THE GOLDEN HOUSE

By Charles Dudley Warner

I

It was near midnight: The company gathered in a famous city studio wereunder the impression, diligently diffused in the world, that the end ofthe century is a time of license if not of decadence. The situation hadits own piquancy, partly in the surprise of some of those assembled atfinding themselves in bohemia, partly in a flutter of expectation ofseeing something on the border-line of propriety. The hour, the place, the anticipation of the lifting of the veil from an Oriental and ancientart, gave them a titillating feeling of adventure, of a moral hazardbravely incurred in the duty of knowing life, penetrating to its core. Opportunity for this sort of fruitful experience being rare outside themetropolis, students of good and evil had made the pilgrimage to thismidnight occasion from less-favored cities. Recondite scholars in thephysical beauty of the Greeks, from Boston, were there; fair womenfrom Washington, whose charms make the reputation of many a newspapercorrespondent; spirited stars of official and diplomatic life, who havemoments of longing to shine in some more languorous material paradise, had made a hasty flitting to be present at the ceremony, sustained bya slight feeling of bravado in making this exceptional descent. Butthe favored hundred spectators were mainly from the city-groups oflate diners, who fluttered in under that pleasurable glow which the redJacqueminot always gets from contiguity with the pale yellow Clicquot;theatre parties, a little jaded, and quite ready for something real andstimulating; men from the clubs and men from studios--representatives ofsociety and of art graciously mingled, since it is discovered that it iseasier to make art fashionable than to make fashion artistic. 

The vast, dimly lighted apartment was itself mysterious, a temple ofluxury quite as much as of art. Shadows lurked in the corners, the ribsof the roof were faintly outlined; on the sombre walls gleams of color, faces of loveliness and faces of pain, studies all of a mood or apassion, bits of shining brass, reflections from lustred ware strugglingout of obscurity; hangings from Fez or Tetuan, bits of embroidery, costumes in silk and in velvet, still having the aroma of balls ahundred years ago, the faint perfume of a scented society of ladiesand gallants; a skeleton scarcely less fantastic than the draped woodenmodel near it; heavy rugs of Daghestan and Persia, making the footfallssoundless on the floor; a fountain tinkling in a thicket of japonicasand azaleas; the stems of palmettoes, with their branches waving in theobscurity overhead; points of light here and there where a shaded lampshone on a single red rose in a blue Granada vase on a toppling stand, or on a mass of jonquils in a barbarous pot of Chanak-Kallessi; tackedhere and there on walls and hangings, colored memoranda of Capri and ofthe North Woods, the armor of knights, trophies of small-arms, crossedswords of the Union and the Confederacy, easels, paints, and palettes, and rows of canvases leaning against the wall-the studied litter, inshort, of a successful artist, whose surroundings contribute to thepopular conception of his genius. 

On the wall at one end of the apartment was stretched a white canvas; infront of it was left a small cleared space, on the edge of which, in theshadow, squatting on the floor, were four swarthy musicians in Orientalgarments, with a mandolin, a guitar, a ney, and a darabooka drum. Aboutthis cleared space, in a crescent, knelt or sat upon the rugs a coupleof rows of men in evening dress; behind them, seated in chairs, a groupof ladies, whose white shoulders and arms and animated faces flashedout in the semi-obscurity; and in their rear stood a crowd ofspectators--beautiful young gentlemen with vacant faces and the elevatedOxford shoulders, rosy youth already blase to all this world can offer, and gray-headed men young again in the prospect of a new sensation. Sothey kneel or stand, worshipers before the shrine, expecting the adventof the Goddess of AEsthetic Culture. 

The moment has come. There is a tap on the drum, a tuning of thestrings, a flash of light from the rear of the room inundates the whitecanvas, and suddenly a figure is poised in the space, her shadow castupon the glowing background. 

It is the Spanish dancer!

The apparition evokes a flutter of applause. It is a superb figure, cladin a high tight bodice and long skirts simply draped so as to showevery motion of the athletic limbs. She seems, in this pose and light, supernaturally tall. Through her parted lips white teeth gleam, and shesmiles. Is it a smile of anticipated, triumph, or of contempt? Is it thesmile of the daughter of Herodias, or the invitation of a 'ghazeeyeh'?She pauses. Shall she surprise, or shock, or only please? What shall theart that is older than the pyramids do for these kneeling Christians?The drum taps, the ney pipes, the mandolin twangs, her arms areextended--the castanets clink, a foot is thrust out, the bosom heaves, the waist trembles. What shall it be--the old serpent dance of the Nile, or the posturing of decorous courtship when the olives are purple in thetime of the grape harvest? Her head, wreathed with coils of black hair, a red rose behind the left ear, is thrown back. The eyes flash, thereis a snakelike movement of the limbs, the music hastens slowly inunison with the quickening pulse, the body palpitates, seems to flashinvitation like the eyes, it turns, it twists, the neck is thrustforward, it is drawn in, while the limbs move still slowly, tentatively;suddenly the body from the waist up seems to twist round, with the waistas a pivot, in a flash of athletic vigor, the music quickens, the armsmove more rapidly to the click of the heated castenets, the steps aremore pronounced, the whole woman is agitated, bounding, pulsing withphysical excitement. It is a Maenad in an access of gymnastic energy. Yes, it is gymnastics; it is not grace; it is scarcely alluring. Yetit is a physical triumph. While the spectators are breathless, the furyceases, the music dies, and the Spaniard sinks into a chair, pantingwith triumph, and inclines her dark head to the clapping of hands andthe bravos. The kneelers rise; the spectators break into chatteringgroups; the ladies look at the dancer with curious eyes; a younggentleman with the elevated Oxford shoulders leans upon the arm of herchair and fans her. The pose is correct; it is the somewhat awkwardtribute of culture to physical beauty. 

To be on speaking terms with the phenomenon was for the moment adistinction. The young ladies wondered if it would be proper to goforward and talk with her. 

"Why not?" said a wit. "The Duke of Donnycastle always shakes hands withthe pugilists at a mill. "

"It is not so bad"--the speaker was a Washington beauty in an eveningdress that she would have condemned as indecorous for the dancer it isnot so bad as I--"

"Expected?" asked her companion, a sedate man of thirty-five, with thecynical air of a student of life. 

"As I feared, " she added, quickly. "I have always had a curiosity toknow what these Oriental dances mean. "

"Oh, nothing in particular, now. This was an exhibition dance. Of courseits origin, like all dancing, was religious. The fault I find with itis that it lacks seriousness, like the modern exhibition of the dancingdervishes for money. "

"Do you think, Mr. Mavick, that the decay of dancing is the reason ourreligion lacks seriousness? We are in Lent now, you know. Does this seemto you a Lenten performance?"

"Why, yes, to a degree. Anything that keeps you up till three o'clock inthe morning has some penitential quality. "

"You give me a new view, Mr. Mavick. I confess that I did not expect toassist at what New Englanders call an 'evening meeting. ' I thought Eroswas the deity of the dance. "

"That, Mrs. Lamon, is a vulgar error. It is an ancient form of worship. Virtue and beauty are the same thing--the two graces. "

"What a nice apothegm! It makes religion so easy and agreeable. "

"As easy as gravitation. "

"Dear me, Mr. Mavick, I thought this was a question of levitation. Youare upsetting all my ideas. I shall not have the comfort of repenting ofthis episode in Lent. "

"Oh yes; you can be sorry that the dancing was not more alluring. "

Meantime there was heard the popping of corks. Venetian glasses filledwith champagne were quaffed under the blessing of sparkling eyes, younggirls, almond-eyed for the occasion, in the costume of Tokyo, handedround ices, and the hum of accelerated conversation filled the studio. 

"And your wife didn't come?"

"Wouldn't, " replied Jack Delancy, with a little bow, before he raisedhis glass. And then added, "Her taste isn't for this sort of thing. "

The girl, already flushed with the wine, blushed a little--Jack thoughthe had never seen her look so dazzlingly handsome--as she said, "And youthink mine is?"

"Bless me, no, I didn't mean that; that is, you know"--Jackdidn't exactly see his way out of the dilemma--"Edith is a littleold-fashioned; but what's the harm in this, anyway?"

"I did not say there was any, " she replied, with a smile at hisembarrassment. "Only I think there are half a dozen women in the roomwho could do it better, with a little practice. It isn't as Oriental asI thought it would be. "

"I cannot say as to that. I know Edith thinks I've gone into the depthsof the Orient. But, on the whole, I'm glad--" Jack stopped on the vergeof speaking out of his better nature. 

"Now don't be rude again. I quite understand that she is not here. "

The dialogue was cut short by a clapping of hands. The spectators tooktheir places again, the lights were lowered, the illumination was turnedon the white canvas, and the dancer, warmed with wine and adulation, took a bolder pose, and, as her limbs began to move, sang a wild Moorishmelody in a shrill voice, action and words flowing together into thepassion of the daughter of tents in a desert life. It was all vigorous, suggestive, more properly religious, Mavick would have said, and theapplause was vociferous. 

More wine went about. There was another dance, and then another, a slowlanguid movement, half melancholy and full of sorrow, if one might saythat of a movement, for unrepented sin; a gypsy dance this, accompaniedby the mournful song of Boabdil, "The Last Sigh of the Moor. " Andsuddenly, when the feelings of the spectators were melted to tenderregret, a flash out of all this into a joyous defiance, a wooing ofpleasure with smiling lips and swift feet, with the clash of cymbals andthe quickened throb of the drum. And so an end with the dawn of a newday. 

It was not yet dawn, however, for the clocks were only striking threeas the assembly, in winter coats and soft wraps, fluttered out to itscarriages, chattering and laughing, with endless good-nights in thelanguages of France, Germany, and Spain. 

The streets were as nearly deserted as they ever are; here and there alumbering market-wagon from Jersey, an occasional street-car withits tinkling bell, rarer still the rush of a trembling train on theelevated, the voice of a belated reveler, a flitting female figure at astreet corner, the roll of a livery hack over the ragged pavement. Butmainly the noise of the town was hushed, and in the sharp air the stars, far off and uncontaminated, glowed with a pure lustre. 

Farther up town it was quite still, and in one of the noble houses inthe neighborhood of the Park sat Edith Delancy, married not quite ayear, listening for the roll of wheels and the click of a night-key. 

II

Everybody liked John Corlear Delancy, and this in spite of himself, forno one ever knew him to make any effort to incur either love or hate. The handsome boy was a favorite without lifting his eyebrows, and hesauntered through the university, picking his easy way along an electivecourse, winning the affectionate regard of every one with whom he camein contact. And this was not because he lacked quality, or was merelyeasy-going and negative or effeminate, for the same thing happened tohim when he went shooting in the summer in the Rockies. The cowboys andthe severe moralists of the plains, whose sedate business in life is toget the drop on offensive persons, regarded him as a brother. It isn'ta bad test of personal quality, this power to win the loyalty of men whohave few or none of the conventional virtues. These non-moral enforcersof justice--as they understood it liked Jack exactly as his friends inthe New York clubs liked him--and perhaps the moral standard of approvalof the one was as good as the other. 

Jack was a very good shot and a fair rider, and in the climate ofEngland he might have taken first-rate rank in athletics. But he hadnever taken first-rate rank in anything, except good-fellowship. He hada great many expensive tastes, which he could not afford to indulge, except in imagination. The luxury of a racing-stable, or a yacht, or alibrary of scarce books bound by Paris craftsmen was denied him. Thosewho account for failures in life by a man's circumstances, and not bya lack in the man himself, which is always the secret of failure, saidthat Jack was unfortunate in coming into a certain income of twentythousand a year. This was just enough to paralyze effort, and not enoughto permit a man to expand in any direction. It is true that he wasrelated to millions and moved in a millionaire atmosphere, but thesemillions might never flow into his bank account. They were not in handto use, and they also helped to paralyze effort--like black clouds ofan impending shower that may pass around, but meantime keeps the watcherindoors. 

The best thing that Jack Delancy ever did, for himself, was to marryEdith Fletcher. The wedding, which took place some eight months beforethe advent of the Spanish dancer, was a surprise to many, for thegirl had even less fortune than Jack, and though in and of his societyentirely, was supposed to have ideals. Her family, indeed, was an oldone on the island, and was prominent long before the building of thestone bridge on Canal Street over the outlet of Collect Pond. Those whoknew Edith well detected in her that strain of moral earnestness whichmade the old Fletchers such stanch and trusty citizens. The wonder wasnot that Jack, with his easy susceptibility to refined beauty, shouldhave been attracted to her, or have responded to a true instinct ofwhat was best for him, but that Edith should have taken up with such aperfect type of the aimlessness of the society strata of modern life. The wonder, however, was based upon a shallow conception of the natureof woman. It would have been more wonderful if the qualities thatendeared Jack to college friends and club men, to the mighty sportsmenwho do not hesitate, in the clubs, to devastate Canada and the UnitedStates of big game, and to the border ruffians of Dakota, should nothave gone straight to the tender heart of a woman of ideals. And when inall history was there a woman who did not believe, when her heart wentwith respect for certain manly traits, that she could inspire and lift aman into a noble life?

The silver clock in the breakfast-room was striking ten, and Edith wasalready seated at the coffee-urn, when Jack appeared. She was as freshas a rose, and greeted him with a bright smile as he came behind herchair and bent over for the morning kiss--a ceremony of affection which, if omitted, would have left a cloud on the day for both of them, andwhich Jack always declared was simply a necessity, or the coffee wouldhave no flavor. But when a man has picked a rose, it is always a sortof climax which is followed by an awkward moment, and Jack sat down withthe air of a man who has another day to get through with. 

"Were you amused with the dancing--this morning?"

"So, so, " said Jack, sipping his coffee. "It was a stunning place forit, that studio; you'd have liked that. The Lamons and Mavick and a lotof people from the provinces were there. The company was more fun thanthe dance, especially to a fellow who has seen how good it can be andhow bad in its home. "

"You have a chance to see the Spanish dancer again, under properauspices, " said Edith, without looking up. 

"How's that?"

"We are invited by Mrs. Brown--"

"The mother of the Bible class at St. Philip's?"

"Yes--to attend a charity performance for the benefit of the FemaleWaifs' Refuge. She is to dance. "

"Who? Mrs. Brown?"

Edith paid no attention to this impertinence. "They are to make anartificial evening at eleven o'clock in the morning. "

"They must have got hold of Mavick's notion that this dance is religiousin its origin. Do you, know if the exercises will open with prayer?"

"Nonsense, Jack. You know I don't intend to go. I shall send a smallcheck. "

"Well, draw it mild. But isn't this what I'm accused of doing--shirkingmy duty of personal service by a contribution?"

"Perhaps. But you didn't have any of that shirking feeling last night, did you?"

Jack laughed, and ran round to give the only reply possible to sucha gibe. These breakfast interludes had not lost piquancy in all thesemonths. "I'm half a mind to go to this thing. I would, if it didn'tbreak up my day so. "

"As for instance?"

"Well, this morning I have to go up to the riding-school to see ahorse--Storm; I want to try him. And then I have to go down to Twist'sand see a lot of Japanese drawings he's got over. Do you know thatthe birds and other animals those beggars have been drawing, whichwe thought were caricatures, are the real thing? They have eyes sharpenough to see things in motion--flying birds and moving horses whichwe never caught till we put the camera on them. Awfully curious. Then Ishall step into the club a minute, and--"

"Be in at lunch? Bess is coming. "

"Don't wait lunch. I've a lot to do. "

Edith followed him with her eyes, a little wistfully; she heard theouter door close, and still sat at the table, turning over the pile ofnotes at her plate, and thinking of many things--things that it beganto dawn upon her mind could not be done, and things of immediate urgencythat must be done. Life did not seem quite such a simple problem to heras it had looked a year ago. That there is nothing like experiment toclear the vision is the general idea, but oftener it is experiencethat perplexes. Indeed, Edith was thinking that some things seemed mucheasier to her before she had tried them. 

As she sat at the table with a faultless morning-gown, with a bunch ofEnglish violets in her bosom, an artist could have desired no bettersubject. Many people thought her eyes her best feature; they were largebrown eyes, yet not always brown, green at times, liquid, but neveruncertain, apt to have a smile in them, yet their chief appealingcharacteristic was trustfulness, a pure sort of steadfastness, thatalways conveyed the impression of a womanly personal interest in theperson upon whom they were fixed. They were eyes that haunted one like aremembered strain of music. The lips were full, and the mouth was drawnin such exquisite lines that it needed the clear-cut and emphasizedchin to give firmness to its beauty. The broad forehead, with archingeyebrows, gave an intellectual cast to a face the special stamp of whichwas purity. The nose, with thin open nostrils, a little too strong forbeauty, together with the chin, gave the impression of firmness andcourage; but the wonderful eyes, the inviting mouth, so modified thisthat the total impression was that of high spirit and great sweetnessof character. It was the sort of face from which one might expectpassionate love or unflinching martyrdom. Her voice had a quality thememory of which lingered longer even than the expression of her eyes; itwas low, and, as one might say, a fruity voice, not quite clear, thoughsweet, as if veiled in femineity. This note of royal womanhood was alsoin her figure, a little more than medium in height, and full of naturalgrace. Somehow Edith, with all these good points, had not thereputation of a belle or a beauty--perhaps for want of some artificialsplendor--but one could not be long in her company without feelingthat she had great charm, without which beauty becomes insipid and evencommonplace, and with which the plainest woman is attractive. 

Edith's theory of life, if one may so dignify the longings of a younggirl, had been very simple, and not at all such as would be selected bythe heroine of a romance. She had no mission, nor was she afflictedby that modern form of altruism which is a yearning for notoriety byconspicuous devotion to causes and reforms quite outside her normalsphere of activity. A very sincere person, with strong sympathy forhumanity tempered by a keen perception of the humorous side of things, she had a purpose, perhaps not exactly formulated, of making the mostout of her own life, not in any outward and shining career, but by adevelopment of herself in the most helpful and harmonious relations toher world. And it seemed to her, though she had never philosophized it, that a marriage such as she believed she had made was the woman's way tothe greatest happiness and usefulness. In this she followed thedictates of a clear mind and a warm heart. If she had reasoned aboutit, considering how brief life is, and how small can be any singlecontribution to a better social condition, she might have felt morestrongly the struggle against nature, and the false position involved inthe new idea that marriage is only a kind of occupation, instead of anordinance decreed in the very constitution of the human race. With themere instinct of femineity she saw the falseness of the assumption thatthe higher life for man or woman lies in separate and solitary pathsthrough the wilderness of this world. To an intelligent angel, seatedon the arch of the heavens, the spectacle of the latter-daypseudo-philosophic and economic dribble about the doubtful expediencyof having a wife, and the failure of marriage, must seem as ludicrous aswould a convention of birds or of flowers reasoning that the processesof nature had continued long enough. Edith was simply a natural woman, who felt rather than reasoned that in a marriage such as her heartapproved she should make the most of her life. 

But as she sat here this morning this did not seem to be so simple amatter as it had appeared. It began to be suspected that in order tomake the most of one's self it was necessary to make the most of manyother persons and things. The stream in its own channel flowed along notwithout vexations, friction and foaming and dashings from bank to bank;but it became quite another and a more difficult movement when itwas joined to another stream, with its own currents and eddies andimpetuosities and sluggishness, constantly liable to be deflected if notput altogether on another course. Edith was not putting it in thisform as she turned over her notes of invitation and appointments andengagements, but simply wondering where the time for her life was tocome in, and for Jack's life, which occupied a much larger space than itseemed to occupy in the days before it was joined to hers. Very curiousthis discovery of what another's life really is. Of course the societylife must go on, that had always gone on, for what purpose no one couldtell, only it was the accepted way of disposing of time; and now therewere the dozen ways in which she was solicited to show her interest inthose supposed to be less fortunate in life than herself-the alleviationof the miseries of her own city. And with society, and charity, andsympathy with the working classes, and her own reading, and a littledrawing and painting, for which she had some talent, what became of thatcomradeship with Jack, that union of interests and affections, which wasto make her life altogether so high and sweet?

This reverie, which did not last many minutes, and was interrupted bythe abrupt moving away of Edith to the writing-desk in her own room, wascaused by a moment's vivid realization of what Jack's interests in lifewere. Could she possibly make them her own? And if she did, what wouldbecome of her own ideals?

III

It was indeed a busy day for Jack. Great injustice would be done himif it were supposed that he did not take himself and his occupationsseriously. His mind was not disturbed by trifles. He knew that he hadon the right sort of four-in-hand necktie, with the appropriate pin ofpear-shaped pearl, and that he carried the cane of the season. Thesethings come by a sort of social instinct, are in the air, as it were, and do not much tax the mind. He had to hasten a little to keep hishalf-past-eleven o'clock appointment at Stalker's stables, and when hearrived several men of his set were already waiting, who were also busymen, and had made a little effort to come round early and assist Jack inmaking up his mind about the horse. 

When Mr. Stalker brought out Storm, and led him around to show hisaction, the connoisseurs took on a critical attitude, an attitude ofjudgment, exhibited not less in the poise of the head and the seriousface than in the holding of the cane and the planting of legs wideapart. And the attitude had a refined nonchalance which professionalhorsemen scarcely ever attain. Storm could not have received morecritical and serious attention if he had been a cooked terrapin. Hecould afford to stand this scrutiny, and he seemed to move about withthe consciousness that he knew more about being a horse than his judges. 

Storm was, in fact, a splendid animal, instinct with life from his thinflaring nostril to his small hoof; black as a raven, his highly groomedskin took the polish of ebony, and showed the play of his powerfulmuscles, and, one might say, almost the nervous currents that thrilledhis fine texture. His large, bold eyes, though not wicked, flamed nowand then with an energy and excitement that gave ample notice that hewould obey no master who had not stronger will and nerve than his own. It was a tribute to Jack's manliness that, when he mounted him for aturn in the ring, Storm seemed to recognize the fine quality of bothseat and hand, and appeared willing to take him on probation. 

"He's got good points, " said Mr. Herbert Albert Flick, "but I'd like astraighter back. "

"I'll be hanged, though, Jack, " was Mr. Mowbray Russell's comment, "ifI'd ride him in the Park before he's docked. Say what you like aboutaction, a horse has got to have style. "

"Moves easy, falls off a little too much to suit me in the quarter, "suggested Mr. Pennington Docstater, sucking the head of his cane. "Howabout his staying quality, Stalker?"

"That's just where he is, Mr. Docstater; take him on the road, he's astayer for all day. Goes like a bird. He'll take you along at the rateof nine miles in forty-five minutes as long as you want to sit there. "

"Jump?" queried little Bobby Simerton, whose strong suit at the club wastalking about meets and hunters. 

