serious. I'll runupstairs now, and freshen up a bit. "

"Come, Becky, " ordered Oliver, "get down. "

I saw Becky's arm tighten around Ruth's neck again. She's anunaccountable child. 

Ruth said quietly, "Let her come upstairs with me, if she wants. Ihaven't had a welcome like this since the days of poor little Dandy. "

An hour later Edith and I found Ruth sitting in a rocking-chair in theroom that used to be hers years ago when she was a young girl. She washolding Becky. 

"What in the world are you doing?" asked Edith. 

"I never held a sleeping child before, and I'm discovering, " repliedRuth, softly so as not to disturb Becky. "Aren't the little thingslimp?"

"Well, put her down now, do, " said practical Edith. "We want youdownstairs. Luncheon is nearly ready. "

"I can't yet, " said Ruth. "Every time I start to leave her she cries, and won't let me. Isn't it odd of the little creature? You two go ondown. I'll be with you as soon as I can. "

Later that afternoon we continued the discussion that Ruth hadinterrupted. Oliver didn't seem to be any more reconciled to thearrangement than before. 

"I hate to break the home all up, " he objected. "I want to keep thechildren together. Madge does, too. I should think there ought to besome one who likes children, and who wants a home, who could come andhelp me out for six months, who wouldn't cost too much. "

"Hired help! No, no. Never works, " Tom said, shaking his head. 

"You have to be away so much on business, you know, Oliver, " I reminded. 

Suddenly Ruth spoke, picking up a magazine and opening it. "How would Ido, instead of the hired help, Oliver?" she asked, casually glancing atan advertisement. "Becky didn't seem to mind me. "

"You!" echoed Malcolm. 

"Why, Ruth!" I exclaimed. 

"What in the world do you mean?" demanded Edith. 

"Oh, thanks, " smiled Oliver kindly upon her. "Thanks, Ruth. It is bullyof you to offer, but, of course, I wouldn't think of such a thing. "

"Why not?" she inquired calmly. "I could give you the entire summer. I'mtaking a two months' vacation this year. "

"Oh, no, no. No, thanks, Ruth. Our apartment is, no vacation spot. Iassure you of that. Hot, noisy, one general housework girl. It certainlyis fine of you, but no, thanks, Ruth. Such a sacrifice is notnecessary. "

"It wouldn't be a sacrifice, " remarked Ruth, turning a page of themagazine. 

"Oh, come, come, Ruth!" broke in Tom irritably. "Let us not discuss suchan impossibility. We're wasting time. You have your duties. This is notone of them. It's a fine impulse, generous. Oliver appreciates it. Butit's quite out of the question. "

"I don't see why, " Ruth pursued. "For an unattached woman to come andtake care of her brother's children during her vacation seems to me themost natural thing in the world. "

"You know nothing about children, " snorted Tom. 

"I can learn, " Ruth persisted. 

Ruth's offer proved to be no passing whim, no sentimental impulse ofthe moment. Scarcely a week later, and she was actually installed inOliver's small apartment. The family talked of little else at theirvarious dinner-tables for weeks to come. Of all Ruth's vagaries thisseemed the vaguest and most mystifying. 

Oliver's apartment is really quite awful, disorderly, crowded, incongruous. It contains a specimen of every kind of furniture sincethe period of hair-cloth down to mission--cast-offs from the homes ofOliver's more fortunate brothers and sisters. When I first saw Ruththere in the midst of the confusion of unpacking, the room in IrvingPlace with its old chests and samovars, Esther Claff quietly writingin her corner, the telephone bell muffled to an undisturbing whirr, flashed before me. 

The baby was crying. I smelled the odor of steaming clothes, in processof washing in the near-by kitchen. I heard the deep voice of the bigIrish wash-woman I had engaged, conversing with the rough Norwegian. Becky was hanging on to Ruth's skirt and begging to be taken up. In theapartment below some one was playing a victrola. I hoped Ruth was not asconscious as I of Van de Vere's at this time in the morning--low bells, subdued voices, velvet-footed attendants, system, order. 