"Never refused anything I put him at, " replied Stalker; "takes everyfence as if it was the regular thing. "

Storm was in this way entirely taken to pieces, praised and disparaged, in a way to give Stalker, it might be inferred from his manner, ahigh opinion of the knowledge of these young gentlemen. "It takes agentleman, " in fact, Stalker said, "to judge a hoss, for a good hossis a gentleman himself. " It was much discussed whether Storm would dobetter for the Park or for the country, whether it would be better toput him in the field or keep him for a roadster. It might, indeed, beinferred that Jack had not made up his mind whether he should buy ahorse for use in the Park or for country riding. Even more than thismight be inferred from the long morning's work, and that was thatwhile Jack's occupation was to buy a horse, if he should buy one hisoccupation would be gone. He was known at the club to be looking forthe right sort of a horse, and that he knew what he wanted, and was noteasily satisfied; and as long as he occupied this position he was anobject of interest to sellers and to his companions. 

Perhaps Mr. Stalker understood this, for when the buyers had gone heremarked to the stable-boy, "Mr. Delancy, he don't want to buy no hoss. "

When the inspection of the horse was finished it was time for lunch, andthe labors of the morning were felt to justify this indulgence, thougheach of the party had other engagements, and was too busy to waste thetime. They went down to the Knickerbocker. 

The lunch was slight, but its ordering took time and consideration, asit ought, for nothing is so destructive of health and mental tone asthe snatching of a mid-day meal at a lunch counter from a bill of fareprepared by God knows whom. Mr. Russell said that if it took time tobuy a horse, it ought to take at least equal time and care to select thefodder that was to make a human being wretched or happy. Indeed, a manwho didn't give his mind to what he ate wouldn't have any mind by-and-byto give to anything. This sentiment had the assent of the table, and wasillustrated by varied personal experience; and a deep feeling prevailed, a serious feeling, that in ordering and eating the right sort of lunch achief duty of a useful day had been discharged. 

It must not be imagined from this, however, that the conversation wasabout trifles. Business men and operators could have learned somethingabout stocks and investments, and politicians about city politics. Mademoiselle Vivienne, the new skirt dancer, might have been surprisedat the intimate tone in which she was alluded to, but she could have gotsome useful hints in effects, for her judges were cosmopolitans who hadseen the most suggestive dancing in all parts of the world. It came outincidentally that every one at table had been "over" in the course ofthe season, not for any general purpose, not as a sightseer, but to lookat somebody's stables, or to attend a wedding, or a sale of etchings, orto see his bootmaker, or for a little shooting in Scotland, just as onemight run down to Bar Harbor or Tuxedo. It was only an incident in abusy season; and one of the fruits of it appeared to be as perfect aknowledge of the comparative merits of all the ocean racers and captainsas of the English and American stables and the trainers. One notinformed of the progress of American life might have been surprised tosee that the fad is to be American, with a sort of patronage of thingsand ways foreign, especially of things British, a large continentalkind of attitude, begotten of hearing much about Western roughing it, of Alaska, of horse-breeding and fruit-raising on the Pacific, of theColorado River Canon. As for stuffs, well yes, London. As for style, youcan't mistake a man who is dressed in New York. 

The wine was a white Riesling from California. Docstater said hisattention had been called to it by Tom Dillingham at the Union, who hada ranch somewhere out there. It was declared to be sound and palatable;you know what you are drinking. This led to a learned discussion of thefuture of American wines, and a patriotic impulse was given to thetrade by repeated orders. It was declared that in American wines lay thesolution of the temperance question. Bobby Simerton said that Burgundywas good enough for him, but Russell put him down, as he saw the lightyellow through his glass, by the emphatic affirmation that plenty ofcheap American well-made wine would knock the bottom out of all thesentimental temperance societies and shut up the saloons, dry up allthose not limited to light wines and beer. It was agreed that thesaloons would have to go. 

This satisfactory conclusion was reached before the coffee came on andthe cigarettes, and the sound quality of the Riesling was emphasized bya pony of cognac. 

It is fortunate when the youth of a country have an ideal. No nation istruly great without a common ideal, capable of evoking enthusiasm andcalling out its energies. And where are we to look for this if not inthe youth, and especially in those to whom fortune and leisure give anopportunity of leadership? It is they who can inspire by their example, and by their pursuits attract others to a higher conception of thenational life. It may take the form of patriotism, as in this country, pride in the great republic, jealousy of its honor and credit, eagernessfor its commanding position among the nations, patriotism which willshow itself, in all the ardor of believing youth, in the administrationof law, in the purity of politics, in honest local government, and in anoble aspiration for the glory of the country. It may take the formof culture, of a desire that the republic-liable, like all self-madenations, to worship wealth-should be distinguished not so much by avulgar national display as by an advance in the arts, the sciences, theeducation that adorns life, in the noble spirit of humanity, and in thenobler spirit of recognition of a higher life, which will be contentwith no civilization that does not tend to make the country for everycitizen a better place to live in today than it was yesterday. Happy isthe country, happy the metropolis of that country, whose fortunate youngmen have this high conception of citizenship!

What is the ideal of their country which these young men cherish? Therewas a moment--was there not for them?--in the late war for the Union, when the republic was visible to them in its beauty, in its peril, andin a passion of devotion they were eager--were they not?--to follow theflag and to give their brief lives to its imperishable glory. Nothing isimpossible to a nation with an ideal like that. It was this flame thatran over Europe in the struggle of France against a world in arms. Itwas this national ideal that was incarnate in Napoleon, as every greatidea that moves the world is sooner or later incarnated. What was itthat we saw in Washington on his knees at Valley Forge, or blazing withwrath at the cowardice on Monmouth? in Lincoln entering Richmond withbowed head and infinite sorrow and yearning in his heart? An embodimentof a great national idea and destiny. 

In France this ideal burns yet like a flame, and is still evoked bya name. It is the passion of glory, but the desire of a nation, andNapoleon was the incarnation of passion. They say that he is not dead asothers are dead, but that he may come again and ride at the head of hislegions, and strike down the enemies of France; that his bugle will callthe youth from every hamlet, that the roll of his drum will transformFrance into a camp, and the grenadiers will live again and ride withhim, amid hurrahs, and streaming tears, and shouts of "My Emperor! Oh, my Emperor!" Is it only a legend? But the spirit is there; not a boybut dreams of it, not a girl but knots the thought in with her holidaytricolor. That is to have an abiding ideal, and patiently to hold it, inisolation, in defeat, even in an overripe civilization. 

We believe--do we not?--in other triumphs than those of the drum andthe sword. Our aspirations for the republic are for a nobler example ofhuman society than the world has yet seen. Happy is the country, and themetropolis of the country, whose youth, gilded only by their virtues, have these aspirations. 

When the party broke up, the street lamps were beginning to twinkle hereand there, and Jack discovered to his surprise that the Twiss businesswould have to go over to another day. It was such a hurrying life in NewYork. There was just time for a cup of tea at Mrs. Trafton's. Everybodydropped in there after five o'clock, when the duties of the day wereover, with the latest news, and to catch breath before rushing into theprogram of the evening. 

There were a dozen ladies in the drawing-room when Jack entered, and hisfirst impression was that the scream of conversation would be harder totalk against than a Wagner opera; but he presently got his cup of tea, and found a snug seat in the chimney-corner by Miss Tavish; indeed, theymoved to it together, and so got a little out of the babel. Jack thoughtthe girl looked even prettier in her walking-dress than when he saw herat the studio; she had style, there was no doubt about that; and then, while there was no invitation in her manner, one felt that she was awoman to whom one could easily say things, and who was liable at anymoment to say things interesting herself. 

"Is this your first appearance since last night, Mr. Delancy?"

"Oh no; I've been racing about on errands all day. It is very restful tosit down by a calm person. "

"Well, I never shut my eyes till nine o'clock. I kept seeing thatSpanish woman whirl around and contort, and--do you mind my tellingyou?--I couldn't just help it, I" (leaning forward to Jack) "got up andtried it before the glass. There! Are you shocked?"

"Not so much shocked as excluded, " Jack dared to say. "But do youthink--". 

"Yes, I know. There isn't anything that an American girl cannot do. I'vemade up my mind to try it. You'll see. "

"Will I?"

"No, you won't. Don't flatter yourself. Only girls. I don't want menaround. "

"Neither do I, " said Jack, honestly. 

Miss Tavish laughed. "You are too forward, Mr. Delancy. Perhaps sometime, when we have learned, we will let in a few of you, to look inat the door, fifty dollars a ticket, for some charity. I don't see whydancing isn't just as good an accomplishment as playing the harp in aGreek dress. "

"Nor do I; I'd rather see it. Besides, you've got Scripture warrantfor dancing off the heads of people. And then it is such a sweet wayof doing a charity. Dancing for the East Side is the best thing I haveheard yet. "

"You needn't mock. You won't when you find out what it costs you. "

"What are you two plotting?" asked Mrs. Trafton, coming across to thefireplace. 

"Charity, " said Jack, meekly. 

"Your wife was here this morning to get me to go and see some of herfriends in Hester Street. "

"You went?"

"Not today. It's awfully interesting, but I've been. "

"Edith seems to be devoted to that sort of thing, " remarked Miss Tavish. 

"Yes, " said Jack, slowly, "she's got the idea that sympathy is betterthan money; she says she wants to try to understand other people'slives. "

"Goodness knows, I'd like to understand my own. "

"And were you trying, Mr. Delancy, to persuade Miss Tavish into thatsort of charity?"

"Oh dear, no, " said Jack; "I was trying to interest the East End insomething, for the benefit of Miss Tavish. "

"You'll find that's one of the most expensive remarks you ever made, "retorted Miss Tavish, rising to go. 

"I wish Lily Tavish would marry, " said Mrs. Trafton, watching the girl'sslender figure as it passed through the portiere; "she doesn't know whatto do with herself. "

Jack shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, she'd be a lovely wife for somebody;"and then he added, as if reminiscently, "if he could afford it. Good-by. "

"That's just a fashion of talking. I never knew a time when so manypeople afforded to do what they wanted to do. But you men are all alike. Good-by. "

When Jack reached home it was only a little after six o'clock, and asthey were not to go out to dine till eight, he had a good hour to restfrom the fatigues of the day, and run over the evening papers anddip into the foreign periodicals to catch a topic or two for thedinner-table. 

"Yes, sir, " said the maid, "Mrs. Delancy came in an hour ago. "

IV

Edith's day had been as busy as Jack's, notwithstanding she had putaside several things that demanded her attention. She denied herselfthe morning attendance on the Literature Class that was raking over theeighteenth century. This week Swift was to be arraigned. The last timewhen Edith was present it was Steele. The judgment, on the whole, hadbeen favorable, and there had been a little stir of tenderness among thebonnets over Thackeray's comments on the Christian soldier. It seemedto bring him near to them. "Poor Dick Steele!" said the essayist. Edithdeclared afterwards that the large woman who sat next to her, Mrs. Jerry Hollowell, whispered to her that she always thought his namewas Bessemer; but this was, no doubt, a pleasantry. It was a beautifulessay, and so stimulating! And then there was bouillon, and time to lookabout at the toilets. Poor Steele, it would have cheered his lifeto know that a century after his death so many beautiful women, soexquisitely dressed, would have been concerning themselves about him. The function lasted two hours. Edith made a little calculation. In fiveminutes she could have got from the encyclopaedia all the facts in theessay, and while her maid was doing her hair she could have read fivetimes as much of Steele as the essayist read. And, somehow, she was notstimulated, for the impression seemed to prevail that now Steele wasdisposed of. And she had her doubts whether literature would, after all, prove to be a permanent social distraction. But Edith may have been toosevere in her judgment. There was probably not a woman in the class thatday who did not go away with the knowledge that Steele was an author, and that he lived in the eighteenth century. The hope for the country isin the diffusion of knowledge. 

Leaving the class to take care of Swift, Edith went to the managers'meeting at the Women's Hospital, where there was much to do of verypractical work, pitiful cases of women and children suffering through nofault of their own, and money more difficult to raise than sympathy. Themeeting took time and thought. Dismissing her carriage, and relying onelevated and surface cars, Edith then took a turn on the East Side, incompany with a dispensary physician whose daily duty called her intothe worst parts of the town. She had a habit of these tours before hermarriage, and, though they were discouragingly small in direct results, she gained a knowledge of city life that was of immense service in hergeneral charity work. Jack had suggested the danger of these excursions, but she had told him that a woman was less liable to insult in the EastSide than in Fifth Avenue, especially at twilight, not because the EastSide was a nice quarter of the city, but because it was accustomed tosee women who minded their own business go about unattended, and theprowlers had not the habit of going there. She could even relate casesof chivalrous protection of "ladies" in some of the worst streets. 

What Edith saw this day, open to be seen, was not so much sin asignorance of how to live, squalor, filthy surroundings acquiesced inas the natural order, wonderful patience in suffering and deprivation, incapacity, ill-paid labor, the kindest spirit of sympathy andhelpfulness of the poor for each other. Perhaps that which made thedeepest impression on her was the fact that such conditions of livingcould seem natural to those in them, and that they could get so muchenjoyment of life in situations that would have been simple misery toher. 

The visitors were in a foreign city. The shop signs were in foreigntongues; in some streets all Hebrew. On chance news-stands weredisplayed newspapers in Russian, Bohemian, Arabic, Italian, Hebrew, Polish, German-none in English. The theatre bills were in Hebrew orother unreadable type. The sidewalks and the streets swarmed with noisydealers in every sort of second-hand merchandise--vegetables that hadseen a better day, fish in shoals. It was not easy to make one's waythrough the stands and push-carts and the noisy dickering buyers andsellers, who haggled over trifles and chaffed good-naturedly and werestrictly intent on their own affairs. No part of the town is morecrowded or more industrious. If youth is the hope of the country, thesight was encouraging, for children were in the gutters, on the housesteps, at all the windows. The houses seemed bursting with humanity, andin nearly every room of the packed tenements, whether the inmateswere sick or hungry, some sort of industry was carried on. In the dampbasements were junk-dealers, rag-pickers, goose-pickers. In one noisomecellar, off an alley, among those sorting rags, was an old woman ofeighty-two, who could reply to questions only in a jargon, too proudto beg, clinging to life, earning a few cents a day in this fouloccupation. But life is sweet even with poverty and rheumatism andeighty years. Did her dull eyes, turning inward, see the CarpathianHills, a free girlhood in village drudgery and village sports, then aromance of love, children, hard work, discontent, emigration to a NewWorld of promise? And now a cellar by day, the occupation of cuttingrags for carpets, and at night a corner in a close and crowded room on aflock bed not fit for a dog. And this was a woman's life. 

Picturesque foreign women going about with shawls over their headsand usually a bit of bright color somewhere, children at their games, hawkers loudly crying their stale wares, the click of sewing-machinesheard through a broken window, everywhere animation, life, exchangeof rough or kindly banter. Was it altogether so melancholy as it mightseem? Not everybody was hopelessly poor, for here were lawyers' signsand doctors' signs--doctors in whom the inhabitants had confidencebecause they charged all they could get for their services--and thrivingpawnbrokers' shops. There were parish schools also--perhaps others; andoff some dark alley, in a room on the ground-floor, could be heardthe strident noise of education going on in high-voiced study andrecitation. Nor were amusements lacking--notices of balls, dancing thisevening, and ten-cent shows in palaces of legerdemain and deformity. 

It was a relenting day in March; patches of blue sky overhead, and thesun had some quality in its shining. The children and the caged birdsat the open windows felt it-and there were notes of music here and thereabove the traffic and the clamor. Turning down a narrow alley, with agutter in the centre, attracted by festive sounds, the visitors cameinto a small stone-paved court with a hydrant in the centre surroundedby tall tenement-houses, in the windows of which were stuffed thegarments that would no longer hold together to adorn the person. Here anItalian girl and boy, with a guitar and violin, were recalling la bellaNapoli, and a couple of pretty girls from the court were footing it asmerrily as if it were the grape harvest. A woman opened a lower roomdoor and sharply called to one of the dancing girls to come in, whenEdith and the doctor appeared at the bottom of the alley, but her tonechanged when she recognized the doctor, and she said, by way of apology, that she didn't like her daughter to dance before strangers. Sothe music and the dance went on, even little dots of girls and boysshuffling about in a stiff-legged fashion, with applause from allthe windows, and at last a largesse of pennies--as many as fivealtogether--for the musicians. And the sun fell lovingly upon the prettyscene. 

But then there were the sweaters' dens, and the private rooms where halfa dozen pale-faced tailors stitched and pressed fourteen and sometimessixteen hours a day, stifling rooms, smelling of the hot goose andsteaming cloth, rooms where they worked, where the cooking was done, where they ate, and late at night, when overpowered with weariness, lay down to sleep. Struggle for life everywhere, and perhaps no morediscontent and heart-burning and certainly less ennui than in thepalaces on the avenues. 

The residence of Karl Mulhaus, one of the doctor's patients, was typicalof the homes of the better class of poor. The apartment fronted on asmall and not too cleanly court, and was in the third story. As Edithmounted the narrow and dark stairways she saw the plan of the house. Four apartments opened upon each landing, in which was the commonhydrant and sink. The Mulhaus apartment consisted of a room large enoughto contain a bed, a cook-stove, a bureau, a rocking-chair, and twoother chairs, and it had two small windows, which would have more freelyadmitted the southern sun if they had been washed, and a room adjoining, dark, and nearly filled by a big bed. On the walls of the living roomwere hung highly colored advertising chromos of steamships and palacesof industry, and on the bureau Edith noticed two illustrated newspapersof the last year, a patent-medicine almanac, and a volume of Schiller. The bureau also held Mr. Mulhaus's bottles of medicine, a comb whichneeded a dentist, and a broken hair-brush. What gave the room, however, a cheerful aspect were some pots of plants on the window-ledges, andhalf a dozen canary-bird cages hung wherever there was room for them. 

None of the family happened to be at home except Mr. Mulhaus, whooccupied the rocking-chair, and two children, a girl of four years and aboy of eight, who were on the floor playing "store" with some blocksof wood, a few tacks, some lumps of coal, some scraps of paper, anda tangle of twine. In their prattle they spoke, the English they hadlearned from their brother who was in a store. 

"I feel some better today, " said Mr. Mulhaus, brightening up as thevisitors entered, "but the cough hangs on. It's three months sincethis weather that I haven't been out, but the birds are a good dealof company. " He spoke in German, and with effort. He was very thin andsallow, and his large feverish eyes added to the pitiful look of hisrefined face. The doctor explained to Edith that he had been gettingfair wages in a type-foundry until he had become too weak to go anylonger to the shop. 

It was rather hard to have to sit there all day, he explained to thedoctor, but they were getting along. Mrs. Mulhaus had got a job ofcleaning that day; that would be fifty cents. Ally--she was twelve--waslearning to sew. That was her afternoon to go to the College Settlement. Jimmy, fourteen, had got a place in a store, and earned two dollars aweek. 

"And Vicky?" asked the doctor. 

"Oh, Vicky, " piped up the eight-year-old boy. "Vicky's up to the'stution"--the hospital was probably the institution referred to--"everso long now. I seen her there, me and Jim did. Such a bootifer place!'Nd chicken!" he added. "Sis got hurt by a cart. "

Vicky was seventeen, and had been in a fancy store. 

"Yes, " said Mulhaus, in reply to a question, "it pays pretty wellraising canaries, when they turn out singers. I made fifteen dollarslast year. I hain't sold much lately. Seems 's if people stopped wanting'em such weather. I guess it 'll be better in the spring. "

"No doubt it will be better for the poor fellow himself before spring, "said the doctor as they made their way down the dirty stairways. "NowI'll show you one of my favorites. "

They turned into a broader street, one of the busy avenues, and passingunder an archway between two tall buildings, entered a court of backbuildings. In the third story back lived Aunt Margaret. The room wasscarcely as big as a ship's cabin, and its one window gave little light, for it opened upon a narrow well of high brick walls. In the only chairAunt Margaret was seated close to the window. In front of her was asmall work-table, with a kerosene lamp on it, but the side of theroom towards which she looked was quite occupied by a narrowcouch--ridiculously narrow, for Aunt Margaret was very stout. There wasa thin chest of drawers on the other side, and the small coal stove thatstood in the centre so nearly filled the remaining space that the twovisitors were one too many. 

"Oh, come in, come in, " said the old lady, cheerfully, when the dooropened. "I'm glad to see you. "

"And how goes it?" asked the doctor. 

"First rate. I'm coming on, doctor. Work's been pretty slack for twoweeks now, but yesterday I got work for two days. I guess it will bebetter now. "

The work was finishing pantaloons. It used to be a good business beforethere was so much cutting in. 

"I used to get fifteen cents a pair, then ten; now they don't pay butfive. Yes, the shop furnishes the thread. "

"And how many pairs can you finish in a day?" asked Edith. 

"Three--three pairs, to do 'em nice--and they are very particular--if Iwork from six in the morning till twelve at night. I could do more, butmy sight ain't what it used to be, and I've broken my specs. "

"So you earn fifteen cents a day?"

"When I've the luck to get work, my lady. Sometimes there isn't any. Andthings cost so much. The rent is the worst. "

It appeared that the rent was two dollars and a half a month. That mustbe paid, at any rate. Edith made a little calculation that on a flushaverage of ninety cents a week earned, and allowing so many cents forcoal and so many cents for oil, the margin for bread and tea must besmall for the month. She usually bought three cents' worth of tea at atime. 

"It is kinder close, " said the old lady, with a smile. "The worst is, my feet hurt me so I can't stir out. But the neighbors is real kind. Thelittle boy next room goes over to the shop and fetches my pantaloons andtakes 'em back. I can get along if it don't come slack again. "

Sitting all day by that dim window, half the night stitching by akerosene lamp; lying for six hours on that narrow couch! How to accountfor this old soul's Christian resignation and cheerfulness! "For, " saidthe doctor, "she has seen better days; she has moved in high society;her husband, who died twenty years ago, was a policeman. What theold lady is doing is fighting for her independence. She has only onefear--the almshouse. "

It was with such scenes as these in her eyes that Edith went to herdressing-room to make her toilet for the Henderson dinner. 

V

It was the first time they had dined with the Hendersons. It was Jack'sdoings. "Certainly, if you wish it, " Edith had said when the invitationcame. The unmentioned fact was that Jack had taken a little flier inOshkosh, and a hint from Henderson one evening at the Union, when theventure looked squally, had let him out of a heavy loss into a smallprofit, and Jack felt grateful. 

"I wonder how Henderson came to do it?" Jack was querying, as he and oldFairfax sipped their five-o'clock "Manhattan. "

"Oh, Henderson likes to do a good-natured thing still, now and then. Doyou know his wife?"