"Well, Ruth, " I broke out, "I hope you'll be able to stand this. If it'stoo much you must write and let me know. "

She picked up Becky and held her a moment. "I think I shall manage topull through, " she replied. 

CHAPTER XXXI

RUTH DRAWS CONCLUSIONS

Will and I were buried in a little place in Newfoundland all summer, andRuth's letters to us, always three days old when they reached me, werefew and infrequent. What brief notes she did write were non-committal. They told their facts without comment. I tried to read between thepractical lines that announced she had changed the formula for thebaby's milk, that she had had to let down Emily's dresses, that she hadsucceeded in persuading Oliver to spend his three weeks' vacation withMadge in Colorado, finally that Becky had been ill, but was better now. I was unable to draw any conclusions. I knew what sort of serviceRuth's new enterprise required--duties performed over and over again, homely tasks, no pay, no praise. I knew the daily wear and tear on goodintentions and exalted motives. I used to conjecture by the hour withWill upon what effect the summer would have on Ruth's theories. She hasadvanced ideas for women. She believes in their emancipation. 

Edith and Alec had gone to Alaska. They could not report to me how Ruthwas progressing. Elise had been unable to leave her cottage on the Capefor a single trip to Boston. Only Oliver's enthusiastic letters (Oliverwho never sees anything but the obvious) assured me that, at least onthe surface, Ruth had not regretted her undertaking. 

Will and I returned the first of September. Ruth's two months wouldterminate on September tenth, and I had come back early in order to helpclose Oliver's apartment and prepare for the distribution of thechildren, which we had arranged in the early summer. Oliver was still inColorado when I returned. He was expected within a week, however. Icalled Ruth up on the telephone as soon as I could, and told her I wouldbe over to see her the next day, or the day after. I couldn't say justwhen, for Elise and Tom, who were returning to Wisconsin, were to spendthe following night with me. Perhaps after dinner we would all get intothe automobile and drop in upon her. 

We all did. Oliver's apartment is on the other side of Boston from Willand me. We didn't reach there until after eight o'clock. The children, of course, were in bed. Ruth met us in the hall, half-way up the stairs. She was paler than usual. As I saw her it flashed over me how blind wehad been to allow this girl--temperamental, exotic, sensitive tosurroundings--to plunge herself into the responsibilities that mostwomen acquire gradually. Her first real vacation in years too!

Elise and I kissed her. 

"You look a little tired, Ruth, " said Elise. 

"A woman with children expects to look tired sometimes, " Ruth replied, with the sophistication of a mother of three. "I had to be up a fewnights with Becky. "

I slipped my arm about Ruth as we mounted the stairs. "Has it been anawful summer?" I whispered. 

She didn't answer me--simply drew away. I felt my inquiry displeasedher. At the top of the landing she ran ahead and opened the door to theapartment, inviting us in. I was unprepared for the sight that awaitedus. 

"Why, Ruth!" I exclaimed, for I recognized all about me familiar bowland candlestick from Irving Place, old carved chest, Russian samovar, embroidered strips of peasant's handicraft. 

"How lovely!" said Elise, pushing by me into Oliver's living-room. 

It really was. I gazed speechless. It made me think of the inside of apeasant's cottage as sometimes prettily portrayed upon the stage. It wasvery simple, almost bare, and yet there was a charm. At the windows hungyellowish, unbleached cotton. On the sills were red geraniums in bloom. A big clump of southern pine filled an old copper basin on a low taverntable. A queer sort of earthen lamp cast a soft light over all. In thedining-room I caught a glimpse of three sturdy little high chairspainted bright red, picked up in some antique shop, evidently. On thesideboard, a common table covered with a red cloth, I saw the glow ofold pewter. 