"No. Who was she?"

"Why, old Eschelle's daughter, Carmen; of course you wouldn't know; thatwas ten years ago. There was a good deal of talk about it at the time. "

"How?"

"Some said they'd been good friends before Mrs. Henderson's death. "

"Then Carmen, as you call her, wasn't the first?"

"No, but she was an easy second. She's a social climber; bound to getthere from the start. "

"Is she pretty?"

"Devilish. She's a little thing. I saw her once at Homburg, on thepromenade with her mother. 

"The kind of sweet blonde, I said to myself, that would mix a man up ina duel before he knew where he was. "

"She must be interesting. "

"She was always clever, and she knows enough to play a straight game andwhen to propitiate. I'll bet a five she tells Henderson whom to be goodto when the chance offers. "

"Then her influence on him is good?"

"My dear sir, she gets what she wants, and Henderson is going to the... Well, look at the lines in his face. I've known Henderson since he camefresh into the Street. He'd rarely knife a friend when his first wifewas living. Now, when you see the old frank smile on his face, it's puton. "

It was half-past eight when Mr. Henderson with Mrs. Delancy on hisarm led the way to the diningroom. The procession was closed by Mrs. Henderson and Mr. Delancy. The Van Dams were there, and Mrs. Chesneyand the Chesney girls, and Miss Tavish, who sat on Jack's right, butthe rest of the guests were unknown to Jack, except by name. There wasa strong dash of the Street in the mixture, and although the Streetwas tabooed in the talk, there was such an emanation of aggressiveprosperity at the table that Jack said afterwards that he felt as if hehad been at a meeting of the board. 

If Jack had known the house ten years ago, he would have noticed certainsubtle changes in it, rather in the atmosphere than in many alterations. The newness and the glitter of cost had worn off. It might still becalled a palace, but the city had now a dozen handsomer houses, andCarmen's idea, as she expressed it, was to make this more like a home. She had made it like herself. There were pictures on the walls thatwould not have hung there in the late Mrs. Henderson's time; and theprevailing air was that of refined sensuousness. Life, she said, washer idea, life in its utmost expression, untrammeled, and yes, a littleGreek. Freedom was perhaps the word, and yet her latest notion wassimplicity. The dinner was simple. Her dress was exceedingly simple, save that it had in it somewhere a touch of audacity, revealing in aflash of invitation the hidden nature of the woman. She knew herselfbetter than any one knew her, except Henderson, and even he was forcedto laugh when she travestied Browning in saying that she had onesoul-side to face the world with, one to show the man she loved, andshe declared he was downright coarse when on going out of the door hemuttered, "But it needn't be the seamy side. " The reported remark ofsome one who had seen her at church that she looked like a nun madeher smile, but she broke into a silvery laugh when she head Van Dam'scomment on it, "Yes, a devil of a nun. "

The library was as cozy as ever, but did not appear to be used much asa library. Henderson, indeed, had no time to add to his collection orenjoy it. Most of the books strewn on the tables were French novels orsuch American tales as had the cachet of social riskiness. But Carmenliked the room above all others. She enjoyed her cigarette there, andhad a fancy for pouring her five-o'clock tea in its shelter. Bookswhich had all sorts of things in them gave somehow an unconventionalatmosphere to the place, and one could say things there that onecouldn't say in a drawing-room. 

Henderson himself, it must be confessed, had grown stout in the tenyears, and puffy under the eyes. There were lines of irritation in hisface and lines of weariness. He had not kept the freshness of youth sowell as Carmen, perhaps because of his New England conscience. To hisguest he was courteous, seemed to be making an effort to be so, and listened with well-assumed interest to the story of her day'spilgrimage. At length he said, with a smile, "Life seems to interestyou, Mrs. Delancy. "

"Yes, indeed, " said Edith, looking up brightly; "doesn't it you?"

"Why, yes; not life exactly, but things, doing things--conflict. "

"Yes, I can understand that. There is so much to be done for everybody. "

Henderson looked amused. "You know in the city the gospel is thateverybody is to be done. "

"Well, " said Edith, not to be diverted, "but, Mr. Henderson, what is itall for--this conflict? Perhaps, however, you are fighting the devil?"

"Yes, that's it; the devil is usually the other fellow. But, Mrs. Delancy, " added Henderson, with an accent of seriousness, "I don't knowwhat it's all for. I doubt if there is much in it. "

"And yet the world credits you with finding a great deal in it. "

"The world is generally wrong. Do you understand poker, Mrs. Delancy?No! Of course you do not. But the interest of the game isn't so much inthe cards as in the men. "

"I thought it was the stakes. "

"Perhaps so. But you want to win for the sake of winning. If I gambledit would be a question of nerve. I suppose that which we all enjoy isthe exercise of skill in winning. "

"And not for the sake of doing anything--just winning? Don't you gettired of that?" asked Edith, quite simply. 

There was something in Edith's sincerity, in her fresh enthusiasm aboutlife, that appeared to strike a reminiscent note in Henderson. Perhapshe remembered another face as sweet as hers, and ideals, faint and longago, that were once mixed with his ideas of success. At any rate, it waswith an accent of increased deference, and with a look she had not seenin his face before, that he said:

"People get tired of everything. I'm not sure but it would interest meto see for a minute how the world looks through your eyes. " And then headded, in a different tone, "As to your East Side, Mrs. Henderson triedthat some years ago. "

"Wasn't she interested?"

"Oh, very much. For a time. But she said there was too much of it. " AndEdith could detect no tone of sarcasm in the remark. 

Down at the other end of the table, matters were going very smoothly. Jack was charmed with his hostess. That clever woman had felt her wayalong from the heresy trial, through Tuxedo and the Independent Theatreand the Horse Show, until they were launched in a perfectly freeconversation, and Carmen knew that she hadn't to look out for thin ice. 

"Were you thinking of going on to the Conventional Club tonight, Mr. Delancy?" she was saying. 

"I don't belong, " said Jack. "Mrs. Delancy said she didn't care for it. "

"Oh, I don't care for it, for myself, " replied Carmen. 

"I do, " struck in Miss Tavish. "It's awfully nice. "

"Yes, it does seem to fill a want. Why, what do you do with yourevenings, Mr. Delancy?"

"Well, here's one of them. "

"Yes, I know, but I mean between twelve o'clock and bedtime. "

"Oh, " said Jack, laughing out loud, "I go to bed--sometimes. "

"Yes, 'there's always that. But you want some place to go to after thetheatres and the dinners; after the other places are shut up you want togo somewhere and be amused. "

"Yes, " said Jack, falling in, "it is a fact that there are not manyplaces of amusement for the rich; I understand. After the theatres youwant to be amused. This Conventional Club is--"

"I tell you what it is. It's a sort of Midnight Mission for the rich. They never have had anything of the kind in the city. "

"And it's very nice, " said Miss Tavish, demurely. 

"The performers are selected. You can see things there that you wantto see at other places to which you can't go. And everybody you know isthere. "

"Oh, I see, " said Jack. "It's what the Independent Theatre is trying todo, and what all the theatrical people say needs to be done, to elevatethe character of the audiences, and then the managers can give betterplays. "

"That's just it. We want to elevate the stage, " Carmen explained. 

"But, " continued Jack, "it seems to me that now the audience is selectand elevated, it wants to see the same sort of things it liked to seebefore it was elevated. "

"You may laugh, Mr. Delancy, " replied Carmen, throwing an earnestsimplicity into her eyes, "but why shouldn't women know what is going onas well as men?"

"And why, " Miss Tavish asked, "will the serpentine dances and the Londontopical songs do any more harm to women than to men?"

"And besides, Mr. Delancy, " Carmen said, chiming in, "isn't it just asproper that women should see women dance and throw somersaults on thestage as that men should see them? And then, you know, women are such arestraining influence. "

"I hadn't thought of that, " said Jack. "I thought the Conventionalwas for the benefit of the audience, not for the salvation of theperformers. "

"It's both. It's life. Don't you think women ought to know life? How arethey to take their place in the world unless they know life as men knowit?"

"I'm sure I don't know whose place they are to take, the serpentinedancer's or mine, " said Jack, as if he were studying a problem. "Howdoes your experiment get on, Miss Tavish?"

Carmen looked up quickly. 

"Oh, I haven't any experiment, " said Miss Tavish, shaking her head. "It's just Mr. Delancy's nonsense. "

"I wish I had an experiment. There is so little for women to do. I wishI knew what was right. " And Carmen looked mournfully demure, as if life, after all, were a serious thing with her. 

"Whatever Mrs. Henderson does is sure to be right, " said Jack, gallantly. 

Carmen shot at him a quick sympathetic glance, tempered by a gratefulsmile. "There are so many points of view. "

Jack felt the force of the remark as he did the revealing glance. And hehad a swift vision of Miss Tavish leading him a serpentine dance, and ofCarmen sweetly beckoning him to a pleasant point of view. After all itdoesn't much matter. Everything is in the point of view. 

After dinner and cigars and cigarettes in the library, the talk draggeda little in duets. The dinner had been charming, the house was lovely, the company was most agreeable. All said that. It had been so somewhereelse the night before that, and would be the next night. And the ennuiof it all! No one expressed it, but Henderson could not help looking it, and Carmen saw it. That charming hostess had been devoting herself toEdith since dinner. She was so full of sympathy with the East-Side work, asked a hundred questions about it, and declared that she must take itup again. She would order a cage of canaries from that poor German forher kitchen. It was such a beautiful idea. But Edith did not believe inher one bit. She told Jack afterwards that "Mrs. Henderson cares no morefor the poor of New York than she does for--"

"Henderson?" suggested Jack. 

"Oh, I don't know anything about that. Henderson has only one idea--toget the better of everybody, and be the money king of New York. But Ishould not wonder if he had once a soft spot in his heart. He is betterthan she is. "

It was still early, lacked half an hour of midnight, and the night wasbefore them. Some one proposed the Conventional. "Yes, " said Carmen;"all come to our box. " The Van Dams would go, Miss Tavish, the Chesneys;the suggestion was a relief to everybody. Only Mr. Henderson pleadedimportant papers that must have his attention that night. Edith saidthat she was too tired, but that her desertion must not break up theparty. 

"Then you will excuse me also, " said Jack, a little shade ofdisappointment in his face. 

"No, no, " said Edith, quickly; "you can drop me on the way. Go, by allmeans, Jack. "

"Do you really want me to go, dear?" said Jack, aside. 

"Why of course; I want you to be happy. "

And Jack recalled the loving look that accompanied these words, lateron, as he sat in the Henderson box at the Conventional, between Carmenand Miss Tavish, and saw, through the slight haze of smoke, beyond theorchestra, the praiseworthy efforts of the Montana Kicker, who hadjust returned with the imprimatur of Paris, to relieve the ennui of themodern world. 

The complex affair we call the world requires a great variety of peopleto keep it going. At one o'clock in the morning Carmen and our friendMr. Delancy and Miss Tavish were doing their part. Edith lay awakelistening for Jack's return. And in an alley off Rivington Street ayoung girl, pretty once, unknown to fortune but not to fame, was aboutto render the last service she could to the world by leaving it. 

The impartial historian scarcely knows how to distribute his pathos. Bythe electric light (and that is the modern light) gayety is almost aspathetic as suffering. Before the Montana girl hit upon the happy devicethat gave her notoriety, her feet, whose every twinkle now was worth agold eagle, had trod a thorny path. There was a fortune now in the whirlof her illusory robes, but any day--such are the whims of fashion--shemight be wandering again, sick at heart, about the great city, knockingat the side doors of variety shows for any engagement that would giveher a pittance of a few dollars a week. How long had Carmen waited onthe social outskirts; and now she had come into her kingdom, was sheanything but a tinsel queen? Even Henderson, the great Henderson, didthe friends of his youth respect him? had he public esteem? Carmen usedto cut out the newspaper paragraphs that extolled Henderson's domesticvirtue and his generosity to his family, and show them to her lord, witha queer smile on her face. Miss Tavish, in the nervous consciousness offleeting years, was she not still waiting, dashing here and there like abird in a net for the sort of freedom, audacious as she was, that seemeddenied her? She was still beautiful, everybody said, and she was soughtand flattered, because she was always merry and good-natured. Why shouldVan Dam, speaking of women, say that there were horses that had been setup, and checked up and trained, that held their heads in an aristocraticfashion, moved elegantly, and showed style, long after the spirit hadgone out of them? And Jack himself, happily married, with a comfortableincome, why was life getting flat to him? What sort of career was itthat needed the aid of Carmen and the serpentine dancer? And why not, since it is absolutely necessary that the world should be amused?

We are in no other world when we enter the mean tenement in the alleyoff Rivington Street. Here also is the life of the town. The room issmall, but it contains a cook-stove, a chest of drawers, a small table, a couple of chairs, and two narrow beds. On the top of the chest area looking-glass, some toilet articles, and bottles of medicine. Thecracked walls are bare and not clean. In one of the beds are twochildren, sleeping soundly, and on the foot of it is a middle-agedwoman, in a soiled woolen gown with a thin figured shawl drawn about hershoulders, a dirty cap half concealing her frowzy hair; she looks tiredand worn and sleepy. On the other bed lies a girl of twenty years, awoman in experience. The kerosene lamp on the stand at the head of thebed casts a spectral light on her flushed face, and the thin arms thatare restlessly thrown outside the cover. By the bedside sits the doctor, patient, silent, and watchful. The doctor puts her hand caressinglyon that of the girl. It is hot and dry. The girl opens her eyes with astartled look, and says, feebly:

"Do you think he will come?"

"Yes, dear, presently. He never fails. "

The girl closed her eyes again, and there was silence. The dim rays ofthe lamp, falling upon the doctor, revealed the figure of a woman ofless than medium size, perhaps of the age of thirty or more, a plainlittle body, you would have said, who paid the slightest possibleattention to her dress, and when she went about the city was not to bedistinguished from a working-woman. Her friends, indeed, said that shehad not the least care for her personal appearance, and unless she waswatched, she was sure to go out in her shabbiest gown and most batteredhat. She wore tonight a brown ulster and a nondescript black bonnetdrawn close down on her head and tied with black strings. In her laplay her leathern bag, which she usually carried under her arm, thatcontained medicines, lint, bandages, smelling-salts, a vial of ammonia, and so on; to her patients it was a sort of conjurer's bag, out of whichshe could produce anything that an emergency called for. 

Dr. Leigh was not in the least nervous or excited. Indeed, an artistwould not have painted her as a rapt angelic visitant to this abode ofpoverty. This contact with poverty and coming death was quite in herordinary experience. It would never have occurred to her that she wasdoing anything unusual, any more than it would have occurred to theobjects of her ministrations to overwhelm her with thanks. They trustedher, that was all. They met her always with a pleasant recognition. Shebelonged perhaps to their world. Perhaps they would have said that "Dr. Leigh don't handsome much, " but their idea was that her face was good. That was what anybody would have said who saw her tonight, "She has sucha good face;" the face of a woman who knew the world, and perhaps wasnot very sanguine about it, had few illusions and few antipathies, butaccepted it, and tried in her humble way to alleviate its hardships, without any consciousness of having a mission or making a sacrifice. 

Dr. Leigh--Miss Ruth Leigh--was Edith's friend. She had not come fromthe country with an exalted notion of being a worker among the poorabout whom so much was written; she had not even descended from somehigh circle in the city into this world, moved by a restless enthusiasmfor humanity. She was a woman of the people, to adopt a popular phrase. From her childhood she had known them, their wants, their sympathies, their discouragements; and in her heart--though you would not discoverthis till you had known her long and well--there was a burning sympathywith them, a sympathy born in her, and not assumed for the sake ofhaving a career. It was this that had impelled her to get a medicaleducation, which she obtained by hard labor and self-denial. To her thiswas not a means of livelihood, but simply that she might be of serviceto those all about her who needed help more than she did. She didn'tbelieve in charity, this stout-hearted, clearheaded little woman; shemeant to make everybody pay for her medical services who could pay; butsomehow her practice was not lucrative, and the little salary she gotas a dispensary doctor melted away with scarcely any perceptibleimprovement in her own wardrobe. Why, she needed nothing, going about asshe did. 

She sat--now waiting for the end; and the good face, so full of sympathyfor the living, had no hope in it. Just another human being had cometo the end of her path--the end literally. It was so everyday. Somebodycame to the end, and there was nothing beyond. Only it was the end, andthat was peace. One o'clock--half-past one. The door opened softly. Theold woman rose from the foot of the bed with a start and a low "Herr!gross Gott. " It was Father Damon. The girl opened her eyes with afrightened look at first, and then an eager appeal. Dr. Leigh rose tomake room for him at the bedside. They bowed as he came forward, andtheir eyes met. She shook her head. In her eyes was no expectation, nohope. In his was the glow of faith. But the eyes of the girl rested uponhis face with a rapt expression. It was as if an angel had entered theroom. 

Father Damon was a young man, not yet past thirty, slender, erect. He had removed as he came in his broad-brimmed soft hat. The hairwas close-cut, but not tonsured. He wore a brown cassock, falling instraight lines, and confined at the waist with a white cord. Fromhis neck depended from a gold chain a large gold cross. His face wassmooth-shaven, thin, intellectual, or rather spiritual; the nose long, the mouth straight, the eyes deep gray, sometimes dreamy and puzzling, again glowing with an inner fervor. A face of long vigils and theschooled calmness of repressed energy. You would say a fanatic of God, with a dash of self-consciousness. Dr. Leigh knew him well. They metoften on their diverse errands, and she liked, when she could, to go tovespers in the little mission chapel of St. Anselm, where he ministered. It was not the confessional that attracted her, that was sure; perhapsnot altogether the service, though that was soothing in certain moods;but it was the noble personality of Father Damon. He was devoted to thepeople as she was, he understood them; and for the moment their passionof humanity assumed the same aspect, though she knew that what he saw, or thought he saw, lay beyond her agnostic vision. 

Father Damon was an Englishman, a member of a London Anglican order, whohad taken the three vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, who hadbeen for some years in New York, and had finally come to live on theEast Side, where his work was. In a way he had identified himself withthe people; he attended their clubs; he was a Christian socialist; hespoke on the inequalities of taxation; the strikers were pretty sure ofhis sympathy; he argued the injustice of the present ownership of land. Some said that he had joined a lodge of the Knights of Labor. Perhapsit was these things, quite as much as his singleness of purpose and hisspiritual fervor, that drew Dr. Leigh to him with a feeling that vergedon devotion. The ladies up-town, at whose tables Father Damon was aninfrequent guest, were as fully in sympathy with this handsome andaristocratic young priest, and thought it beautiful that he shoulddevote himself to the poor and the sinful; but they did not see why heshould adopt their views. 

It was at the mission that Father Damon had first seen the girl. She hadventured in not long ago at twilight, with her cough and her pale face, in a silk gown and flower-garden of a hat, and crept into one of theconfessional boxes, and told him her story. 

"Do you think, Father, " said the girl, looking up wistfully, "that Ican--can be forgiven?"

Father Damon looked down sadly, pitifully. "Yes, my daughter, if yourepent. It is all with our Father. He never refuses. "

He knelt down, with his cross in his hand, and in a low voice repeatedthe prayer for the dying. As the sweet, thrilling voice went on insupplication the girl's eyes closed again, and a sweet smile playedabout her mouth; it was the innocent smile of the little girl long ago, when she might have awakened in the morning and heard the singing ofbirds at her window. 

When Father Damon arose she seemed to be sleeping. They all stood insilence for a moment. 

"You will remain?" he asked the doctor. 

"Yes, " she said, with the faintest wan smile on her face. "It is I, youknow, who have care of the body. "

At the door he turned and said, quite low, "Peace be to this house!"

VI

Father Damon came dangerously near to being popular. The austerityof his life and his known self-chastening vigils contributed to thiseffect. His severely formal, simple ecclesiastical dress, coarse inmaterial but perfect in its saintly lines, separated him from the worldin which he moved so unostentatiously and humbly, and marked him asone who went about doing good. His life was that of self-absorption andhardship, mortification of the body, denial of the solicitation of thesenses, struggling of the spirit for more holiness of purpose--a lifeof supplication for the perishing souls about him. And yet he was soinformed with the modern spirit that he was not content, as a zealotformerly might have been, to snatch souls out of the evil that is inthe world, but he strove to lessen the evil. He was a reformer. It wasprobably this feature of his activity, and not his spiritual mission, that attracted to him the little group of positivists on the EastSide, the demagogues of the labor lodges, the practical workers of theworking-girls' clubs, and the humanitarian agnostics like Dr. Leigh, who were literally giving their lives without the least expectation ofreward. Even the refined ethical-culture groups had no sneer for FatherDamon. The little chapel of St. Anselm was well known. It was alwaysopen. It was plain, but its plainness was not the barrenness of anon-conformist chapel. There were two confessionals; a great bronze lampattached to one of the pillars scarcely dispelled the obscurity, butcast an unnatural light upon the gigantic crucifix that hung from abeam in front of the chancel. There were half a dozen rows of backlessbenches in the centre of the chapel. The bronze lamp, and the candlesalways burning upon the altar, rather accented than dissipated the heavyshadows in the vaulted roof. At no hour was it empty, but at morningprayer and at vespers the benches were apt to be filled, and groupsof penitents or spectators were kneeling or standing on the floor. Atvespers there were sure to be carriages in front of the door, and amongthe kneeling figures were ladies who brought into these simple servicesfor the poor something of the refinement of grace as it is in the highercircles. Indeed, at the hour set apart for confession, there were in theboxes saints from up-town as well as sinners from the slums. Sometimesthe sinners were from up-town and the saints from the slums. 

When the organ sounded, and through a low door in the chancel the priestentered, preceded by a couple of acolytes, and advanced swiftly to thereading-desk, there was an awed hush in the congregation. One would notdare to say that there was a sentimental feeling for the pale face andrapt expression of the devotee. It was more than that. He had just comefrom some scene of suffering, from the bed of one dying; he was wearywith watching. He was faint with lonely vigils; he was visibly carryingthe load of the poor and the despised. Even Ruth Leigh, who had droppedin for half an hour in one of her daily rounds--even Ruth Leigh, who hadin her stanch, practical mind a contempt for forms and rituals, andno faith in anything that she could not touch, and who at times wasindignant at the efforts wasted over the future of souls concerningwhich no one knew anything, when there were so many bodies, which hadinherited disease and poverty and shame, going to worldly wreck beforeso-called Christian eyes--even she could scarcely keep herself fromadoring this self-sacrificing spirit. The woes of humanity grievedhim as they grieved her, and she used to say she did not care what hebelieved so long as he gave his life for the needy. 