"You've done wonders to this place, " commented Tom, gazing about. 

"Oliver gave me full permission before he went away, " Ruth explained. "I've stored a whole load-full of his things. It _is_ rather nice, Ithink, myself. "

"Nice? I should say it was! But did it pay for so short a time?" Iinquired. 

"Oliver can keep the things as long as he wants them, " said Ruth. 

"But it must make your room in Irving Place an empty spot to go backto, " I replied. 

Ruth went over to the lamp and did something to the shade. "Oh, " shesaid carelessly, "haven't I told you? I'm not going back. I've resignedfrom Van de Vere's. Do all sit down. "

Ruth might just as well have set off a cannon-cracker. We were startledto say the least. We stood and stared at her. 

"Do sit down, " she repeated. 

"But, Ruth, why have you done this? Why have you resigned?" I gasped atlast. She finished with the lamp-shade before she spoke. 

"I insist upon your sitting down, " she said. "There. That's better. "Then she gave a queer, low laugh and said, "I think it was the sight ofthe baby's little flannel shirt stretched over the wooden frame hangingin the bath-room that was the last straw that broke me before I wrote toMrs. Scot-Williams. "

"But----"

"There was some one immediately available to take my place at Van deVere's--another protégée of Mrs. Scot-Williams. I had to decide quickly. Madge is improving every week, Oliver writes, but she has got to stay inColorado at least during the winter, the doctor says. Becky is still farfrom strong. She was very ill this summer. She doesn't take tostrangers. I think I'm needed here. It seemed necessary for me to stay. "

"Perfect nonsense, " Tom growled. "There's no more call for you to giveup your business than for Malcolm his. Perfectly absurd. "

"But oh, how fine--how fine of you, Ruth!" exclaimed Elise. 

"You shan't do it. You shan't, " I ejaculated. 

"Don't all make a mistake, please, " said Ruth. "It is no sacrifice. There's no unselfishness about it, no fine altruism. I'm staying becauseI want to. I'm happier here. Can't any of you understand that?" sheasked. There was a quality in her voice that made us all glance at hersharply. There was a look in her eyes which reminded me of her as shehad appeared in the suffrage parade. This sister of mine had evidentlyseen another vision. If it had made her cheeks a little pale, it hadmore than made up for it in the exalted tone of her voice and expressionof her eyes. 

"You say you're happier here?" asked Elise. "Weren't you happy then, down there in New York, Ruth?"

"Yes, for a while. But you see my life was like a circle uncompleted. Inkeeping trimmed the lights of a home even though not my own, even onlyfor a short period, I am tracing in, ever so faintly, the yawning gap. "

"Gap! But Ruth, we thought----"

She flushed a little in spite of herself. We were all staring hard ather. "You see, " she went on, "I've never been needed before as I havethis summer. A home has never depended upon me for its life before. I'veliked it. I don't see why you're so surprised. It's natural for a womanto want human ties. Contentment has stolen over me with every littlecommon task I have had to do. "

"But, Ruth, " I stammered, "we never thought thatthis--housekeeping--such menial work as this, was meant for _you_. "

"Nor love and devotion either, I suppose, " she said a little bitterly, "nor the protection of a fireside, " she shrugged. "Such rewards are notgiven without service, I've heard. And service paid by love does notseem menial to me. "

Tom laid down his hat upon the table, and leaned forward. He had beenobserving Ruth keenly. I saw the flash of victory in his eye. Tom hadnever been in sympathy with Ruth's emancipation ideas, and I saw inher desire for a home and intimate associations the crumbling of herstrongest defense against his disapproval. I wished I could come toher aid. Always my sympathies had instinctively gone out to her in thecontroversies that her theories gave rise to. Would Tom plant at lasthis flag upon her long-defended fortress?

"This is odd talk for you, Ruth, " said Tom. 

"Is it?" she inquired innocently. Did she not observe Tom callingtogether his forces for a last charge?