It was when he advanced to the altar-rail to speak that the man bestappeared. His voice, which was usually low and full of melody, could besomething terrible when it rose in denunciation of sin. Those who hadtraveled said that he had the manner of a preaching friar--the simplelanguage, so refined and yet so homely and direct, the real, theinspired word, the occasional hastening torrent of words. When he hadoccasion to address one of the societies of ladies for the promotion ofsomething among the poor, his style and manner were simplicity itself. One might have said there was a shade of contempt in his familiar andnot seldom slightly humorous remarks upon society and its aims andaspirations, about which he spoke plainly and vigorously. And this waswhat the ladies liked. Especially when he referred to the pitifulnessof class distinctions, in the light of the example of our Lord, in ourshort pilgrimage in this world. This unveiling and denunciation madethem somehow feel nearer to their work, and, indeed, while they satthere, co-workers with this apostle of righteousness. 

Perhaps there was something in the priestly dress that affected not onlythe congregation in the chapel, but all the neighborhood in which FatherDamon lived. There was in the long robe, with its feminine lines, anassurance to the women that he was set apart and not as otherswere; and, on the other hand, the semi-feminine suggestion of thestraight-falling garment may have had for the men a sort of appeal fordefense and even protection. It is certain, at any rate, that FatherDamon had the confidence of high and low, rich and poor. The forsakensought him out, the hungry went to him, the dying sent for him, thecriminal knocked at the door of his little room, even the rich reprobatewould have opened his bad heart to him sooner than to any one else. Itis evident, therefore, that Father Damon was dangerously near to beingpopular. Human vanity will feed on anything within its reach, and therehas been discovered yet no situation that will not minister to itsgrowth. Suffering perhaps it prefers, and contumely and persecution. Are not opposition, despiteful anger, slander even, rejection of men, stripes even, if such there could be in these days, manna to the devoutsoul consciously set apart for a mission? But success, obsequiousness, applause, the love of women, the concurrent good opinion of allhumanitarians, are these not almost as dangerous as persecution? FatherDamon, though exalted in his calling, and filled with a burning zeal, was a sincere man, and even his eccentricities of saintly conductexpressed to his mind only the high purpose of self-sacrifice. Yet hesaw, he could not but see, the spiritual danger in this rising tide ofadulation. He fought against its influence, he prayed against it, hetried to humiliate himself, and his very humiliations increased theadulation. He was perplexed, almost ashamed, and examined himself tosee how it was that he himself seemed to be thwarting his own work. Sometimes he withdrew from it for a week together, and buried himself ina retreat in the upper part of the island. Alas! did ever a man escapehimself in a retreat? It made him calm for the moment. But why was it, he asked himself, that he had so many followers, his religion so few?Why was it, he said, that all the humanitarians, the reformers, theguilds, the ethical groups, the agnostics, the male and female knights, sustained him, and only a few of the poor and friendless knocked, by hissolicitation, at the supernatural door of life? How was it that a womanwhom he encountered so often, a very angel of mercy, could do the thingshe was doing, tramping about in the misery and squalor of the great cityday and night, her path unilluminated by a ray from the future life?

Perhaps he had been remiss in his duty. Perhaps he was letting a vaguephilanthropy take the place of a personal solicitude for individualsouls. The elevation of the race! What had the land question to do withthe salvation of man? Suppose everybody on the East Side should becomeas industrious, as self-denying, as unselfish as Ruth Leigh, and yetwithout belief, without hope! He had accepted the humanitarian situationwith her, and never had spoken to her of the eternal life. Whatunfaithfulness to his mission and to her! It should be so no longer. 

It was after one of his weeks of retreat, at the close of vesperservice, that Dr. Leigh came to him. He had been saying in his littletalk that poverty is no excuse for irreligion, and that all aid in thehardship of this world was vain and worthless unless the sinner laidhold on eternal life. Dr. Leigh, who was laboring with a seriouspractical problem, heard this coldly, and with a certain contempt forwhat seemed to her a vague sort of consolation. 

"Well, " he said, when she came to him in the vestry, with a drop fromthe rather austere manner in which he had spoken, "what can I do foryou?"

"For me, nothing, Father Damon. I thought perhaps you would go roundwith me to see a pretty bad case. It is in your parish. "

"Ah, did they send for me? Do they want spiritual help?"

"First the natural, then the spiritual, " she replied, with a slight toneof sarcasm in her voice. "That's just like a priest, " she was thinking. "I do not know what to do, and something must be done. "

"Did you report to the Associated Charities?"

"Yes. But there's a hitch somewhere. The machine doesn't take hold. Theman says he doesn't want any charity, any association, treating himlike a pauper. He's off peddling; but trade is bad, and he's been away aweek. I'm afraid he drinks a little. "

"Well?"

"The mother is sick in bed. I found her trying to do some finestitching, but she was too weak to hold up the muslin. There are fiveyoung children. The family never has had help before. "

Father Damon put on his hat, and they went out together, and for sometime picked their way along the muddy streets in silence. 

At length he asked, in a softened voice, "Is the mother a Christian?"

"I didn't ask, " she replied shortly. "I found her crying because thechildren were hungry. "

Father Damon, still under the impression of his neglect of duty, did notheed her warning tone, but persisted, "You have so many opportunities, Dr. Leigh, in your visits of speaking a word. "

"About what?" she asked, refusing to understand, and hardened at theslightest sign of what she called cant. 

"About the necessity of repentance and preparation for another life, " heanswered, softly but firmly. "You surely do not think human beings arecreated just for this miserable little experience here?"

"I don't know. I have too much to do with the want and suffering Isee to raise anxieties about a world of which no one can possibly knowanything. "

"Pardon me, " he persisted, "have you no sense of incompleteness inthis life, in your own life? no inward consciousness of an undyingpersonality?"

The doctor was angry for a moment at this intrusion. It had seemednatural enough for Father Damon to address his exhortations to the poorand sinful of his mission. She admired his spirit, she had a certainsympathy with him; for who could say that ministering to minds diseasedmight not have a physical influence to lift these people into a moredecent and prosperous way of living? She had thought of herself asworking with him to a common end. But for him now to turn upon her, absolutely ignoring the solid, rational, and scientific ground on whichhe knew, or should know, she stood, and to speak to her as one of the"lost, " startled her, and filled her with indignation. She had on herlips a sarcastic reply to the effect that even if she had a soul, shehad not taken up her work in the city as a means of saving it; butshe was not given to sarcasm, and before she spoke she looked at hercompanion, and saw in the eyes a look of such genuine humble feeling, contradicting the otherwise austere expression of his face, that hermomentary bitterness passed away. 

"I think, Father Damon, " she said, gently, "we had better not talkof that. I don't have much time for theorizing, you know, nor muchinclination, " she added. 

The priest saw that for the present he could make no progress, and aftera little silence the conversation went back to the family they wereabout to visit. 

They found the woman better--at least, more cheerful. Father Damonnoticed that there were medicines upon the stand, and that there werethe remains of a meal which the children had been eating. He turned tothe doctor. "I see that you have been providing for them. "

"Oh, the eldest boy had already been out and begged a piece of breadwhen I came. Of course they had to have something more at once. But itis very little that I can do. "

He sat down by the bed, and talked with the mother, getting her story, while the doctor tidied up the room a bit, and then, taking the youngestchild in her lap and drawing the others about her, began to tell a storyin a low voice. Presently she was aware that the priest was on his kneesand saying a prayer. She stopped in her story, and looked out throughthe dirty window into the chill and dark area. 

"What is he doing?" whispered one of the children. 

"I don't know, " she said, and a sort of chill came over her heart. Itall seemed a mockery, in these surroundings. 

When he rose he said to the woman, "We will see that you do not wanttill your husband comes back. "

"And I will look in tomorrow, " said the doctor. 

When they were in the street, Father Damon thanked her for calling hisattention to the case, thanked her a little formally, and said thathe would make inquiries and have it properly attended to. And then heasked: "Is your work ended for the day? You must be tired. "

"Oh, no; I have several visits to make. I'm not tired. I rather think itis good for me, being out-of-doors so much. " She thanked him, and saidgood-by. 

For a moment he stood and watched the plain, resolute little womanthreading her way through the crowded and unclean street, and thenslowly walked away to his apartment, filled with sadness and perplexity. 

The apartment which he occupied was not far from the mission chapel, and it was the one clean spot among the ill-kept tenements; but as tocomfort, it was not much better than the cell of an anchorite. Of this, however, he was not thinking as he stretched himself out on his palletto rest a little from the exhausting labors of the day. Probably it didnot occur to him that his self-imposed privations lessened his strengthfor his work. 

He was thinking of Ruth Leigh. What a rare soul! And yet apparently shedid not think or care whether she had a soul. What could be the springof her incessant devotion? If ever woman went about doing good in anunselfish spirit it was she. Yet she confessed her work hopeless. Shehad no faith, no belief in immortality, no expectation of any reward, nothing to offer to anybody beyond this poor life. Was this theenthusiasm of humanity, of which he heard so much? But she did not seemto have any illusions, or to be burned up by enthusiasm. She just kepton. Ah, he thought, what a woman she would be if she were touched by thefire of faith!

Meantime, Ruth Leigh went on her round. One day was like another, exceptthat every day the kaleidoscope of misery showed new combinations, new phases of suffering and incompetence, and there was always a freshinterest in that. For years now this had been her life, in the chill ofwinter and the heat of summer, without rest or vacation. The amusements, the social duties, the allurements of dress and society, that so muchoccupied the thoughts of other women, did not seem to come into herlife. For books she had little time, except the books of her specialty. The most exciting novels were pale compared with her daily experiencesof real life. Almost her only recreation was a meeting of theworking-girls, a session of her labor lodge, or an assembly at theCooper Union, where some fiery orator, perhaps a priest, or a cleveragitator, a working-man glib of speech, who had a mass of statistics atthe end of his tongue, who read and discussed, in some private club ofzealots of humanity, metaphysics, psychology, and was familiar with thewhole literature of labor and socialism, awoke the enthusiasm of thediscontented or the unemployed, and where men and women, in clear buthomely speech, told their individual experiences of wrong and injustice. There was evidence in all these demonstrations and organizations thatthe world was moving, and that the old order must change. 

Years and years the little woman had gone on with her work, and shefrankly confessed to Edith, one day when they were together going herrounds, that she could see no result from it all. The problem of povertyand helplessness and incapacity seemed to her more hopeless than whenshe began. There might be a little enlightenment here and there, butthere was certainly not less misery. The state of things was worse thanshe thought at first; but one thing cheered her: the people were betterthan she thought. They might be dull and suspicious in the mass, but shefound so much patience, unselfishness, so many people of good hearts andwarm affections. 

"They are the people, " she said, "I should choose for friends. They arenatural, unsophisticated. And do you know, " she went on, "that what mostsurprises me is the number of reading, thoughtful people among thosewho do manual labor. I doubt if on your side of town the best books, thereal fundamental and abstruse books, are so read and discussed, or thephilosophy of life is so seriously considered, as in certain littlecircles of what you call the working-classes. "

"Isn't it all very revolutionary?" asked Edith. 

"Perhaps, " replied the doctor, dryly. "But they have no more fads thanother people. Their theories seem to them not only practical, but theytry to apply them to actual legislation; at any rate, they discriminatein vagaries. You would have been amused the other night in a smallcircle at the lamentations over a member--he was a car-driver--who wasthe authoritative expositor of Schopenhauer, because he had gone offinto Theosophy. It showed such weakness. "

"I have heard that the members of that circle were Nihilists. "

"The club has not that name, but probably the members would not careto repudiate the title, or deny that they were Nihiliststheoretically--that is, if Nihilism means an absolute social andpolitical overturning in order that something better may be built up. And, indeed, if you see what a hopeless tangle our present situation is, where else can the mind logically go?"

"It is pitiful enough, " Edith admitted. "But all this movement you speakof seems to me a vague agitation. "

"I don't think, " the doctor said, after a moment, "that you appreciatethe intellectual force that is in it all, or allow for the fermentingpower in the great discontented mass of these radical theories on theproblem of life. "

This was a specimen of the sort of talk that Edith and the doctor oftendrifted into in their mission work. As Ruth Leigh tramped along latethis afternoon in the slush of the streets, from one house of sicknessand poverty to another, a sense of her puny efforts in this great massof suffering and injustice came over her anew. Her indignation roseagainst the state of things. And Father Damon, who was trying to savesouls, was he accomplishing anything more than she? Why had he been socurt with her when she went to him for help this afternoon? Was he justa narrow-minded, bigoted priest? A few nights before she had heard himspeak on the single tax at a labor meeting. She recalled his eloquence, his profound sympathy with the cause of the people, the thrilling, pathetic voice, the illumination of his countenance, the authority, theconsecration in his attitude and dress; and he was transfigured to herthen, as he was now in her thought, into an apostle of humanity. Alas!she thought, what a leader he would be if he would break loose from hissuperstitious traditions!

VII

The acquaintance between the house of Henderson and the house of Delancywas not permitted to languish. Jack had his reasons for it, which mayhave been financial, and Carmen had her reasons, which were probablypurely social. What was the good of money if it did not bring socialposition? and what, on the other hand, was the good of social positionif you could not use it to get money?

In his recent association with the newly rich, Jack's twenty thousanda year began to seem small. In fact, in the lowering of the rate ofinterest and the shrinkage of securities, it was no longer twentythousand a year. This would have been a matter of little consequencein the old order. His lot was not cast among the poor; most of hisrelations had solid fortunes, and many of them were millionaires, orwhat was equivalent to that, before the term was invented. But they madelittle display; none at all merely for the purpose of exhibition, or togain or keep social place. In this atmosphere in which he was born Jackfloated along without effort, with no demand upon him to keep up witha rising standard of living. Even impecuniosity, though inconvenient, would not have made him lose caste. 

All this was changing now. Since the introduction of a new element eventhe conservative old millions had begun to feel the stir of uneasiness, and to launch out into extravagance in rivalry with the new millions. Even with his relations Jack began to feel that he was poor. It did notspur him to do anything, to follow the example, for instance, of theyoung fellows from the country, who were throwing themselves into WallStreet with the single purpose of becoming suddenly rich, but it madehim uneasy. And when he was with the Hendersons, or Miss Tavish, whose father, though not newly rich, was one of the most aggressiveof speculators, and saw how easily every luxurious desire glided intofulfillment, he felt for the first time in his life the emotion ofenvy. It seemed then that only unlimited money could make the worldattractive. Why, even to keep up with the unthinking whims of MissTavish would bankrupt him in six months. That little spread at Wherry'sfor the theatre party the other night, though he made light of it toEdith, was almost the price he couldn't afford to pay for Storm. He hada grim thought that midwinter flowers made dining as expensive as dying. Carmen, whom nothing escaped, complimented him on his taste, quite awarethat he couldn't afford it, and, apropos, told him of a lady in Chicagowho, hearing that the fashion had changed, wrote on her dinner cards, "No flowers. " It was only a matter of course for these people to build anew country-house in any spot that fashion for the moment indicated, toequip their yachts for a Mediterranean voyage or for loitering down theSouthern coast, to give a ball that was the talk of the town, to make upa special train of luxurious private cars for Mexico or California. Evenat the clubs the talk was about these things and the opportunities forgetting them. 

There was a rumor about town that Henderson was a good deal extended. It alarmed a hundred people, not on Henderson's account, but their own. When one of them consulted Uncle Jerry, that veteran smiled. 

"Oh, I guess Henderson's all right. But I wouldn't wonder if it meant asqueeze. Of course if he's extended, it's an excuse for settling up, andthe shorts will squeal. I've seen Henderson extended a good many times, "and the old man laughed. "Don't you worry about him. "

This opinion, when reported, did not seem to quiet Jack's fears, whosaw his own little venture at the mercy of a sweeping Street game. Itoccurred to him that he possibly might get a little light on the matterby dropping in that afternoon and taking a quiet cup of tea with Mrs. Henderson. 

He found her in the library. Outdoors winter was slouching into springwith a cold drizzle, with a coating of ice on the pavements-animatingweather for the medical profession. Within, there was the glow of warmthand color that Carmen liked to create for herself. In an entrancingtea-gown, she sat by a hickory fire, with a fresh magazine in one handand a big paper-cutter in the other. She rose at Jack's entrance, and, extending her hand, greeted him with a most cordial smile. It wasso good of him! She was so lonesome! He could himself see that thelonesomeness was dissipated, as she seated him in a comfortable chairby the fire, and then stood a moment looking at him, as if studying hiscomfort. She was such a domestic woman!

"You look tired, monsieur, " she said, as she passed behind his chair andrested the tip of her forefinger for a second on his head. "I shall makeyou a cup of tea at once. "

"Not tired, but bothered, " said Jack, stretching out his legs. 

"I know, " she replied; "it's a bothering world. " She was still behindhim, and spoke low, but with sympathy. "I remember, it's only one lump. "

He could feel her presence, so womanly and friendly. "I don't care whatpeople say, " he was thinking, "she's a good-hearted little thing, and understands men. " He felt that he could tell her anything, almost anything that he could tell a man. She was sympathetic and notsqueamish. 

"There, " she said, handing him the tea and looking down on him. 

The cup was dainty, the fragrance of the tea delicious, the womanexquisite. 

"I'm better already, " said Jack, with a laugh. 

She made a cup for herself, handed him the cigarettes, lit one forherself, and sat on a low stool not far from him. 

"Now what is it?"

"Oh, nothing--a little business worry. Have you heard any Street rumor?"

"Rumor?" she repeated, with a little start. And then, leaning forward, "Do you mean that about Mr. Henderson in the morning papers?"

"Yes. "

Carmen, relieved, gave a liquid little laugh, and then said, with achange to earnestness: "I'm going to trust you, my friend. Hendersonput it in himself! He told me so this morning when I asked him about it. This is just between ourselves. "

Jack said, "Of course, " but he did not look relieved. The clevercreature divined the situation without another word, for there was noturn in the Street that she was not familiar with. But there was noapparent recognition of it, except in her sympathetic tone, when shesaid: "Well, the world is full of annoyances. I'm bothered myself--andsuch a little thing. "

"What is it?"

"Oh nothing, not even a rumor. You cannot do anything about it. Idon't know why I should tell you. But I will. " And she paused a moment, looking down in an innocent perplexity. "It's just this: I am on theFoundlings' Board with Mrs. Schuyler Blunt, and I don't know her, andyou can't think how awkward it is having to meet her every week in thatstiff kind of way. " She did not go on to confide to Jack how she hadintrigued to get on the board, and how Mrs. Schuyler Blunt, in the mostwell-bred manner, had practically ignored her. 

"She's an old friend of mine. "

"Indeed! She's a charming woman. "

"Yes. We were great cronies when she was Sadie Mack. She isn't a genius, but she is good-hearted. I suppose she is on all the charity boards inthe city. She patronizes everything, " Jack continued, with a smile. 

"I'm sure she is, " said Carmen, thinking that however good-hearted shemight be she was very "snubby. " "And it makes it all the more awkward, for I am interested in so many things myself. "

"I can arrange all that, " Jack said, in an off-hand way. Carmen's lookof gratitude could hardly be distinguished from affection. "That's easyenough. We are just as good friends as ever, though I fancy she doesn'taltogether approve of me lately. It's rather nice for a fellow, Mrs. Henderson, to have a lot of women keeping him straight, isn't it?" askedJack, in the tone of a bad boy. 

"Yes. Between us all we will make a model of you. I am so glad now thatI told you. "

Jack protested that it was nothing. Why shouldn't friends help eachother? Why not, indeed, said Carmen, and the talk went on a good dealabout friendship, and the possibility of it between a man and a woman. This sort of talk is considered serious and even deep, not to sayphilosophic. Carmen was a great philosopher in it. She didn't know, butshe believed, it seemed natural, that every woman should have one manfriend. Jack rose to go. 

"So soon?" And it did seem pathetically soon. She gave him her hand, andthen by an impulse she put her left hand over his, and looked up to himin quite a business way. 

"Mr. Delancy, don't you be troubled about that rumor we were speakingof. It will be all right. Trust me. "

He understood perfectly, and expressed both his understanding and hisgratitude by bending over and kissing the little hand that lay in his. 

When he had gone, Carmen sat a long time by the fire reflecting. Itwould be sweet to humiliate the Delancy and Schuyler Blunt set, asHenderson could. But what would she gain by that? It would be sweeterstill to put them under obligations, and profit by that. She had endureda good many social rebuffs in her day, this tolerant little woman, andthe sting of their memory could only be removed when the people who hadignored her had to seek social favors she could give. If Henderson onlycared as much for such things as she did! But he was at times actuallybrutal about it. He seemed to have only one passion. She herself likedmoney, but only for what it would bring. Henderson was like an oldPharaoh, who was bound to build the biggest pyramid ever built to hismemory; he hated to waste a block. But what was the good of that whenone had passed beyond the reach of envy?

Revolving these deep things in her mind, she went to her dressing-roomand made an elaborate toilet for dinner. Yet it was elaborately simple. That sort needed more study than the other. She would like to be theCarmen of ten years ago in Henderson's eyes. 

Her lord came home late, and did not dress for dinner. It was oftenso, and the omission was usually not allowed to pass by Carmen withoutnotice, to which Henderson was sure to growl that he didn't care to bealways on dress parade. Tonight Carmen was all graciousness and warmth. Henderson did not seem to notice it. He ate his dinner abstractedly, andresponded only in monosyllables to her sweet attempts at conversation. The fact was that the day had been a perplexing one; he was engaged inone of his big fights, a scheme that aroused all his pugnacity and taxedall his resources. He would win--of course; he would smash everybody, but he would win. When he was in this mood Carmen felt that she was likea daisy in the path of a cyclone. In the first year of their marriagehe used to consult her about all his schemes, and value her keenunderstanding. She wondered why he did not now. Did he distrust evenher, as he did everybody else? Tonight she asked no questions. She wasunruffled by his short responses to her conversational attempts; by hersubtle, wifely manner she simply put herself on his side, whatever theside was. 

In the library she brought him his cigar, and lighted it. She saw thathis coffee was just as he liked it. As she moved about, making thingshomelike, Henderson noticed that she was more Carmenish than he hadseen her in a long time. The sweet ways and the simple toilet must be byintention. And he knew her so well. He began to be amused and softened. At length he said, in his ordinary tone, "Well, what is it?"

"What is what, dear?"

"What do you want?"

Carmen looked perplexed and sweetly surprised. There is nothing sopitiful about habitual hypocrisy as that it never deceives anybody. Itwas not the less painful now that Carmen knew that Henderson knew her tothe least fibre of her self-seeking soul, and that she felt that therewere currents in his life that she could not calculate. A man is so muchmore difficult to understand than a woman, she reflected. And yet heis so susceptible that he can be managed even when he knows he is beingmanaged. Carmen was not disconcerted for a moment. She replied, with herold candor:

"What an idea! You give me everything I want before I know what it is. "

"And before I know it either, " he responded, with a grim smile. "Well, what is the news today?"

"Just the same old round. The Foundlings' Board, for one thing. "

"Are you interested in foundlings?"

"Not much, " said Carmen, frankly. "I'm interested in those that findthem. I told you how hateful that Mrs. Schuyler Blunt is. "

"Why don't you cut her? Why don't you make it uncomfortable for her?"

"I can't find out, " she said, with a laugh, dropping into the languageof the Street, "anything she is short in, or I would. "

"And you want me to get a twist on old Blunt?" and Henderson roared withlaughter at the idea. 

"No, indeed. Dear, you are just a goose, socially. It is nothing to you, but you don't understand what we women have to go through. You don'tknow how hard it is--that woman!"

"What has she done?"

"Nothing. That's just it. What do you say in the Street--freeze? Well, she is trying to freeze me out. "

Henderson laughed again. "Oh, I'll back you against the field. "

"I don't want to be backed, " said Carmen; "I want some sympathy. "

"Well, what is your idea?"

"I was going to tell you. Mr. Delancy dropped in this afternoon for acup of tea--"

"Oh!"

"Yes, and he knows Mrs. Schuyler Blunt well; they are old friends, andhe is going to arrange it. "

"Arrange what?"

"Why, smooth everything out, don't you know. But, Rodney, I do want youto do something for me; not for me exactly, but about this. Won't youlook out for Mr. Delancy in this deal?"

"Seems to me you are a good deal interested in Jack Delancy, " saidHenderson, in a sneering tone. The remark was a mistake, for it gaveCarmen the advantage, and he did not believe it was just. He knew thatCarmen was as passionless as a diamond, whatever even she might pretendfor a purpose. 

"Aren't you ashamed!" she cried, with indignation, and her eyes flaredfor an instant and then filled with tears. "And I try so hard. "

"But I can't look out for all the lame ducks. "

"He isn't a duck, " said Carmen, using her handkerchief; "I'd hate himfor a duck. It's just to help me, when you know, when you know--and itis so hard, " and the tears came again. 

Did Henderson believe? After all, what did it matter? Perhaps, afterall, the woman had a right to her game, as he had to his. 

"Oh, well, " he said, "don't take on about it. I'll fix it. I'll make amemorandum this minute. Only don't you bother me in the future with toomany private kites. "

Carmen dried her eyes. She did not look triumphant; she just lookedsweet and grateful, like a person who had been helped. She went over andkissed her lord on the forehead, and sat on the arm of his chair, nottoo long, and then patted him on the shoulder, and said he was a goodfellow, and she was a little bother, and so went away like a dutifullittle wife. 

And Henderson sat looking into the fire and musing, with the feelingthat he had been at the theatre, and that the comedy had beenbeautifully played. 

His part of the play was carried out next day in good faith. One of thesecrets of Henderson's success was that he always did what he said hewould do. This attracted men to him personally, and besides he found, as Bismarck did, that it was more serviceable to him than lying, for thecrafty world usually banks upon insincerity and indirectness. But whilehe kept his word he also kept his schemes to himself, and executed themwith a single regard to his own interest and a Napoleonic selfishness. He did not lie to enemy or friend, but he did not spare either wheneither was in his way. He knew how to appeal to the self-interest of hisfellows, and in time those who had most to do with him trusted him leastwhen he seemed most generous in his offers. 

When, the next day, his secretary reported to him briefly that Delancywas greatly elated with the turn things had taken for him, and was goingin again, Henderson smiled sardonically, and said, "It was the worstthing I could have done for him. "

Jack, who did not understand the irony of his temporary rescue, andhad little experience of commercial integrity, so called, was intent onfulfilling his part of the understanding with Carmen. This could best beeffected by a return dinner to the Hendersons. The subject was broachedat breakfast in an off-hand manner to Edith. 

It was not an agreeable subject to Edith, that was evident; but it wasnot easy for her to raise objections to the dinner. She had gone tothe Hendersons' to please Jack, in her policy of yielding in order toinfluence him; but having accepted the hospitality, she could not objectto returning it. The trouble was in making the list. 

"I do not know, " said Edith, "who are the Hendersons' friends. "

"Oh, that doesn't matter. Ask our friends. If we are going to do a thingto please them, no use in doing it half-way, so as to offend them, bydrawing social lines against them. "

"Well, suggest. "

"There's Mavick; he'll be over from Washington next week. "

"That's good; and, oh, I'll ask Father Damon. "

"Yes; he'll give a kind of flavor to it. I shouldn't wonder if he wouldlike to meet such a man as Henderson. "

"And then the Van Dams and Miss Tavish; they were at Henderson's, andwould help to make it easy. "

"Yes; well, let's see. The Schuyler Blunts?"

"Oh, they wouldn't do at all. They wouldn't come. She wouldn't think ofgoing to the Hendersons'. "

"But she would come to us. I don't think she would mind once in a way. "

"But why do you want them?"

"I don't want them particularly; but it would no doubt please theHendersons more than any other thing we could do-and, well, I don't wantto offend Henderson just now. It's a little thing, anyway. What's theuse of all this social nonsense? We are not responsible for either theHendersons or the Blunts being in the world. No harm done if they don'tcome. You invite them, and I'll take the responsibility. "

So it was settled, against Edith's instinct of propriety, and the dinnerwas made up by the addition of the elder Miss Chesney. And Jack didpersuade Mrs. Blunt to accept. In fact, she had a little curiosity tosee the man whose name was in the newspapers more prominently than thatof the President. 

It was a bright thought to secure Mr. Mavick. Mr. Thomas Mavick wassocially one of the most desirable young men of the day. Matrimoniallyhe was not a prize, for he was without fortune and without powerfulconnections. He had a position in the State Department. Originally hecame from somewhere in the West, it was said, but he had early obtainedone or two minor diplomatic places; he had lived a good deal abroad; hehad traveled a little--a good deal, it would seem, from his occasionalOriental allusions. He threw over his past a slight mystery, not toomuch; and he always took himself seriously. His salary was sufficient toset up a bachelor very comfortably who always dined out; he dressed inthe severity of the fashion; he belonged only to the best clubs, wherehe unbent more than anywhere else; he was credited with knowing a gooddeal more than he would tell. It was believed, in fact, that he had agreat deal of influence. The President had been known to send for him ondelicate personal business with regard to appointments, and there werecertain ticklish diplomatic transactions that he was known to havemanaged most cleverly. His friends could see his hand in state papers. This he disclaimed, but he never denied that he knew the inside ofwhatever was going on in Washington. Even those who thought him a snobsaid he was clever. He had perfectly the diplomatic manner, and thereserve of one charged with grave secrets. Whatever he disclosed wasalways in confidence, so that he had the reputation of being as discreetas he was knowing. With women he was of course a favorite, for he knewhow to be confidential without disclosing anything, and the hintshe dropped about persons in power simply showed that he was secretlymanoeuvring important affairs, and could make the most interestingrevelations if he chose. His smile and the shake of his head at the clubwhen talk was personal conveyed a world of meaning. Tom Mavick was, inshort, a most accomplished fellow. It was evident that he carried onthe State Department, and the wonder to many was that he was not in aposition to do it openly. His social prestige was as mysterious as hisdiplomatic, but it was now unquestioned, and he might be considered asone of the first of a class who are to reconcile social and politicallife in this country. 

VIII

Looking back upon this dinner of the Delancys, the student of humanaffairs can see how Providence uses small means for the accomplishmentof its purposes. Of all our social contrivances, the formal dinner isprobably the cause of more anxiety in the arrangement, of more wearinessin the performance, and usually of less satisfaction in the retrospectthan any other social function. However carefully the guests areselected, it lacks the spontaneity that gives intellectual zest to thechance dining together of friends. This Delancy party was made up forreasons which are well understood, and it seemed to have been admirablywell selected; and yet the moment it assembled it was evident that itcould not be very brilliant or very enjoyable. Doubtless you, madam, would have arranged it differently, and not made it up of suchincongruous elements. 

As a matter of fact, scarcely one of those present would not have hadmore enjoyment somewhere else. Father Damon, whose theory was that therich needed saving quite as much as the poor, would neverthelesshave been in better spirits sitting down to a collation with theworking-women in Clinton Place. It was a good occasion for the cynicalobservation of Mr. Mavick, but it was not a company that he could takein hand and impress with his mysterious influence in public affairs. Henderson was not in the mood, and would have had much more ease overa chop and a bottle of half-and-half with Uncle Jerry. Carmen, sociallytriumphant, would have been much more in her element at a petitsouper of a not too fastidious four. Mrs. Schuyler Blunt was in theunaccustomed position of having to maintain a not too familiar and nottoo distant line of deportment. Edith and Jack felt the responsibilityof having put an incongruous company on thin conventional ice. It wasonly the easy-going Miss Tavish and two or three others who carriedalong their own animal spirits and love of amusement who enjoyed thechance of a possible contretemps. 

And yet the dinner was providentially arranged. If these people had notmet socially, this history would have been different from what it mustbe. The lives of several of them were appreciably modified by thismeeting. It is too much to say that Father Damon's notion of the meansby which such men as Henderson succeed was changed, but personal contactwith the man may have modified his utterances about him, and he may haveturned his mind to the uses to which his wealth might be applied ratherthan to the means by which he obtained it. Carmen's ingenuous interestin his work may have encouraged the hope that at least a portion of thisfortune might be rescued to charitable uses. For Carmen, dining withMrs. Schuyler Blunt was a distinct gain, and indirectly opened manyother hitherto exclusive doors. That lady may not have changed heropinion about Carmen, but she was good-natured and infected by theincoming social tolerance; and as to Henderson, she declared that he wasan exceedingly well-bred man, and she did not believe half the storiesabout him. Henderson himself at once appreciated the talents of Mavick, gauged him perfectly, and saw what services he might be capable ofrendering at Washington. Mr. Mavick appreciated the advantage of aconnection with such a capitalist, and of having open to him anotherluxurious house in New York. At the dinner-table Carmen and Mr. Mavickhad not exchanged a dozen remarks before these clever people felt thatthey were congenial spirits. It was in the smoking-room that Hendersonand Mavick fell into an interesting conversation, which resulted in aninvitation for Mavick to drop in at Henderson's office in the morning. The dinner had not been a brilliant one. Henderson found it not easy toselect topics equally interesting to Mrs. Delancy and Mrs. Blunt, andfinally fell into geographical information to the latter about Mexicoand Honduras. For Edith, the sole relief of the evening was an exchangeof sympathy with Father Damon, and she was too much preoccupied to enjoythat. As for Carmen, placed between Jack and Mr. Mavick, and consciousthat the eyes of Mrs. Blunt were on her, she was taking a subdued role, which Jack found much less attractive than her common mood. But this wasnot her only self-sacrifice of the evening. She went without her usualcigarette. 

To Edith the dinner was a revelation of new difficulties in the lifeshe proposed for herself, though they were rather felt than distinctlyreasoned about. The social atmosphere was distasteful; its elements wereout of harmony with her ideals. Not that this society was new to her, but that she saw it in a new light. Before her marriage all thesethings had been indifferent to this high-spirited girl. They were merelyincidents of the social state into which she was born, and she pursuedher way among them, having a tolerably clear conception of what her ownlife should be, with little recognition of their tendencies. Were onlyher own life concerned, they would still be indifferent to her. Butsomething had happened. That which is counted the best thing in life hadcome to her, that best thing which is the touchstone of character asit is of all conditions, and which so often introduces inextricablecomplications. She had fallen in love with Jack Delancy and married him. 

The first effect of this was to awake and enlarge what philosopherswould call her enthusiasm of humanity. The second effect was to showher--and this was what this little dinner emphasized--that she had putlimitations upon herself and taken on unthought-of responsibilities. Toput this sort of life one side, or make it secondary to her own ideaof a useful and happy life, would have been easy but for one thing--sheloved Jack. This philosophic reasoning about it does her injustice. Itdid not occur to her that she could go her way and let him go his way. Nor must it be supposed that the problem seemed as grave to her asit really was--the danger of frittering away her own higher nature infaithfulness to one of the noblest impulses of that nature. Yet this isthe way that so many trials of life come, and it is the greatest testof character. She felt--as many women do feel--that if she retained herhusband's love all would be well, and the danger involved to herselfprobably did not cross her mind. 

But what did cross her mind was that these associations meant only evilfor Jack, and that to be absorbed in the sort of life that seemed toplease him was for her to drift away from all her ideals. 

A confused notion of all this was in her thoughts when she talked withFather Damon, while the gentlemen were in the smoking-room. She askedhim about his mission. 

"The interest continues, " he replied; "but your East Side, Mrs. Delancy, is a puzzling place. "

"How so?"

"Perhaps you'll laugh if I say there is too much intelligence. "

Edith did laugh, and then said: "Then you'd better move your missionover to this side. Here is a field of good, unadulterated worldliness. But what, exactly, do you mean?"

"Well, the attempt of science to solve the problem of sin andwretchedness. What can you expect when the people are socialists andtheir leaders agnostics?"

"But I thought you were something of a socialist yourself!"

"So I am, " he said, frankly, "when I see the present injustice, theiniquitous laws and combinations that leave these people so littlechance. They are ignorant, and expect the impossible; but they are rightin many things, and I go with them. But my motive is not theirs. I hopenot. There is no hope except in a spiritual life. Materialism down atthe bottom of society is no better than materialism at the top. Do youknow, " he went on, with increased warmth, "that pessimism is rather therule over that side, and that many of those who labor most among thepoor have the least hope of ever making things substantially better?"

"But such unselfish people as Dr. Leigh do a great deal of good, " Edithsuggested. 

"Yes, " he said reflecting--"yes, I have no doubt. I don't understand it. She is not hopeful. She sees nothing beyond. I don't know what keeps herup. "

"Love of humanity, perhaps. "

"I wish the phrase had never been invented. Religion of humanity! Thework is to save the souls of those people. "

"But, " said Edith, with a flush of earnestness "but, Father Damon, isn'thuman love the greatest power to save?"

The priest looked at the girl. His face softened, and he said, moregently, "I don't know. Of the soul, yes. But human love is so apt tostand in the way of the higher life. "

In her soul Edith resented this as an ascetic and priestly view; but sheknew his devotion to that humanity which he in vain tried to eliminatefrom his austere life, and she turned the talk lightly by saying, "Ah, that is your theory. But I am coming over soon, and shall expect you andDr. Leigh to take me about. "

The next morning Mr. Mavick's card gave him instant admission to theinner office of Mr. Henderson, the approach to whom was more carefullyguarded than that to the President of the United States. This was notmerely necessary to save him from the importunities of cranks who mightcarry concealed dynamite arguments, but as well to protect him fromhundreds of business men with whom he was indirectly dealing, and withwhom he wished to evade explanations. He thoroughly understood theadvantages of delay. He also understood the value of the mystery thatattends inaccessibility. Even Mr. Mavick himself was impressed by theshow of ceremony, by the army of clerks, and by the signs of completeorganization. He knew that the visitor was specially favored whopenetrated these precincts so far as to get an interview, usuallyfruitless, with Henderson's confidential man. This confidential manwas a very grave and confidence-begetting person, who dealt out dubioushints and promises, and did not at all mind when Henderson found itnecessary to repudiate as unauthorized anything that had been apparentlysaid in his name. To be sure, this gave a general impression thatHenderson was an inscrutable man to deal with, but at the same timeit was confessed that his spoken word could be depended on. Anythingwritten might, it is true, lead to litigation, and this gave rise to asaying in the Street that Henderson's word was better than his bond. 

Henderson was not a politician, but he was a friend of politicians. Itwas said that he contributed about equally to both sides in a politicalcampaign, and that this showed patriotism more than partisanship. It wasfor his interest to have friends on both sides in Congress, and friendsin the Cabinet, and it was even hinted that he was concerned to havemen whose economic and financial theories accorded with his own on theSupreme Bench. He had unlimited confidence in the power of money. Hisvisitor of the morning was not unlike him in many respects. He also wasnot a politician. He would have described himself as a governmentalman, and had a theory of running the government with as little popularinterference as possible. He regarded himself as belonging to thegoverning class. 

Between these two men, who each had his own interests in view, there wasnaturally an apparent putting aside of reserve. 

"I was very glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mavick, " said Henderson, cordially. "I have known of you for a long time. "

"Yes? I've been in the employ of the government for some time. "

"And I suppose it pays pretty well, " said Henderson, smilingly. 

"Oh, extravagantly, " Mavick rejoined, in the same spirit. "You justabout get your board and clothes out of government. Your washing isanother thing. You are expected, you know, to have your washing donewhere you vote. "

"Well, it's a sure thing. "

"Yes, till you are turned out. You know the theory at Washington is thatvirtue is its own reward. Tom Fakeltree says it's enough. "

"I wonder how he knows?"

"Observation, probably. Tom startled a dinner table the other day withthe remark that when a man once gives himself up to the full enjoymentof a virtuous life, it seems strange to him that more people do notfollow his example. "

"The trouble with the virtue of Washington is that it always wants tointerfere with other people's business. Fellows like Tom are alwayshunting up mares' nests in order to be paid for breaking them up. "

"I can't say about Tom, " rejoined Mavick. "I suppose it is necessary tolive. "

"I suppose so. And that goes along with another proposition--that thesuccessful have no rights which the unsuccessful are bound to respect. As soon as a man gets ahead, " Henderson continued, with a tone ofbitterness, "the whole pack are trying to pull him down. A capitalistis a public enemy. Why, look at that Hodge bill! Strikes directly at theability of the railways to develop the country. Have you seen it?"

"Yes, " Mavick admitted; "the drawer of it was good enough to consult meon its constitutionality. It's a mighty queer bill. "

"It can't get through the Senate, " said Henderson; "but it's a bother. Such schemes are coming up all the time, and they unsettle business. These fellows need watching. "

"And managing, " added Mavick. 

"Exactly. I can't be in Washington all the time. And I need to know whatis going on every twenty-four hours from the inside. I can't rely onpoliticians or lobbyists. "

"Well, " said Mr. Mavick, in his easiest manner, "that's easy enough. Youwant a disinterested friend. "

Henderson nodded, but did not even smile, and the talk went on aboutother measures, and confidentially about certain men in Washington, until, after twenty minutes' conversation, the two men came to a perfectunderstanding. When Mavick arose to go they shook hands even morecordially than at first, and Henderson said:

"Well, I expect to hear from you, and remember that our house willalways be your home in the city. "

IX

It seemed very fortunate to Jack Delancy that he should have sucha clever woman as Carmen for his confidante, a man so powerful asHenderson as his backer, and a person so omniscient as Mavick for hisfriend. No combination could be more desirable for a young man whoproposed to himself a career of getting money by adroit management andspending it in pure and simple self-indulgence. There are plenty of menwho have taken advantage of like conditions to climb from one positionto another, and have then kicked down the ladders behind them as fast asthey attained a new footing. It was Jack's fault that he was not one ofthese. You could scarcely dignify his character by saying that he hadan aim, except to saunter through life with as little personalinconvenience as possible. His selfishness was boneless. It was notby any means negative, for no part of his amiable nature was betterdeveloped than regard for his own care and comfort; but it was notstrong enough to give him Henderson's capacity for hard work and evenself-denial, nor Mavick's cool, persevering skill in making a way forhimself in the world. Why was not Edith his confidante? His respect forher was undoubted; his love for her was unquestioned; his trust in herwas absolute. And yet with either Carmen or Miss Tavish he fell intoconfidential revelations of himself which instinctively he did not maketo Edith. The explanation of this is on the surface, and it is the keyto half the unhappiness in domestic life. He felt that Edith was not insympathy with the associations and the life he was leading. The pitifuland hopeless part of it is that if she had been in sympathy with them, Jack would have gone on in his frivolous career at an accelerated pace. It was not absence of love, it was not unfaithfulness, that made Jackenjoy the hours he spent with Carmen, or with the pleasing and not toofastidious Miss Tavish, with a zest that was wanting to his hours athome. If he had been upon a sinking steamboat with the three women, and could have saved only one of them, he would not have had a moment'shesitation in rescuing Edith and letting the other two sink out of hislife. The character is not unusual, nor the situation uncommon. What isa woman to do? Her very virtues are enemies of her peace; if she appearsas a constant check and monitor, she repels; if she weakly acquiesces, the stream will flow over both of them. The dilemma seems hopeless. 

It would be a mistake to suppose that either Edith or Jack put theirrelations in any such definite shape as this. He was unthinking. She wastoo high-spirited, too confident of her position, to be assailed bysuch fears. And it must be said, since she was a woman, that she hadthe consciousness of power which goes along with the possession ofloveliness and keen wit. Those who knew her best knew that under herserenity was a gay temperament, inherited from the original settlers ofManhattan, an abounding enjoyment of life, and capacity for passion. Itwas early discovered in her childhood that little Edith had a will ofher own. 

Lent was over. It was the time of the twittering of sparrows, of theopening of windows, of putting in order the little sentimental spotscalled "squares, " where the poor children get their idea of forests, andthe rich renew their faint recollections of innocence and country life;when the hawkers go about the streets, and the hand-organs celebrate thereturn of spring and the possibility of love. Even the idle felt that itwas a time for relaxation and quiet. 

"Have you answered Miss Tavish's invitation?" asked Jack one morning atthe breakfast-table. 

"Not yet. I shall decline today for myself. "

"Why? It's for charity. "

"Well, my charity extends to Miss Tavish. I don't want to see herdance. "

"That leaves me in a nice hole. I said I'd go. "

"And why not? You go to a good many places you don't take me--the clubs, brokers' offices, Stalker's, the Conventional, and--"

"Oh, go on. Why do you object to my going to see this dance?"

"My dear Jack, " said Edith, "I haven't objected the least in the world;"and her animated face sparkled with a smile, which seemed to irritateJack more than a frown would have done. 

"I don't see why you set yourself up. I'll bet Miss Tavish will raisemore money for the Baxter Street Guild, yes, and do more good, than youand the priest and that woman doctor slopping about on the East Side insix months. "

"Very likely, " replied Edith, still with the same good-humored smile. "But, Jack, it's delightful to see your philanthropic spirit stirred upin this way. You ought to be encouraged. Why don't you join Miss Tavishin this charity? I have no doubt that if it was advertised that MissTavish and Mr. Jack Delancy would dance for the benefit of an East Sideguild in the biggest hall in the city, there wouldn't be standing room. "

"Oh, bosh!" said Jack, getting up from his chair and striding about theroom, with more irritation than he had ever shown to Edith before. "Iwouldn't be a prude. "

Edith's eyes flashed and her face flushed, but her smile came back ina moment, and she was serene again. "Come here, Jack. Now, old fellow, look me straight in the eyes, and tell me if you would like to haveme dance the serpentine dance before a drawing-room full of gossipingwomen, with, as you say, just a few men peeping in at the doors. "

Jack did look, and the serene eyes, yet dancing with amusement at theincongruous picture, seemed to take a warmer glow of love and pleading. 