"Certainly, " he replied. "You gave up home, love, devotion--all that, when you might have had it, years ago. You emancipated yourself fromthe sort of service that is paid by the protection of a fireside. "

"Well?" she smiled, unalarmed. 

"You see your mistake now, " he hurried on. "You make your mad dash forfreedom, and now come seeking shelter. That is what most of 'em do. Youtried freedom and found it lacking. "

"And what is your conclusion, Tom?" asked Ruth, baring herself, itseemed to me, to the onslaught of Tom's opposition. 

"My conclusion! Do I need even to state it?" he inquired, as ifflourishing the flag before sticking its staff into the pinnacle ofRuth's defense. "Is it not self-evident? If you had married five yearsago, today you would have a permanent family of your own instead of aborrowed one for eight months. Your freedom has robbed you of what youimply you desire--a home, I mean. My conclusion is that your own historyproves that freedom is a dangerous thing for women. "

Ruth answered Tom quietly. I thrilled at her mild and gentle manner. Weall listened intently. 

"Tom, " she said slowly and with conviction, "my own history proves justthe opposite. The very fact that I do feel the deficiencies of freedom, is proof that it has not been a dangerous tool. If it had killed in methe home instinct, then I might concede that your fears were justified, but if, as you say, most women do not rove far but come home in answerto their heart's call, then men need not fear to cut the leash. " Withsome such words Ruth pulled Tom's flag from out her fortress where hehad planted it. As Tom made no reply she went on talking. "Once I had noexcuse for existence unless I married. My efforts were narrowed to thatone accomplishment. I sought marriage, desperately, to escape the stigmaof becoming a superfluous and unoccupied female. Today if I marry itwill be in answer to my great desire, and, whether married or not, abroader outlook and a deeper appreciation are mine. I believe thatworking hard for something worth while pays dividends to a womanalways. If I never have a home of my own, " Ruth went on, "and I maynot--spinsters, " she added playfully, "like the poor must always be withus--at least I have a trade by which I can be self-supporting. I'mbetter equipped whatever happens. Oh, I don't regret having gone forth. No, Tom, pioneers must expect to pay. I'm so convinced, " she burst fortheagerly, "that wider activities and broader outlooks for women generallyare a wise thing, that if I had a fortune left me I would spend it inestablishing trade-schools in little towns all over the country, likethe Carnegie libraries, so that all girls could have easy access toself-support. I'd make it the custom for girls to have a trade as wellas an education and athletic and parlor accomplishments. I'd unhamperwomen in every way I knew how, give them a training to use moderntools, and then I'd give them the tools. They won't tear down homeswith them. Don't be afraid of that. Instinct is too strong. They'llbuild better ones. "

My brother shook his head. "I give you up, Ruth, I give you up, "he said. 

"Don't do that, " she replied. "I'm like so many other girls in this age. Don't give us up. We want you. We need your conservatism to balance andsteady. We need our new freedom guided and directed. We're the newgeneration, Tom. We're the new spirit. There are hundreds--thousands--ofus. Don't give us up. " I seemed to see Ruth's army suddenly swarmingabout her as she spoke, and Ruth, starry-eyed and victorious, standingon the summit in their midst. 

CHAPTER XXXII

BOB DRAWS CONCLUSIONS TOO

It was Edith who told me the news about Mrs. Sewall. I ought to havebeen prepared for anything. Ever since Ruth had been employed assecretary to Mrs. Sewall there had been something mysterious about theirrelations. Ruth had never explained the details of her life in theSewall household--I had never inquired too particularly--but whenevershe referred to Mrs. Sewall there was a troubled and sort of wistfulexpression in her eyes which made me suspicious. She admired Mrs. Sewall, no doubt of that. She felt deep affection for her. Several timesshe had said to me during our intimate talks together, of which we hadhad a good many lately, "Oh, Lucy, I wish the ocean wasn't so wide. I'drun across for over a Sunday. " I knew, without asking, that Ruth wasthinking of Mrs. Sewall. She was living in London. 