"Oh, hang it! that's different, " and he stooped and gave her an awkwardkiss. 

"I'm glad you know it's different, " she said, with a laugh that had nota trace of mockery in it; "and since you do, you'd better go along anddo your charity, and I'll stay at home, and try to be--different whenyou come back. "

And Jack went; with a little feeling of sheepishness that he would nothave acknowledged at the time, and he found himself in a company wherehe was entirely at his ease. He admired the dancing of the blithe, graceful girl, he applauded her as the rest did with hand-clapping andbravas, and said it was ravishing. It all suited him perfectly. Andsomehow, in the midst of it all, in the sensuous abandon of thiselectric-light eccentricity at mid-day, he had a fleeting vision ofsomething very different, of a womanhood of another sort, and a flushcame to his face for a moment as he imagined Edith in a skirt danceunder the gaze of this sensation-loving society. But this was only fora moment. When he congratulated Miss Tavish his admiration was entirelysincere; and the girl, excited with her physical triumph, seemed to himas one emancipated out of acquired prudishness into the Greek enjoymentof life. Miss Tavish, who would not for the world have violated one ofthe social conventions of her set, longed, as many women do, for thesort of freedom and the sort of applause which belongs to women whosucceed upon the stage. Not that she would have forfeited her positionby dancing at a theatre for money; but; within limits, she craved theexcitement, the abandon, the admiration, that her grace and passioncould win. This was not at all the ambition which led the Egyptian queenHatshepsu to assume the dress of a man, but rather that more famousaspiration which led the daughter of Herodias, in a pleasure-lovingcourt, to imitate and excel the professional dancing-girls. If inthis inclination of the women of the day, which is not new, but hascharacterized all societies to which wealth has brought idleness, therewas a note of demoralization, it did not seem so to Jack, who found theworld day by day more pleasing and more complaisant. 

As the months went by, everything prospered with him on his driftingvoyage. Of all voyages, that is the easiest to make which has no portin view, that depends upon the varying winds, if the winds happen tobe soft and the chance harbors agreeable. Jack was envied, thanks toHenderson. He was lucky in whatever he touched. Without any change inhis idle habits, and with no more attention to business than formerly, money came to him so freely that he not only had a complacent notionthat he was a favorite of fortune, but the idea of his own importancein the financial world increased enormously, much to the amusement ofMavick, when he was occasionally in the city, to whom he talkedsomewhat largely of his operations, and who knew that he had no morecomprehension of the sweep of Henderson's schemes than a baby has of thestock exchange when he claps his hands with delight at the click of theticker. 

His prosperity was visible. It showed in the increase of his accountsat the Union, in his indifference to limits in the game of poker, in ahandsome pair of horses which he insisted on Edith's accepting for herown use, in an increased scale of living at home, in the hundred waysthat a man of fashion can squander money in a luxurious city. If hedid not haunt the second-hand book-shops or the stalls of dealers inengravings, or bring home as much bric-a-brac as he once had done, itwas because his mind was otherwise engaged; his tailor's bills werelonger, and there were more expensive lunches at the clubs, at whichthere was a great deal of sage talk about stocks and combinations, andmuch wisdom exhibited in regard to wines; and then there were the littlesuppers at Wherry's after the theatres, which a bird could have eatenand a fish have drunken, and only a spendthrift have paid for. 

"It is absurd, " Edith had said one night after their return. "It makesus ridiculous in the eyes of anybody but fools. " And Jack had flared upabout it, and declared that he knew what he could afford, and she hadretorted that as for her she would not countenance it. And Jack hadattempted to pass it off lightly, at last, by saying, "Very well then, dear, if you won't back me, I shall have to rely upon my bankers. "At any rate, neither Carmen nor Miss Tavish took him to task. Theycomplimented him on his taste, and Carmen made him feel that sheappreciated his independence and his courage in living the life thatsuited him. She knew, indeed, how much he made in his speculations, howmuch he lost at cards; she knew through him the gossip of the clubs, and venturing herself not too far at sea, liked to watch the undertow offashionable life. And she liked Jack, and was not incapable of throwinghim a rope when the hour came that he was likely to be swept away bythat undertow. 

It was remarked at the Union, and by the men in the Street who knew him, that Jack was getting rapid. But no one thought the less of him for hispace--that is, no one appeared to, for this sort of estimate of a manis only tested by his misfortunes, when the day comes that he must seekfinancial backing. In these days he was generally in an expansive mood, and his free hand and good-humor increased his popularity. There werethose who said that there were millions of family money back of Jack, and that he had recently come in for something handsome. 

But this story did not deceive Major Fairfax, whose business it was toknow to a dot the standing of everybody in society, in which he was asort of oracle and privileged favorite. No one could tell exactly howthe Major lived; no one knew the rigid economy that he practiced; no onehad ever seen his small dingy chamber in a cheap lodging-house. The nameof Fairfax was as good as a letter of introduction in the metropolis, and the Major had lived on it for years, on that and a carefully nursedlittle income--an habitue of the club, and a methodical cultivator ofthe art of dining out. A most agreeable man, and perhaps the wisest manin his generation in those things about which it would be as well not toknow anything. 

Seated one afternoon in his favorite corner for street observation, bythe open window, with the evening paper in his hand, in the attitude ofone expecting the usual five o'clock cocktail, he hailed Jack, who wasjust coming down-stairs from a protracted lunch. 

"I say, Delancy, what's this I hear?"

"About what?" said Jack, sauntering along to a seat opposite the Major, and touching a bell on the little table as he sat down. Jack's face wasflushed, but he talked with unusual slowness and distinctness. "Whathave you heard, Major?"

"That you have bought Benham's yacht. "

"No, I haven't; but I was turning the thing over in my mind, " Jackreplied, with the air of a man declining an appointment in the Cabinet. "He offers it cheap. "

"My dear boy, there is no such thing as a cheap yacht, any more thanthere is a cheap elephant. "

"It's better to buy than build, " Jack insisted. "A man's got to havesome recreation. "

"Recreation! Why don't you charter a Fifth Avenue stage and take yourfriends on a voyage to the Battery? That'll make 'em sick enough. "It was a misery of the Major's life that, in order to keep in withnecessary friends, he had to accept invitations for cruises on yachts, and pretend he liked it. Though he had the gout, he vowed he wouldrather walk to Newport than go round Point Judith in one of thosetipping tubs. He had tried it, and, as he said afterwards, "The devil ofit was that Mrs. Henderson and Miss Tavish sympathized with me. Gad! ittakes away a person's manhood, that sort of thing. "

The Major sipped his bitters, and then added: "Or I'll tell you what;if you must do something, start a newspaper--the drama, society, andletters, that sort of thing, with pictures. I heard Miss Tavish say shewished she had a newspaper. "

"But, " said Jack, with gravity, "I'm not buying a yacht for MissTavish. "

"I didn't suppose you were. Devilish fine girl, though. I don't care whoyou buy it for if you don't buy it for yourself. Why don't you buy itfor Henderson? He can afford it. "

"I'd like to know what you mean, Major Fairfax!" cried Jack. "Whatbusiness--"

"There!" exclaimed the Major, sinking back in his chair, with a softenedexpression in his society beaten face. "It's no use of nonsense, Jack. I'm an average old sinner, and I'm not old enough yet to like a milksop. But I've known you since you were so high, and I knew your father; heused to stay weeks on my plantation when we were both younger. And yourmother--that was a woman!--did me a kindness once when I was in a d---dtight place, and I never forgot it. See here, Jack, if I had moneyenough I'd buy a yacht and put Carmen and Miss Tavish on it, and sendthem off on the longest voyage there is. "

"Who's been talking?" exclaimed Jack, touched a little, but very muchoffended. 

"The town, Jack. Don't mind the talk. People always talk. I supposepeople talk about me: At your age I should have been angry too at a hinteven from an old friend. But I've learned. It doesn't pay. I don't getangry any more. Now there's Henderson--"

"What have you got against Henderson?"

"Nothing. He is a very good fellow, for that sort of man. But, Lord!Henderson is a big machine. You might as well try to stand in with acombination of gang-saws, or to make friends with the Department of theInterior. Look at the men who have gone in with Henderson from timeto time. The ground is strewn with them. He's got no more feeling inbusiness than a reaper-and-binder. "

"I don't know what Henderson's got to do with my having a yacht. "

"I beg your pardon, Jack; it's none of my business. Only I do not put myinvestments"--Jack smiled faintly, as if the conversation were takinga humorous turn--"at the mercy of Henderson's schemes. If I did, Iwouldn't try to run a yacht at the same time. I should be afraid thatsome day when I got to sea I should find myself out of coal. You know, my boy, that the good book says you cannot serve two masters. "

"Nobody ever accused you of that, Major, " retorted Jack, with a laugh. "But what two have you in mind?"

"Oh, I don't mean anything personal. I just use names as typical. SayHenderson and Carmen. " And the Major leaned back and tapped his fingerstogether, as if he were putting a general proposition. 

Jack flushed, and then thought a moment--it would be ridiculous to getangry with old Fairfax--and then said: "Major, if I were you, I wouldn'thave anything to do with either of them. You'll spoil your digestion. "

"Umph!" the Major grunted, as he rose from his chair. "This is an age ofimpudence. There's no more respect for gray hair than if it were dyed. I cannot waste any more time on you. I've got an early dinner. Devilishuphill work trying to encourage people who dine at seven. But, my boy, think on these things, as the saint says. "

And the old fellow limped away. There was one good thing about theMajor. He stood up in church every Sunday and read his prayers, like afaithful old sinner as he was. 

Jack, sobered by the talk, walked home in a very irritated mood, blamingeverybody except himself. For old Fairfax's opinion he didn't care, butevidently the old fellow represented a lot of gossip. He wished peoplewould mind their own business. His irritation was a little appeased byEdith's gay and loving greeting; but she, who knew every shade of hisface, saw it. 

"Have you had a worrying day?"

"No; not specially. I've had an hour of old Fairfax, who hasn't anybusiness of his own to attend to. "

"Oh, nobody minds the Major, " Edith said, as she gave him a shake andanother kiss; but a sharp pang went through her heart, for she guessedwhat had happened, since she had had a visit that afternoon from anotherplain-speaking person. 

They were staying late in town. Edith, who did not care to travel far, was going presently to a little cottage by the sea, and Mrs. SchuylerBlunt had looked in for a moment to say good-by before she went up toher Lenox house. 

"It's only an old farmhouse made over, " Mrs. Blunt was saying; "hardlysmart enough to ask anybody to, but we hope to have you and Jack theresome time. "

"That would be very nice. I hear Lenox is more beautiful than ever. "

"Yes, it is, and about as difficult to get into as the kingdom ofheaven. It's being spoiled for moderate people. The Hendersons and theVan Dams and that sort are in a race to see who shall build houses withthe biggest rooms, and give the most expensive entertainments. It's allshow. The old flavor has gone. "

"But they cannot spoil the scenery. ". 

"My child, they are the scenery. You can't see anything else. It doesn'tbother me, but some of my old neighbors are just ruining themselvestrying to keep the pace. I do think the Americans are the biggest foolson earth. "

"Father Damon says the trouble is we haven't any middle class for abalance. "

"Yes, that's the English of it. But it's a pity that fashion has gothold of the country, and is turning our summers into a worry and aburden. I thought years ago when we went to Lenox that it was agood thing the country was getting to be the fashion; but now it'sfashionable, and before we know it every desirable spot will be whatthey call syndicated. Miss Tavish says she is coming to visit theHendersons there. "

"I thought she went to Bar Harbor. "

"But she is coming down for part of the season. These people don't stayanywhere. Just long enough in one place to upset everything with theirextravagance. That's the reason I didn't ask you and Jack up thissummer. "

"Thank you, we couldn't go, you know, " said Edith, simply, and then, with curiosity in her eyes, asked; "but I don't quite understand what'sthe reason. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Blunt, as if nerving herself up to say what must besaid, "I thought perhaps you wouldn't like to be where they are. "

"I don't know why I should or why I should not, " Edith replied. 

"Nor have Jack with them, " continued Mrs. Blunt, stoutly. 

"What do you mean, Mrs. Blunt?" cried Edith, her brown eyes flaming. 

"Don't turn on me, Edith dear. I oughtn't to have said anything. But Ithought it was my duty. Of course it is only talk. "

"Well?"

"That Jack is always with one or the other of those women. "

"It is false!" cried Edith, starting up, with tears now in her eyes;"it's a cruel lie if it means anything wrong in Jack. So am I with thosewomen; so are you. It's a shame. If you hear any one say such things, you can tell them for me that I despise them. "

"I said it was a shame, all such talk. I said it was nonsense. But, dear, as a friend, oughtn't I to tell you?" And the kind-hearted gossipput her arm round Edith, and kept saying that she perfectly understoodit, and that nobody really meant anything. But Edith was crying now, with a heart both hurt and indignant. 

"It's a most hateful world, I know, " Mrs. Blunt answered; "but it's thebest we have, and it's no use to fret about it. "

When the visitor had gone, Edith sat a long time in misery. It was thefirst real shock of her married life. And in her heart she prayed. ForJack? Oh no. The dear girl prayed for herself, that suspicions might notenter her heart. She could not endure that the world should talk thus ofhim. That was all. And when she had thought it all over and growncalm, she went to her desk and wrote a note to Carmen. It asked Mrs. Henderson, as they were so soon to leave town, to do her the favor tocome round informally and lunch with her the next day, and afterwardsperhaps a little drive in the Park. 

X

Jack was grateful for Edith's intervention. He comprehended that she hadstepped forward as a shield to him in the gossip about Carmen. He showedhis appreciation in certain lover-like attentions and in a gayety ofmanner, but it was not in his nature to feel the sacrifice she had madeor its full magnanimity; he was relieved, and in a manner absolved. Another sort of woman might have made him very uncomfortable. Instead ofbeing rebuked he had a new sense of freedom. 

"Not one woman in a thousand would have done it, " was the comment ofMajor Fairfax when he heard of the drive in the Park. "Gad! most of'em would have cut Carmen dead and put Jack in Coventry, and then therewould have been the devil to pay. It takes quality, though; she's sucha woman as Jack's mother. If there were not one of them now and thensociety would deliquesce. " And the Major knew, for his principalexperience had been with a deliquescent society. 

Whether Carmen admired Mrs. Delancy or thought her weak it is impossibleto say, but she understood the advances made and responded to them, forthey fell in perfectly with her social plans. She even had the faceto eulogize Mrs. Delancy to Jack, her breadth of view, her lack ofprejudice, and she had even dared to say, "My dear friend, she is toogood for us, " and Jack had not protested, but with a laugh had acceptedthe implication of his position on a lower moral level. Perhaps he didnot see exactly what it meant, this being on confidential terms abouthis wife with another woman; all he cared for at the moment was that thecomradeship of Miss Tavish and Carmen was agreeable to him. They wereno restraint upon him. So long as they remained in town the exchange ofcivilities was kept up. Carmen and Miss Tavish were often at his house, and there was something reassuring to Jack in the openness with whichaffairs went on. 

Early in June Edith went down to their rented cottage on the south LongIsland shore. In her delicate health the doctor had recommended theseaside, and this locality as quiet and restful, and not too far fromthe whirl of the city. The place had a charm of its own, the charm, namely, of a wide sky, illimitable, flashing, changing sea, rolling infrom the far tropical South with its message of romance to the barrenNorthern shore, and the pure sand dunes, the product of the whippings oftempests and wild weather. The cottage was in fact an old farmhouse, notan impertinent, gay, painted piece of architecture set on the sand likea tent for a month, but a solid, ugly, fascinating habitation, withbarns and outhouses, and shrubs, and an old garden--a place with a saltyair friendly to delicate spring blossoms and summer fruits and foliage. If it was a farmhouse, the sea was an important part of the farm, andthe low-ceiled rooms suggested cabins; it required little imagination tofancy that an East-Indian ship had some time come ashore and settledin the sand, that it had been remodeled and roofed over, and its sidespierced with casement windows, over which roses had climbed in order tobind the wanderer to the soil. It had been painted by the sun and thewind and the salt air, so that its color depended upon the day, and itwas sometimes dull and almost black, or blue-black, under a loweringsky, and again a golden brown, especially at sunset, and Edith, feelingits character rather than its appearance to ordinary eyes, had named itthe Golden House. Nature is such a beautiful painter of wood. 

With Edith went one of her Baltimore cousins, a young kindergartenteacher of fine intelligence and sympathetic manner, who brought toher work a long tradition of gentle breeding and gayety andsimplicity--qualities which all children are sure to recognize. What ahopeful thing it is, by-the-way, in the world, that all conditions ofpeople know a lady at sight! Jack found the place delightful. He likedits quaintness, the primitiveness of the farmer-fisherman neighbors, heliked the sea. And then he could run up to the city any morning and backat night. He spent the summer with Edith at the Golden House. This washis theory. When he went to town in the morning he expected to return atnight. But often he telegraphed in the afternoon that he was detained bybusiness; he had to see Henderson, or Mavick was over from Washington. Occasionally, but not often, he missed the train. He had too keen asense of the ridiculous to miss the train often. When he was detainedover for two or three days, or the better part of the week, he wroteEdith dashing, hurried letters, speaking of ever so many places he hadbeen to and ever so many people he had seen--yes, Carmen and Miss Tavishand everybody who was in town, and he did not say too much about the hotcity and its discomforts. 

Henderson's affairs kept him in town, Miss Tavish still postponed BarHarbor, and Carmen willingly remained. She knew the comfort of a big NewYork house when the season is over, when no social duties are required, and one is at leisure to lounge about in cool costumes, to read ordream, to open the windows at night for the salt breeze from the bay, totake little excursions by boat or rail, to dine al fresco in the gardenof some semi-foreign hotel, to taste the unconventional pleasures of thetown, as if one were in some foreign city. She used to say that New Yorkin matting and hollands was almost as nice as Buda-Pesth. These werereally summer nights, operatic sorts of nights, with music floating inthe air, gay groups in the streets, a stage imitation of nature in thesquares with the thick foliage and the heavy shadows cast on the asphaltby the electric lights, the brilliant shops, the nonsense of the summertheatres, where no one expected anything, and no one was disappointed, the general air of enjoyment, and the suggestion of intrigue. Sometimes, when Mavick was over, a party was made up for the East Side, to see theforeign costumes, the picturesque street markets, the dime museums, andthe serious, tragical theatres of the people. The East Side was leftpretty much to itself, now that the winter philanthropists had goneaway, and was enjoying its summer nights and its irresponsible poverty. 

They even looked in at Father Damon's chapel, the dimly lighted fragrantrefuge from the world and from sin. Why not? They were interested in themorals of the region. Had not Miss Tavish danced for one of the guilds;and had not Carmen given Father Damon a handsome check in support ofhis mission? It was so satisfactory to go into such a place and seethe penitents kneeling here and there, the little group of very plainlydressed sinners attracted by Father Damon's spiritual face and unselfishenthusiasm. Carmen said she felt like kneeling at one of the littleboxes and confessing--the sins of her neighbors. And then thefour--Carmen, Miss Tavish, Mavick, and Jack--had a little supperat Wherry's, which they enjoyed all the more for the good action ofvisiting the East Side--a little supper which lasted very late, and wasmore and more enjoyed as it went on, and was, in fact, so gay that whenthe ladies were set down at their houses, Jack insisted on draggingMavick off to the Beefsteak Club and having something manly to drink;and while they drank he analyzed the comparative attractions of Carmenand Miss Tavish; he liked that kind of women, no nonsense in them; andpresently he wandered a little and lost the cue of his analysis, and, seizing Mavick by the arm, and regarding him earnestly, in a burst ofconfidence declared that, notwithstanding all appearances, Edith was thedearest girl in the world. 

It was at this supper that the famous society was formed, which thenewspapers ridiculed, and which deceived so many excellent people in NewYork because it seemed to be in harmony with the philanthropic endeavorof the time, but which was only an expression of the Mephistophelianspirit of Carmen--the Society for Supplying Two Suspenders to Those whohave only One. 

By the end of June there was no more doubt about the heat of the townthan about its odors. The fashionable residence part was dismantled anddeserted. At least miles and miles of houses seemed to be closed. Few carriages were seen in this quarter, the throngs of fashion haddisappeared, comparatively few women were about, and those that appearedin the Sunday promenade were evidently sight-seers and idlers from otherquarters; the throng of devotees was gone from the churches, and indeedin many of them services were suspended till a more convenient season. The hotels, to be sure, were full of travelers, and the club-houseshad more habitues than usual, and were more needed by the members whosefamilies had gone into the country. 

Notwithstanding the silence and vacation aspect of up-town, the publicconveyances were still thronged, and a census would have shown no suchdiminution of population as seemed. Indeed, while nobody was in town, except accidentally, the greater portion of it presented a more animatedappearance than usual, especially at night, on account of the openwindows, the groups on door-steps and curb-stones, and the restlessthrong in the streets-buyers and sellers and idlers. To most thisoutdoor life was a great enjoyment, and to them the unclean streets withthe odors and exhalations of decay were homelike and congenial. Nor didthey seem surprised that a new country should so completely reproducethe evil smells and nastiness of the old civilization. It wasall familiar and picturesque. Work still went on in the crowdedtenement-houses, and sickness simply changed its character, deathshowing an increased friendliness to young children. Some impressionwas of course made by the agents of various charities, the guilds andsettlements bravely strove at their posts, some of the churches kepttheir flags flying on the borders of the industrial districts, the GoodSamaritans of the Fresh-air Fund were active, the public dispensariesdid a thriving business, and the little band of self-sacrificingdoctors, most of them women, went their rounds among the poor, the sick, and the friendless. 

Among them Ruth Leigh was one who never took a vacation. There was notime for it. The greater the heat, the more noisome the town, the morepeople became ill from decaying food and bad air and bad habits, themore people were hungry from improvidence or lack of work, the more wereher daily visits a necessity; and though she was weary of her monotonouswork, and heart-sick at its small result in such a mass, there nevercame a day when she could quit it. She made no reputation in herprofession by this course; perhaps she awoke little gratitude from thoseshe served, and certainly had not so much of their confidence as thequacks who imposed upon them and took their money; and she was notheartened much by hope of anything better in this world or any other;and as for pay, if there was enough of that to clothe her decently, sheapparently did not spend it on herself. 

It was, in short, wholly inexplicable that this little woman shouldsimply go about doing good, without any ulterior purpose whatever, noteven notoriety. Did she love these people? She did not ever say anythingabout that. In the Knights of Labor circle, and in the little clubsfor the study of social questions, which she could only get leisure toattend infrequently, she was not at all demonstrative about any religionof humanity. Perhaps she simply felt that she was a part of thesepeople, and that whether they rejected her or received her, there wasnothing for her to do but to give herself to them. She would probablyhave been surprised if Father Damon had told her that she was in thisfollowing a great example, and there might have been a tang of agnosticbitterness in her reply. When she thought of it the condition seemed toher hopeless, and the attitude of what was called civilizationtowards it so remorseless and indifferent, and that of Christianity sopharisaical. If she ever lost her temper, it was when she let her mindrun in this nihilistic channel, in bitterness against the whole socialorganization, and the total outcome of civilization so far as the massof humanity is concerned. 

One day Father Damon climbed up to the top of a wretched tenement inBaxter Street in search of a German girl, an impulsive and pretty girlof fifteen, whom he had missed for several days at the chapel services. He had been in the room before. It was not one of the worst, for thoughsmall and containing a cook-stove, a large bed, and a chest of drawers, there was an attempt to make it tidy. In a dark closet opening out fromit was another large bed. As he knocked and opened the door, he saw thatGretchen was not at home. Her father sat in a rocking-chair by an openwindow, on the sill of which stood a pot of carnations, the Easter giftof St. George's, a wax-faced, hollow-eyed man of gentle manners, wholooked round wearily at the priest. The mother was washing clothes in atub in one corner; in another corner was a half-finished garment from aslop-shop. The woman alternated the needle at night and the tub in thedaytime. Seated on the bed, with a thin, sick child in her arms, wasDr. Leigh. As she looked up a perfectly radiant smile illuminated herusually plain face, an unworldly expression of such purity andhappiness that she seemed actually beautiful to the priest, who stopped, hesitating, upon the threshold. 

"Oh, you needn't be afraid to come in, Father Damon, " she cried out; "itisn't contagious--only rash. "

Father Damon, who would as readily have walked through a pestilenceas in a flower-garden, only smiled at this banter, and replied, afterspeaking to the sick man, and returning in German the greeting of thewoman, who had turned from the tub, "I've no doubt you are disappointedthat it isn't contagious!" And then, to the mother: "Where is Gretchen?She doesn't come to the chapel. "

"Nein, " replied the woman, in a mixture of German and English, "it don'tcome any more in dot place; it be in a shtore now; it be good girl. "

"What, all day?"

"Yaas, by six o'clock, and abends so spate. Not much it get, but my mancan't earn nothing any more. " And the woman, as she looked at him, wipedher eyes with the corner of her apron. 

"But, on Sunday?" Father Damon asked, still further. 

"Vell, it be so tired, and goed up by de Park with Dick Loosing and demoder girls. "

"Don't you think it better, Father Damon, " Dr. Leigh interposed, "thatGretchen should have fresh air and some recreation on Sunday?"

"Und such bootiful tings by de Museum, " added the mother. 

"Perhaps, " said he, with something like a frown on his face, and thenchanged the subject to the sick child. He did not care to argue thematter when Dr. Leigh was present, but he resolved to come again andexplain to the mother that her daughter needed some restraining powerother than her own impulse, and that without religious guidance she waspretty certain to drift into frivolous and vulgar if not positively badways. The father was a free-thinker; but Father Damon thought he hadsome hold on the mother, who was of the Lutheran communion, but hadfollowed her husband so far as to become indifferent to anything buttheir daily struggle for life. Yet she had a mother's instinct about thedanger to her daughter, and had been pleased to have her go to FatherDamon's chapel. 

And, besides, he could not bring himself in that presence to seemto rebuke Ruth Leigh. Was she not practically doing what his Lorddid--going about healing the sick, sympathizing with the poor andthe discouraged, taking upon herself the burden of the disconsolate, literally, without thought of self, sharing, as it were, the misery andsin of this awful city? And today, for the first time, he seemed tohave seen the woman in her--or was it the saint? and he recalledthat wonderful illumination of her plain face that made her actuallybeautiful as she looked up from the little waif of humanity she held inher arms. It had startled him, and struck a new chord in his heart, andplanted a new pang there that she had no belief in a future life. 

It did not occur to him that the sudden joy in her face might have beenevoked by seeing him, for it was a long time since she had seen him. Nordid he think that the pang at his heart had another cause than religiousanxiety. Ah, priest and worldly saint, how subtle and enduring are theprimal instincts of human nature!

"Yes, " he said, as they walked away, in reply to her inquiry as to hisabsence, "I have been in retreat a couple of weeks. "

"I suppose, " she said, softly, "you needed the rest; though, " and shelooked at him professionally, "if you will allow me to say it, it seemsto me that you have not rested enough. "

"I needed strength"--and it was the priest that spoke--"in meditationand prayer to draw upon resources not my own. "

"And in fasting, too, I dare say, " she added, with a little smile. 

"And why not?" he asked. 

"Pardon me, " she said; "I don't pretend to know what you need. I needto eat, though Heaven knows it's hard enough to keep up an appetite downhere. But it is physical endurance you need for the work here. Do youthink fasting strengthens you to go through your work night and day?"

"I know I couldn't do it on my own strength. " And Dr. Leigh recalledtimes when she had seen him officiating in the chapel apparentlysustained by nothing but zeal and pure spirit, and wondered that he didnot faint and fall. And faint and fall he did, she was sure, when theservice was over. 

"Well, it may be necessary to you, but not as an example to thesepeople. I see enough involuntary fasting. "

"We look at these people from different points of view, I fear. "And after a moment he said: "But, doctor, I wanted to ask you aboutGretchen. You see her?"

"Occasionally. She works too many hours, but she seems to be getting onvery well, and brings her mother all she earns. "

"Do you think she is able to stand alone?"

Dr. Leigh winced a little at this searching question, for no one knewbetter than she the vulgarizing influence of street life and chanceassociations upon a young girl, and the temptations. She was even forcedto admit the value in the way of restraint, as a sort of police force, of the church and priestly influence, especially upon girls at thesusceptible age. But she knew that Father Damon meant something morethan this, and so she answered:

"But people have got to stand alone. She might as well begin. "

"But she is so young. "

"Yes, I know. She is in the way of temptation, but so long as she worksindustriously, and loves her mother, and feels the obligation, which thepoor very easily feel, of doing her share for the family, she is notin so much moral danger as other girls of her age who lead idle andself-indulgent lives. The working-girls of the city learn to protectthemselves. "

"And you think this is enough, without any sort of religion--that thisEast Side can go on without any spiritual life?"

Ruth Leigh made a gesture of impatience. In view of the actual strugglefor existence she saw around her, this talk seemed like cant. And shesaid:

"I don't know that anything can go on. Let me ask you a question, FatherDamon. Do you think there is any more spirituality, any more of theessentials of what you call Christianity, in the society of the otherside than there is on the East Side?"

"It is a deep question, this of spirituality, " replied Father Damon, whowas in the depths of his proselyting action a democrat and in sympathywith the people, and rated quite at its full value the conventionalfashion in religion. "I shouldn't like to judge, but there is a greatbody of Christian men and women in this city who are doing noble work. "

"Yes, " replied the little doctor, bitterly, "trying to save themselves. How many are trying to save others--others except the distant andforeign sinners?"

"You surely cannot ignore, " replied the father, still speaking mildly, "the immense amount of charitable work done by the churches!"

"Yes, I know; charity, charity, the condescension of the rich to thepoor. What we want are understanding, fellowship, and we get alms! Ifthere is so much spirituality as you say, and Christianity is what yousay it is today, how happens it that this side is left in filth andmisery and physical wretchedness? You know what it is, and you know theluxury elsewhere. And you think to bridge over the chasm between classeswith flowers, in pots, yes, and Bible-readers and fashionable visitorsand little aid societies--little palliatives for an awful state ofthings. Why, look at it! Last winter the city authorities hauled off thesnow and the refuse from the fashionable avenues, and dumped it down inthe already blockaded and filthy side streets, and left us to strugglewith the increased pneumonia and diphtheria, and general unsanitaryconditions. And you wonder that the little nihilist groups and labororganizations and associations of agnostics, as you call them, meetingto study political economy and philosophy, say that the existing stateof things has got to be overturned violently, if those who have thepower and the money continue indifferent. "

"I do not wonder, " replied Father Damon, sadly. "The world is evil, andI should be as despairing as you are if I did not know there was anotherlife and another world. I couldn't bear it. Nobody could. "

"And all you've got to offer, then, to this mass of wretchedness, poverty, ignorance, at close quarters with hunger and disease, is togrin and bear it, in hope of a reward somewhere else!"

"I think you don't quite--"

The doctor looked up and saw a look of pain on the priest's face. 

"Oh, " she hastened to say, almost as impetuously as she had spokenbefore, "I don't mean you--I don't mean you. I know what you do. Pardonme for speaking so. I get so discouraged sometimes. " They stood still amoment, looking up and down the hot, crowded, odorful street they werein, with its flaunting rags of poverty and inefficiency. "I see solittle result of what I can do, and there is so little help. "

"I know, " said the father, as they moved along. "I don't see how you canbear it alone. "

This touched a sore spot, and aroused Ruth Leigh's combativeness. Itseemed to her to approach the verge of cant again. But she knew thefather's absolute sincerity; she felt she had already said too much; andshe only murmured, as if to herself, "If we could only know. " Andthen, after a moment, she asked, "Do you, Father Damon, see any sign ofanything better here?"

"Yes, today. " And he spoke very slowly and hesitatingly. "If you willexcuse the personality of it. When I entered that room today, and sawyou with that sick child in your arms, and comprehended what it allmeant, I had a great wave of hope, and I knew, just then, that there iscoming virtue enough in the world to redeem it. "

Ruth was confounded. Her heart seemed to stand still, and then the hotblood flowed into her face in a crimson flood. "Ah, " escaped from herlips, and she walked on more swiftly, not daring to look up. This fromhim! This recognition from the ascetic father! If one of her dispensarycomrades had said it, would she have been so moved?

And afterwards, when she had parted from him, and gone to her littleroom, the hot flush again came to her neck and brow, and she saw hispale, spiritual face, and could hear the unwonted tenderness of hisvoice. Yes, Father Damon had said it of her. 

XI

The question has been very much discussed whether the devil, intemperate latitudes, is busier in the summer or in the winter. WhenCongress and the various State legislatures are in session, and thestock and grain exchanges are most active, and society is gayest, and the churches and benevolent and reformatory associations are mostaggressive--at this season, which is the cool season, he seems to bemost animated and powerful. 

But is not this because he is then most opposed? The stream may notflow any faster because it is dammed, but it exhibits at the obstructedpoints greater appearance of agitation. Many people are under theimpression that when they stop fighting there is a general truce:There is reason to believe that the arch enemy is pleased with thisimpression, that he likes a truce, and that it is his best opportunity, just as the weeds in the garden, after a tempest, welcome the sun andthe placidity of the elements. It is well known that in summer virtuesuffers from inertia, and that it is difficult to assemble the membersof any vigilant organization, especially in cities, where the flag ofthe enemy is never lowered. But wherever the devil is there is always aquorum present for business. It is not his plan to seek an open fight, and many observers say that he gains more ground in summer than in anyother season, and this notwithstanding people are more apt to lose theirtempers, and even become profane, in the aggravations of what is knownas spring than at any other time. The subject cannot be pursued here, but there is ground for supposing that the devil prefers a country wherethe temperature is high and pretty uniform. 

At any rate, it is true that the development of character is notarrested by any geniality or languor of nature. By midsummer theHendersons were settled in Lenox, where the Blunts had long been, andMiss Tavish and her party of friends were at Bar Harbor. Henderson wascompelled to be in the city most of the time, and Jack Delancy fanciedthat business required his presence there also; but he had bought ayacht, and contemplated a voyage, with several of the club men, upthe Maine coast. "No, I thank you, " Major Fairfax had said; "I know aneasier way to get to Bar Harbor. "

Jack was irritable and restless, to be sure, in the absence of thesort of female society he had become accustomed to; but there were manycompensations in his free-and-easy bachelor life, in his pretense ofbusiness, which consisted in watching the ticker, as it is called, inan occasional interview with Henderson, and in the floating summeramusements of the relaxed city. There was nothing unusual in thislife except that he needed a little more stimulation, but this wasnot strange in the summer, and that he devoted more time to poker--buteverybody knows that a person comes out about even in the game of pokerif he keeps at it long enough--there was nothing unusual in this, onlyit was giving Jack a distaste for the quiet and it seemed to him therestraint of the Golden House down by the sea. And he was more irritablethere than elsewhere. It is so difficult to estimate an interiordeterioration of this sort, for Jack was just as popular with hiscomrades as ever, and apparently more prosperous. 

It is true that Jack had had other ideas when he was courting EdithFletcher, and at moments, at any rate, different aspirations from any hehad now. With her at that time there had been nobler aspirations aboutlife. But now she was his wife. That was settled. And not only that, butshe was the best woman he knew; and if she were not his wife, he wouldspare no effort to win her. He felt sure of that. He did not put it tohimself in the way an Oriental would do, "That is finished"; but it wasan act done--a good act--and here was his world again, with a hundredinterests, and there were people besides Edith to be thought of, otherwomen and men, and affairs. Because a man was married, was he to be shutup to one little narrow career, that of husband? Probably it did notoccur to him that women take a different view of this in the singlenessof their purpose and faith. Edith, for instance, knew or guessed thatJack had no purpose in life that was twenty-four hours old; but she hadfaith--and no amount of observation destroys this faith in women--thatmarriage would inspire him with energy and ambition to take a man'splace in the world. 

With most men marriage is un fait accompli. Jack had been lucky, butthere was, no doubt, truth in an observation of Mavick's. One night asthey sat at the club Jack had asked him a leading question, apropos ofHenderson's successful career: "Mavick, why don't you get married?""I have never, " he replied, with his usual cynical deliberation, "beenobliged to. The fact is, marriage is a curb-bit. Some horses show offbetter with it, and some are enraged and kick over the traces. I cannotdecide which I would be. "

"That's true enough, " said Jack, "from a bachelor's point of view ofindependence, but it's really a question of matching. "

"The most difficult thing in the world--in horses. Just about impossiblein temperament and movement, let alone looks. Most men are lucky if theyget, like Henderson, a running mate. "

"I see, " said Jack, who knew something about the Henderson household, "your idea of a pair is that they should go single. "

Mavick laughed, and said something about the ideas of women changing somuch lately that nobody could tell what the relation of marriage wouldbecome, and Jack, who began to feel that he was disloyal, changed thesubject. To do him justice, he would have been ashamed for Edith to hearthis sort of flippant and shallow talk, which wouldn't have been at allout of place with Carmen or Miss Tavish. 

"I wanted to ask you, Mavick, as a friend, do you think Henderson issquare?"

"How square?"

"Well, safe?"

"Nobody is safe. Henderson is as safe as anybody. You can rely on whathe says. But there's a good deal he doesn't say. Anything wrong?"

"Not that I know. I've been pretty lucky. But the fact is, I've gone inrather deep. "

"Well, it's a game. Henderson plays it, as everybody does, for himself. I like Henderson. He plays to win, and generally does. But, you know, ifone man wins, somebody else has got to lose in this kind of industry. "

"But Henderson looks out for his friends?"

"Yes--when it doesn't cost too much. Times may come when a man has tolook out for himself. Wealth isn't made out of nothing. There must bestreams into the reservoir. These great accumulations of one--youcan see that--must be made up of countless other men's small savings. There's Uncle Jerry. He operates a good deal with Henderson, and they'dincline to help each other out. But Uncle Jerry says he's got a smallpond of his own, and he's careful not to connect it with Henderson'sreservoir. "

"What do you think of Missouri?"

"What do I think of the Milky Way? It doesn't much matter to me whatbecomes of Missouri, unless Henderson should happen to get smashedin it, and that isn't what he is there for. But when you look at thecombinations, and the dropping-off of roads that have been drained, andthe scaling down in refunding, and the rearranging, and the strikes, how much chance do you think the small fry stand? I don't doubt thatHenderson will make a big thing out of it, and there will be lots ofhowling by those who were not so smart, and the newspapers will saythat Henderson was too strong for them. What we respect nowadays areadroitness and strength. "

"It's an exciting game, " Mavick continued, after a moment's pause. "Letme know if you get uneasy. But I'll tell you what it is, Jack; if I hada comfortable income, I wouldn't risk it in any speculation. There is agood deal that is interesting going on in this world, and I like to bein it; but the best plan for a man who has anything is, as Uncle Jerrysays, to sail close and salt down. "

The fact was that Mavick's connection with Henderson was an appreciableaddition to his income, and it was not a bad thing for Henderson. Mavick's reputation for knowing the inside of everything and beingclose-mouthed actually brought him confidences; that which at firstwas a clever assumption became a reality, and his reputation was soestablished for being behind the scenes that he was not believed when hehonestly professed ignorance of anything. His modest disclaimer merelyincreased the impression that he was deep. Henderson himself hadsomething of the Bismarck trait of brutal, contemptuous frankness. Mavick was never brutal and never contemptuous, but he had a cynicalsort of frankness, which is a good deal more effectual in a businessway than the oily, plausible manner which on 'Change, as well as inpolitics, is distrusted as hypocrisy. Now Uncle Jerry Hollowell wasneither oily nor frank; he was long-headed and cautious, and had areputation for shrewdness and just enough of plasticity of conscienceto remove him out of the list of the impracticable and over-scrupulous. This reputation that business men and politicians acquire would bea very curious study. The world is very complacent, and apparentlyworships success and votes for smartness, but it would surprise someof our most successful men to know what a real respect there is in thecommunity, after all, for downright integrity. 

Even Jack, who fell into the current notion of his generation of youngmen that the Henderson sort of morality was best adapted to quicksuccess, evinced a consciousness of want of nobility in the course hewas pursuing by not making Edith his confidante. He would have said, ofcourse, that she knew nothing about business, but what he meant was thatshe had a very clear conception of what was honest. All the evidences ofhis prosperity, shown in his greater freedom of living, were sore trialsto her. She belonged to that old class of New-Yorkers who made tradehonorable, like the merchants of Holland and Venice, and she knewalso that Jack's little fortune had come out of honest toil and strictbusiness integrity. Could there be any happiness in life in any othercourse?

It seemed cruel to put such a problem as this upon a young woman hardlyyet out of girlhood, in the first flush of a new life, which she haddreamed should be so noble and high and so happy, in the period whichis consecrated by the sweetest and loveliest visions and hopes that evercome into a woman's life. 

As the summer wore on to its maximum of heat and discomfort in the city, Edith, who never forgot to measure the hardships of others by her ownmore fortunate circumstances, urged Dr. Leigh to come away from herlabors and rest a few days by the sea. The reply was a refusal, butthere was no complaint in the brief business-like note. One might havesupposed that it was the harvest-time of the doctor, if he had not knownthat she gathered nothing for herself. There had never been so muchsickness, she wrote, and such an opportunity for her. She was learninga great deal, especially about some disputed contagious diseases. Shewould like to see Mrs. Delancy, and she wouldn't mind a breath ofair that was more easily to be analyzed than that she existed in, butnothing could induce her to give up her cases. All that appeared in herletter was her interest in her profession. 

Father Damon, who had been persuaded by Edith's urgency to go down withJack for a few days to the Golden House, seemed uncommonly interested inthe reasons of Dr. Leigh's refusal to come. 

"I never saw her, " he said, "so cheerful. The more sickness there is, the more radiant she is. I don't mean, " he added, laughing, "in apparel. Apparently she never thinks of herself, and positively she seems to takeno time to eat or sleep. I encounter her everywhere. I doubt if she eversits down, except when she drops in at the mission chapel now and then, and sits quite unmoved on a bench by the door during vespers. "

"Then she does go there?" said Edith. 

"That is a queer thing. She would promptly repudiate any religiousinterest. But I tell her she is a bit of a humbug. When I speak abouther philanthropic zeal, she says her interest is purely scientific. "

"Anyway, I believe, " Jack put in, "that women doctors are less mercenarythan men. I dare say they will get over that when the novelty of cominginto the profession has worn off. "

"That is possible, " said Father Damon; "but that which drives women intoprofessions now is the desire to do something rather than the desireto make something. Besides, it is seldom, in their minds, a finality;marriage is always a possibility. "

"Yes, " replied Edith, "and the probability of having to support ahusband and family; then they may be as mercenary as men are. "

"Still, the enthusiasm of women, " Father Damon insisted, "in hospitaland outdoor practice, the singleness of their devotion to it, is incontrast to that of the young men-doctors. And I notice another thingin the city: they take more interest in philanthropic movements, in thecondition of the poor, in the labor questions; they dive eagerly intophilosophic speculations, and they are more aggressively agnostics. And they are not afraid of any social theories. I have one friend, askillful practitioner they tell me, a linguist, and a metaphysician, a most agreeable and accomplished woman, who is in theory an extremenihilist, and looks to see the present social and political orderupset. "

"I don't see, " Jack remarked, "what women especially are to gain by sucha revolution. "

"Perhaps independence, Jack, " replied Edith. "You should hear my clubof working-girls, who read and think much on these topics, talk of thesethings. "

"Yes, " said Father Damon, "you toss these topics about, and discuss themin the magazines, and fancy you are interested in socialistic movements. But you have no idea how real and vital they are, and how the dumbdiscontent of the working classes is being formulated into ideas. It istime we tried to understand each other. "

Not all the talk was of this sort at the Golden House. There werethree worlds here--that of Jack, to which Edith belonged by birth andtradition and habit; that of which we have spoken, to which she belongedby profound sympathy; and that of Father Damon, to which she belonged byundefined aspiration. In him was the spiritual element asserting itselfin a mediaeval form, in a struggle to mortify and deny the flesh andyet take part in modern life. Imagine a celibate and ascetic of thefifteenth century, who knew that Paradise must be gained through povertyand privation and suffering, interesting himself in the tenement-housequestion, in labor leagues, and the single tax. 

Yet, hour after hour, in those idle summer days, when nature was in amood that suggested grace and peace, when the waves lapsed along theshore and the cicada sang in the hedge, did Father Damon unfold to Edithhis ideas of the spiritualization of modern life through a conviction ofits pettiness and transitoriness. How much more content there would beif the poor could only believe that it matters little what happens hereif the heart is only pure and fixed on the endless life. 