Edith called me on the telephone early one Monday morning. Shefrequently is in Boston, shopping. From the hour, evidently shehad just arrived from Hilton. 

"Well, " she began excitedly, "what have you got to say?"

"Say? What about?"

"Haven't you seen the paper?" she demanded. 

"Not yet, " I had to confess. "I've been terribly rushed this morning. "

"You don't know what has happened, then?"

"No. What has? Out with it, " I retorted a little alarmed. Edith's voicewas high-pitched and strained. 

"The old lady Sewall has died. "

"Oh, I'm sorry, " I replied, relieved, however. 

"In London--a week ago, " went on Edith. 

"Really? What a shame! Does Ruth know?"

"She ought to. It rather affects her. "

"How's that?"

"How's that!" repeated Edith. "Good heavens, if you'd read your paperyou'd understand how. The old lady's will is published. It's terriblythrilling. "

The color mounted to my face. "What do you mean, Edith?"

"Never you mind. You go along and read for yourself, and then meet me atone o'clock--no, make it twelve. I've got to talk to some one--quick. Inever saw the article myself until I was on the train coming down. I'mjust about bursting. Good gracious, Lucy, hustle up, and make it eleveno'clock, sharp. "

We agreed on a meeting-place and I hung up the receiver, went upstairsto my room, sat down, and opened the paper. I found the article Edithreferred to easily enough. It was on the inside of the front pageprinted underneath large letters. It was appalling! The third sentenceof the headlines contained my sister's name. There must be somemistake. Wasn't such news as this borne by a lawyer with proper ceremonyand form, or at least delivered by mail, inside an envelope sealed withred wax? Ruth had known nothing of this three days ago when I called tosee her. It could not be true. All the way into Boston on the electriccar, I felt self-conscious and ill-at-ease. I was afraid some one I knewwould meet me, and refer to the newspaper announcement. I would disliketo confess, "I know no more about it than you. " I hate newspapernotoriety anyhow. 

Edith greeted me as if we hadn't met for years, kissed me ecstaticallyand grasped both my hands tight in hers. Her sparkling eyes expressedwhat the publicity of the hotel corridor, where we met, prevented herfrom proclaiming aloud. 

"Where can we go to be alone for half a minute?" she whispered. 

"Let's try in here, " I said, and we entered a deserted reception-room, and sat down in a bay-window. 

"Did you telephone to Ruth?" was Edith's first remark. 

I shook my head. "No. I didn't like to, " I said. 

"Nor I, " confessed Edith. "She's always been touchy with me on thesubject of Mrs. Sewall since the row. Isn't it too exciting?"

"Can it be legal, Edith?" I inquired. 

"Of course, silly. Wills aren't published until they're looked into. Legal? Of course it is. I always said Ruth would do something splendid, one of these days, and she has, she has--the rascal. "

"You've got so much money yourself, Edith, why does a little more in thefamily please you so?" I asked. Edith was extremely excited. 

"A little. It isn't a little. It's a _lot_. But it isn't just the money. It's more. It's what the money does. There has always been a kind ofpitying attitude toward us in Hilton since that Sewall affair of Ruth's, for all my efforts. This clears it up absolutely. Haven't you read theway the thing's worded? Wait a minute. " She opened her folded paper. "Here, I have it. " Her eyes knew exactly where to look. Ruth's nameappeared in the will at the very end of a long list of bequests tovarious charitable institutions. 

"Listen. 'All the rest, residue, and remainder of my property, wheresoever and whatsoever, including my house in New York City, myhouse in Hilton, Massachusetts, known as Grassmere; my furniture, books, pictures and jewels, I give, devise, and bequeath to the former fiancéeof my son, now deceased, in affectionate memory of our relations. Thisportion of my estate to be used and to be directed, according to thedictates of her own high discretion, during the term of her natural lifeand at her death to pass to her lawful issue. ' Did you ever hearanything to equal it?" demanded Edith. "Don't you see the old ladyrecognizes Ruth before the world? Don't you see, however humiliated Iwas at that distressing affair three or four summers ago, it's all wipedoff the slate now, by this? She makes Ruth her heir, Lucy. Don't yousee that? And she does it affectionately, too. I can't get over it! Idon't know what made the old veteran do such a thing. I don't care mucheither. All I know is, that we're fixed all right in Hilton society_now_. Grassmere Ruth's! Good heavens--think of it! Think of the powerin my hands, if only Ruth behaves, to pay back a few old scores. I onlywish Breck was alive. She'd marry him now, I guess, with all thisrecognition. I wonder whatever she'll do with Grassmere anyhow. "

"Turn it into some sort of institution for making women independenthuman beings, I'll wager. " I laughed, recalling Ruth's words of scarcelya fortnight ago. 

"If only she hadn't gotten so abnormal, and queer!" Edith sighed. "Perhaps this stroke of good luck will make her a little more like therest of us. We must all look out and not let Ruth do anything ridiculouswith this fortune of hers. "

* * * * *

Will and I went over to see Ruth that evening. 

"Why, hello!" she called down, surprised, through the tube, in answerto my ring. "Will and you! Really? Come right up. "

"She doesn't know, " I told Will, pushing open the heavy door andbeginning to mount. 

"Guess not, " agreed my husband. "Here's her evening paper in her box, untouched. "

We found Ruth just finishing with the dishes. The maid-of-all-work wasout, and Ruth was alone. She called to me to come back and help her, andsang out brightly for Will to amuse himself with the paper. He'dprobably find it downstairs in the box. 

Five minutes later Ruth slipped off her blue-checked apron, and wejoined Will by the low lamp in the living-room. My sister looked verypretty in a loose black velvet smock. Her hair was coiled into a simplelittle knot in the nape of her neck. There were a few slightly wavingstrands astray about her face. Her hands, still damp from recentdish-washing, were the color of pink coral. 

"I'm tired tonight, " she said, sighing audibly, and pulling herself upon the top of the high carved chest. She tucked a dull red pillow behindher head, and leaned back in the corner. "There! This is comfort, " shewent on. "Read the news out loud to me, Will, while I sit here andluxuriate. " She closed her eyes. 

"All right, " Will agreed. "By the way, " he broke off, as unconsciouslyas possible, a minute or so later, "Have you heard anything from Mrs. Sewall lately?"

There was a slight pause. The lady's name invariably clouded my sister'sbright spirit. She opened her eyes. They were wistful. 

"No, " she replied quietly, "I haven't. She's in England. Why do youask?"

"Oh, I was just wondering, " my husband replied, losing his splendidcourage. "I suppose you two got to be pretty good friends. "

"Yes, we did, " Ruth replied shortly. There was another pause. Then in alow, troubled voice Ruth added, "But not now. We're not friends now. Something happened. All her affection for me has died. I have never beenforgiven for something. "

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure, " belittled Will, making violent signs to meto announce the news we bore. 

I had a clipping in my shopping-bag cut from the morning paper. I tookit out of the envelope that contained it. 

"Ruth, " I began, "here's something I ran across today. "

The telephone interrupted sharply. 

"Just a minute, " she said, and slid down off the chest and went out intothe hall. "Hello, " I heard her say. "Hello, " and then in a changedvoice, "Oh, you?" A pause and then, "Really? Tonight?" Another pause, and more gently. "Of course you must. Of course I do, " and at last verytenderly, "Yes, I'll be right here. I'll be waiting. Good-by. "

I looked at Will, and he lifted his eyebrows. Ruth came back and stoodin the doorway. There was a peculiar, shining quality about herexpression. 

"That was Bob, " she said quietly. 

"Bob?" I exclaimed. 

"Bob Jennings?" ejaculated Will. 

Ruth nodded and smiled. Standing there before us, dressed simply in theplain black smock, cheeks flushed, eyes like stars, she reminded me ofsome rare stone in a velvet case. The bareness of the room, with itsfew genuine articles, set off the jewel-like brightness of my sister ina startling fashion. 

"You don't mean to say old Bob's turned up, " commented Will. 

"Tell us, " bluntly I demanded, "what in the world is Robert Jenningsdoing around here, Ruth?"

"Bob's been in town for several days, " she replied. "He has justtelephoned that he is called back on business. His train leaves in alittle over an hour. He's dropping in here in ten minutes. "

"Why, I didn't know you even wrote to each other, " I said. 

Ruth came over to the table and sat down in a low chair, stretching outher folded hands arms-length along the table's surface, and leaningtoward us. 

"I'm going to tell you two about it, " she announced with finality. "Iwrote to Bob, " she confessed, half proud, half apologetic. "I wrote toBob without any excuse at all, except that I wanted to tell him what I'dfound out. I wanted to tell him that I had discovered that this sort ofthing, " she opened her hands, and made a little gesture that includedeverything that those few small rooms of Oliver's epitomized, "that thissort of thing, " she resumed, "was what most women want more thananything else in the world. Any other activity was simply preparation, or courageous makeshift if this was denied. I made it easy for Bob, inmy letter, to answer me in the spirit of friendly argument if he chose, but he didn't. He came on instead. We're going to be married, " she said, in a voice as casual as if she were announcing that they were going outfor dinner. 

"You're going to be married?" I repeated. 

"Yes, " she nodded. "After all these years! Once, " she went on in atriumphant voice, "our fields of vision were so small that ourdifferences of opinion loomed up like insurmountable barriers. Now thedifferences are mere specks on our broadened outlooks. Oh, I know, " shewent on as if inspired, "I've been a long journey, simply to come backto Bob again. But it hasn't been in vain. There was no short cut to theperfect understanding that is Bob's and mine today. "

"And when, " timidly I inquired, "do you intend to be married, Ruth?"

My sister's expression clouded. She smiled, and shook her head. "I don'tknow, " she said, "I wish I did. Years are so precious when one isconcealing a little nest of gray hairs behind one's left ear. Bob and Ihave got to wait. You see Bob wasn't planning for this. He had some ideaa career would always satisfy me. He hasn't been saving. He has putabout all he has been able to earn into fighting for clean politics. Imyself haven't been able to lay by but a paltry thousand. Madge comeshome in May. I shall then probably have to look up another job formyself somewhere or other, while Bob's establishing himself and makingready for me out there. "

Will cleared his throat and coughed. He had simply stared until now. "Isuppose, " he said, as if in an attempt to lighten the conversation witha little light humor, "I suppose a legacy of some sort wouldn't proveunwelcome to you and Bob just about now. "

It must have struck Ruth as a stereotyped attempt at fun. But she smiledand replied in the same vein, "I think we'd know how to make use of aportion of it. " Then she rose. The door bell had rung sharply twice. "There he is, " she explained. "There's Bob now. I'll let him in. "

She went out into the hall and pressed the button that released the lockof the door three floors below. 

I knew how fleeting every minute of last hours before train-time can be. I motioned to Will, and when Ruth came back to us I said, "We'll justrun down the back way, Ruth. "

She flashed me an appreciative glance. "You don't need to, " shedeprecated. 

"Still, we will, " I assured her, and then I went over and kissed myradiant sister. 

Her face was illumined as it used to be years ago when Robert Jenningswas on his way to her. The same old tenderness gleamed in herlarger-visioned eyes. 

"When he comes read this together, " I said, and I slipped the envelope, with the clipping inside it, into her hands. 

Then Will and I went out through the kitchen, and down the back stairs. 

THE END