"Oh, Father Damon, " replied Edith, with a grave smile, "I think yourmission ought to be to the rich. "

"Yes, " he replied, for he also knew his world, "if I wanted to make myideas fashionable; but I want to make them operative. By-and-by, "he added, also with a smile, "we will organize some fishermen andcarpenters and tailors on a mission to the rich. "

Father Damon's visit was necessarily short, for his work called him backto town, and perhaps his conscience smote him a little for indulging inthis sort of retreat. By the middle of August Jack's yacht was ready, and he went with Mavick and the Van Dams and some other men of theclub on a cruise up the coast. Edith was left alone with her Baltimorefriend. 

And yet not alone. As she lay in her hammock in those dreamy days a newworld opened to her. It was not described in the chance romance she tookup, nor in the volume of poems she sometimes held in her hand, with afinger inserted in the leaves. Of this world she felt herself the centreand the creator, and as she mused upon its mysteries, life took a new, strange meaning to her. It was apt to be a little hazy off there in thewatery horizon, and out of the mist would glide occasionally a boat, andthe sun would silver its sails, and it would dip and toss for halfan hour in the blue, laughing sea, and then disappear through themysterious curtain. Whence did it come? Whither had it gone? Was lifelike that? Was she on the shore of such a sea, and was this new worldinto which she was drifting only a dream? By her smile, by the momentaryillumination that her sweet thoughts made in her lovely, hopeful face, you knew that it was not. Who can guess the thoughts of a woman at sucha time? Are the trees glad in the spring, when the sap leaps in theirtrunks, and the buds begin to swell, and the leaves unfold in softresponse to the creative impulse? The miracle is never old norcommonplace to them, nor to any of the human family. The anticipationof life is eternal. The singing of the birds, the blowing of the southwind, the sparkle of the waves, all found a response in Edith's heart, which leaped with joy. And yet there was a touch of melancholy in itall, the horizon was so vast, and the mist of uncertainty lay along it. Literature, society, charities, all that she had read and experiencedand thought, was nothing to this, this great unknown anxiety and bliss, this saddest and sweetest of all human experiences. She prayed thatshe might be worthy of this great distinction, this responsibility andblessing. 

And Jack, dear Jack, would he love her more?

XII

Although Father Damon had been absent from his charge only ten days, itwas time for him to return. If he had not a large personal following, he had a wide influence. If comparatively few found their way to hischapel, he found his way to many homes; his figure was a familiar onein the streets, and his absence was felt by hundreds who had no personalrelations with him, but who had become accustomed to seeing him go abouton his errands of encouragement, and probably had never realized howmuch the daily sight of him had touched them. The priestly dress, whichmay once have provoked a sneer at his effeminacy, had now a suggestionof refinement, of unselfish devotion, of consecration to the service ofthe unfortunate, his spiritual face appealed to their better natures, and the visible heroism that carried his frail figure through laborsthat would have worn out the stoutest physique stirred in the hearts ofthe rudest some comprehension of the reality of the spirit. 

It may not have occurred to them that he was of finer clay thanthey--perhaps he was not--but his presence was in their minds asubtle connection and not a condescending one, rather a confession ofbrotherhood, with another world and another view of life. They may nothave known that their hearts were stirred because he had the gift ofsympathy. 

And was it an unmanly trait that he evoked in men that sentiment ofchivalry which is never wanting in the roughest community for a purewoman? Wherever Father Damon went there was respect for his purity andhis unselfishness, even among those who would have been shamefaced ifsurprised in any exhibition of softness. 

And many loved him, and many depended on him. Perhaps those who mostdepended on him were the least worthy, and those who loved him most wereleast inclined to sacrifice their own reasonable view of life to hisown sublimated spiritual conception. It was the spirit of the man theyloved, and not the creed of the priest. The little chapel in its subduedlights and shadows, with confessionals and crosses and candles andincense, was as restful a refuge as ever to the tired and the dependent;but wanting his inspiring face and voice, it was not the same thing, and the attendance always fell away when he was absent. There was neededthere more than elsewhere the living presence. 

He was missed, and the little world that missed him was astray. Thefirst day of his return his heart was smitten by the thinness ofthe congregation. Had he, then, accomplished nothing; had he made noimpression, established in his shifting flock no habit of continuance inwell-doing that could survive even his temporary withdrawal? The faultmust be his. He had not sufficiently humiliated and consecratedhimself, and put under all strength of the flesh and trust in worldlyinstrumentalities. There must be more prayer, more vigils, more fasting, before the power would come back to him to draw these wandering mindsto the light. And so in the heat of this exhausting August, at the timewhen his body most needed re-enforcement for the toil he required of it, he was more rigid in his spiritual tyranny and contempt of it. 

Ruth Leigh was not dependent upon Father Damon, but she also learned howlong ten days could be without a sight of him. When she looked into hischapel occasionally she realized, as never before, how much in theair his ceremonies and his creed were. There was nothing there for herexcept his memory. And she knew when she stepped in there, for her cool, reasoning mind was honest, that it was the thought of him that drew herto the place, and that going there was a sentimental indulgence. Whatshe would have said was that she admired, loved Father Damon on accountof his love for humanity. It was a common saying of all the professionalwomen in her set, and of the working-girls, that they loved FatherDamon. It is a comfort to women to be able to give their affectionfreely where conventionalities and circumstances make the return of itin degree unlikely. 

At the close of a debilitating day Dr. Leigh found herself in theneighborhood of the mission chapel. She was tired and needed to restsomewhere. She knew that Father Damon had returned, but she had not seenhim, and a double motive drew her steps. The attendance was largerthan it had been recently, and she found a stool in a dark corner, andlistened, with a weary sort of consciousness of the prayers and thesinging, but not without a deeper feeling of peace in the tones of avoice every inflection of which she knew so well. It seemed to her thatthe reading cost him an effort, and there was a note of pathos inthe voice that thrilled her. Presently he advanced towards the altarrail--he was accustomed to do this with his little flock--and placingone hand on the lectern, began to speak. 

At first, and this was not usual, he spoke about himself in a strainof sincere humility, taking blame upon himself for his inability to doeffectively the great service his Master had set him to do. He meantto have given himself more entirely to the dear people among whom helabored; he hoped to show himself more worthy of the trust they hadgiven him; he was grateful for the success of his mission, but no oneknew so well as he how far short it came of being what he ought to havemade it. He knew indeed how weak he was, and he asked the aid of theirsympathy and encouragement. It seemed to be with difficulty that he saidthis, and to Ruth's sympathetic ear there was an evidence of physicalexhaustion in his tone. There was in it, also, for her, a confession offailure, the cry of the preacher, in sorrow and entreaty, that says, "Ihave called so long, and ye would not listen. "

As he went on, still with an effort and feebly, there came over thelittle group a feeling of awe and wonderment, and the silence wasprofound. Still steadying himself by the reading-desk, he went on tospeak of other things, of those of his followers who listened, of thegreat mass swirling about them in the streets who did not listen and didnot care; of the little life that now is so full of pain and hardshipand disappointment, of good intentions frustrated, of hopes thatdeceive, and of fair prospects that turn to ashes, of good lives thatgo wrong, of sweet natures turned to bitterness in the unaided struggle. His voice grew stronger and clearer, as his body responded to thekindling theme in his soul. He stepped away from the desk nearer therail, the bowed head was raised. "What does it matter?" he said. "It isonly for a little while, my children. " Those who heard him that day saythat his face shone like that of an angel, and that his voice was like avictorious clarion, so clear, so sweet, so inspiring, as he spoke of thelife that is to come, and the fair certainty of that City where he withthem all wished to be. 

As he closed, some were kneeling, many were crying; all, profoundlymoved, watched him as, with the benediction and the sign of the cross, he turned and walked swiftly to the door of the sacristy. It opened, andthen Ruth Leigh heard a cry, "Father Damon! Father Damon!" and there wasa rush into the chancel. Hastening through the throng, which promptlymade way for the doctor, she found Father Damon lying across thethreshold, as he had fallen, colorless and unconscious. She at once tookcommand of the situation. The body was lifted to the plain couch in theroom, a hasty examination was made of pulse and heart, a vial of brandywas produced from her satchel, and messengers were despatched for thingsneeded, and especially for beef-tea. 

"Is he dead, Dr. Leigh? Is he any better, doctor? What is the matter, doctor?"

"Want of nourishment, " replied Dr. Leigh, savagely. 

The room was cleared of all except a couple of stout lads and a friendlyGerman woman whom the doctor knew. The news of the father's suddenillness had spread rapidly, with the report that he had fallen deadwhile standing at the altar; and the church was thronged, and the streetrapidly blocked up with a hushed crowd, eager for news and eager to giveaid. So great was the press that the police had to interfere, and pushback the throng from the door. It was useless to attempt to disperse itwith the assurance that Father Damon was better; it patiently waited tosee for itself. The sympathy of the neighborhood was most impressive, and perhaps the thing that the public best remembers about this incidentis the pathetic solicitude of the people among whom Father Damon laboredat the rumor of his illness, a matter which was greatly elaborated bythe reporters from the city journals and the purveyors of telegraphicnews for the country. 

With the application of restoratives the patient revived. When heopened his eyes he saw figures in the room as in a dream, and his mindstruggled to remember where he was and what had happened; but one thingwas not a dream: Dr. Leigh stood by his bedside, with her left hand onhis brow and the right grasping his own right hand, as if to pullhim back to life. He saw her face, and then he lost it again in sheerweariness at the effort. After a few moments, in a recurring wave ofstrength, he looked up again, still bewildered, and said, faintly:

"Where am I?"

"With friends, " said the doctor. "You were a little faint, that is all;you will be all right presently. "

She quickly prepared some nourishment, which was what he most needed, and fed him from time to time, as he was able to receive it. Graduallyhe could feel a little vigor coming into his frame; and regainingcontrol of himself, he was able to hear what had happened. Very gentlythe doctor told him, making light of his temporary weakness. 

"The fact is, Father Damon, " she said, "you've got a disease common inthis neighborhood--hunger. "

The father smiled, but did not reply. It might be so. For the time hefelt his dependence, and he did not argue the point. This dependenceupon a woman--a sort of Sister of Charity, was she not?--was notaltogether unpleasant. When he attempted to rise, but found that he wastoo weak, and she said "Not yet, " he submitted, with the feeling that tobe commanded with such gentleness was a sort of luxury. 

But in an hour's time he declared that he was almost himself again, and it was decided that he was well enough to be removed to his ownapartments in the neighborhood. A carriage was sent for, and thetransfer was made, and made through a crowd in the streets, whichstood silent and uncovered as his carriage passed through it. Dr. Leighremained with him for an hour longer, and then left him in charge of ayoung gentleman from the Neighborhood Guild, who gladly volunteered towatch for the night. 

Ruth walked slowly home, weary now that the excitement was over, andrevolving many things in her mind, as is the custom of women. She heardagain that voice, she saw again that inspired face; but the impressionmost indelible with her was the prostrate form, the pallid countenance, the helplessness of this man whose will had before been strong enough tocompel the obedience of his despised body. She had admired his strength;but it was his weakness that drew upon her woman's heart, and evolved atenderness dangerous to her peace of mind. Yet it was the doctor and notthe woman that replied to the inquiries at the dispensary. 

"Yes, it was fasting and overwork. Men are so stupid; they think theycan defy all the laws of nature, especially priests. " And she determinedto be quite plain with him next day. 

And Father Damon, lying weary in his bed, before he fell asleep, saw thefaces in the dim chapel turned to him in strained eagerness the momentbefore he lost consciousness; but the most vivid image was that of awoman bending over him, with eyes of tenderness and pity, and the smilewith which she greeted his awakening. He could feel yet her hand uponhis brow. 

When Dr. Leigh called next day, on her morning rounds, she found abrother of the celibate order, Father Monies, in charge. He was sittingby the window reading, and when the doctor came up the steps he told herin a low voice to enter without knocking. Father Damon was better, muchbetter; but he had advised him not to leave his bed, and the patient hadbeen dozing all the morning. The doctor asked if he had eaten anything, and how much. The apartment was small and scantily furnished--a sort ofanchorite cell. Through the drawn doors of the next room the bed was insight. As they were talking in low voices there came from this room acheerful:

"Good-morning, doctor. "

"I hope you ate a good breakfast, " she said, as she arose and went tohis bedside. 

"I suppose you mean better than usual, " he replied, with a faint attemptat a smile. "No doubt you and Father Monies are satisfied, now you'vegot me laid up. "

"That depends upon your intentions. "

"Oh, I intend to get up tomorrow. "

"If you do, without other change in your intentions, I am going toreport you to the Organized Charity as a person who has no visible meansof support. "

She had brought a bunch of violets, and as they talked she had filleda glass with water and put them on a stand by the head of the bed. Then--oh, quite professionally--she smoothed out his pillows andstraightened the bedclothes, and, talking all the time, and as if quiteunconscious of what she was doing, moved about the room, putting thingsto rights, and saying, in answer to his protest, that perhaps she shouldlose her reputation as a physician in his eyes by appearing to be aprofessional nurse. 

There was a timid knock at the door, and a forlorn little figure, cladin a rumpled calico, with an old shawl over her head, half concealing aneager and pretty face, stood in the doorway, and hesitatingly came in. 

"Meine Mutter sent me to see how Father Damon is, " she explained; "shecould not come, because she washes. "

She had a bunch of flowers in her hand, and encouraged by the greetingof the invalid, she came to the bedside and placed them in hisoutstretched hand--a faded blossom of scarlet geranium, a bachelor'sbutton, and a sprig of parsley, probably begged of a street dealer asshe came along. "Some blooms, " she said. 

"Bless you, my dear, " said Father Damon; "they are very pretty. "

"Dey smells nice, " the child exclaimed, her eyes dancing with pleasureat the reception of her gift. She stood staring at him, and then, hereye catching the violets, she added, "Dose is pooty, too. "

"If you can stay half an hour or so, I should like to step round to thechapel, " Father Monies said to the doctor in the front room, taking uphis hat. 

The doctor could stay. The little girl had moved a chair up to thebedside, and sat quite silent, her grimy little hand grasped in thefather's. Ruth, saying that she hoped the father wouldn't mind, beganto put in order the front room, which the incidents of the night hadsomewhat disturbed. Father Damon, holding fast by that little hand tothe world of poverty to which he had devoted his life, could not refrainfrom watching her, as she moved about with the quick, noiseless waythat a woman has when she is putting things to rights. This was indeeda novel invasion of his life. He was still too weak to reason aboutit much. How good she was, how womanly! And what a sense of peace andrepose she brought into his apartment! The presence of Brother Monieswas peaceful also, but hers was somehow different. His eyes had notcared to follow the brother about the room. He knew that she wasunselfish, but he had not noticed before that her ways were so graceful. As she turned her face towards him from time to time he thought itsexpression beautiful. Ruth Leigh would have smiled grimly if any one hadcalled her beautiful, but then she did not know how she looked sometimeswhen her feelings were touched. It is said that the lamp of love canillumine into beauty any features of clay through which it shines. Ashe gazed, letting himself drift as in a dream, suddenly a thoughtshot through his mind that made him close his eyes, and such a severepriestly look came upon his face that the little girl, who had nevertaken her eyes off him, exclaimed:

"It is worse?"

"No, my dear, " he replied, with a reassuring smile; "at least, I hopenot. "

But when the doctor, finishing her work, drew a chair into the doorway, and sat by the foot of his bed, the stern look still remained on hispale face. And the doctor, she also was the doctor again, as matter offact as in any professional visit. 

"You are very kind, " he said. 

There was a shade of impatience on her face as she replied, "But youmust be a little kind to yourself. "

"It doesn't matter. "

"But it does matter. You defeat the very work you want to do. I'm goingto report you to your order. " And then she added, more lightly, "Don'tyou know it is wrong to commit suicide?"

"You don't understand, " he replied. "There is more than one kind ofsuicide; you don't believe in the suicide of the soul. Ah, me!" And ashade of pain passed over his face. 

She was quick to see this. "I beg your pardon, Father Damon. It is noneof my business, but we are all so anxious to have you speedily wellagain. "

Just then Father Monies returned, and the doctor rose to go. She tookthe little girl by the hand and said, "Come, I was just going round tosee your father. Good-by. I shall look in again tomorrow. "

"Thank you--thank you a thousand times. But you have so much to do thatyou must not bother about me. "

Whether he said this to quiet his own conscience, secretly hoping thathe might see her again on the morrow, perhaps he himself could not havedecided. 

Late the next afternoon, after an unusually weary round of visits, madein the extreme heat and in a sort of hopeless faithfulness, Dr. Leighreached the tenement in which Father Damon lodged: In all the miserablescenes of the day it had been in her mind, giving to her work a pleasurethat she did not openly acknowledge even to herself, that she should seehim. 

The curtains were down, and there was no response to her knock, exceptfrom a door in the passage opposite. A woman opened the door wide enoughto show her head and to make it evident that she was not sufficientlydressed to come out, and said that Father Damon had gone. He was verymuch better, and his friend had taken him up-town. Dr. Leigh thankedher, and said she was very glad. 

She was so glad that, as she walked away, scarcely heeding her steps orconscious of the chaffing, chattering crowd, all interest in her workand in that quarter of the city seemed dead. 

XIII

It is well that there is pleasure somewhere in the world. It is possiblefor those who have a fresh-air fund of their own to steam away in ayacht, out of the midsummer ennui and the weary gayety of the land. Itis a costly pleasure, and probably all the more enjoyed on thataccount, for if everybody had a yacht there would be no more feelingof distinction in sailing one than in going to any of the second-rateresorts on the coast. There is, to be sure, some ennui in yachting ona rainy coast, and it might be dull but for the sensation createdby arrivals at watering-places and the telegraphic reports of thesesensations. 

If there was any dullness on the Delancy yacht, means were takento dispel it. While still in the Sound a society was formed for thesuppression of total abstinence, and so successful was this that PointJudith was passed, in a rain and a high and chopping sea, with a kind ofhilarious enjoyment of the commotion, which is one of the things desiredat sea. When the party came round to Newport it declared that it had hada lovely voyage, and inquiry brought out the great general principle, applicable to most coast navigation for pleasure, that the enjoyable wayto pass Point Judith is not to know you are passing Point Judith. 

Except when you land, and even after you have got your sea-legs on, there is a certain monotony in yachting, unless the weather is very bad, and unless there are women aboard. A party of lively women make even thesea fresh and entertaining. Otherwise, the game of poker is much what itis on land, and the constant consulting of charts and reckoning of speedevince the general desire to get somewhere--that is, to arrive ata harbor. In the recollections of this voyage, even in Jack'srecollections of it after he had paid the bills, it seemed that it hadbeen simply glorious, free from care, generally a physical setting-upperformance, and a lark of enormous magnitude. And everybody envied thefortunate sailors. 

Mavick actually did enjoy it, for he had that brooding sort of nature, that self-satisfied attitude, that is able to appropriate to its ownuses whatever comes. And being an unemotional and very tolerable sailor, he was able to be as cynical at sea as on land, and as much of anoracle, in his wholly unobtrusive way. The perfect personal poise ofMavick, which gave him an air of patronizing the ocean, and his lightlyheld skeptical view of life, made his company as full of flavor on shipas it was on shore. He didn't know anything more about the weather thanthe Weather Bureau knows, yet the helmsman of the yacht used to consulthim about the appearances of the sky and a change of wind with aconfidence in his opinion that he gave to no one else on board. AndMavick never forfeited this respect by being too positive. It was sowith everything; he evidently knew a great deal more than he cared totell. It is pleasing to notice how much credit such men as Mavickobtain in the world by circumspect reticence and a knowing manner. Jack, blundering along in his free-hearted, emotional way, and neverconcealing his opinion, was really right twice where Mavick was rightonce, but he never had the least credit for wisdom. 

It was late in August that the Delancy yacht steamed into the splendidBar Harbor, making its way slowly through one of the rare fogs which aresometimes seen by people who do not own real estate there. Even beforethey could see an island those on board felt the combination of mountainand sea air that makes this favored place at once a tonic and a sedativeto the fashionable world. 

The party were expected at Bar Harbor. It had been announced that theyacht was on its way, and some of the projected gayeties were awaitingits coming, for the society reenforcement of the half-dozen men onboard was not to be despised. The news went speedily round that CaptainDelancy's flag was flying at the anchorage off the landing. 

Among the first to welcome them as they landed and strolled up to thehotel was Major Fairfax. 

"Oh yes, " he said; "we are all here--that is, all who know where theyought to be at the right moment. "

To the new-comers the scene was animated. The exotic shops sparkledwith cheap specialties; landaus, pony-phaetons, and elaborate buckboardsdashed through the streets; aquatic and law-tennis costumes abounded. If there was not much rowing and lawn-tennis, there was a great dealof becoming morning dressing for these sports, and in all the ratheraimless idleness there was an air of determined enjoyment. Even here itwas evident that there was a surplus of women. These lovers of nature, in the summer season, who had retired to this wild place to be freefrom the importunities of society, betrayed, Mavick thought, the commoninstinct of curiosity over the new arrival, and he was glad to takeit as an evidence that they loved not nature less but man more. Jacktripped up this ungallant speech by remarking that if Mavick was in thismood he did not know why he came ashore. And Van Dam said that sooner orlater all men went ashore. This thin sort of talk was perhaps pardonableafter the weariness of a sea voyage, but the Major promptly said itwouldn't do. And the Major seemed to be in charge of the place. 

"No epigrams are permitted. We are here to enjoy ourselves. I'm orderedto bring the whole crew of you to tea at the Tavish cottage. "

"Anybody else there?" asked Jack, carelessly. 

"Well, it's the most curious coincidence, but Mrs. Henderson arrivedlast night; Henderson has gone to Missouri. "

"Yes, he wrote me to look out for his wife on this coast, " said Mavick. 

"You kept mighty still about it, " said Jack. 

"So did you, " retorted Mavick. 

"It is very curious, " the Major explained, "how fashionable intelligenceruns along this coast, apparently independent of the telegraph;everybody knows where everybody else is. "

The Tavish cottage was a summer palace of the present fashion, butthere was one good thing about it: it had no tower, nor any make-believebalconies hung on the outside like bird-cages. The rooms were spacious, and had big fireplaces, and ample piazzas all round, so that the suncould be courted or the wind be avoided at all hours of the day. It was, in short, not a house for retirement and privacy, but for entertainment. It was furnished luxuriously but gayly, and with its rugs and portieresand divans it reminded Mavick of an Oriental marquee. Miss Tavish calledit her tepee, an evolution of the aboriginal dwelling. She liked toentertain, and she never appeared to better advantage than when herhouse was full, and something was going on continually-lively breakfastsand dinners, dances, theatricals, or the usual flowing in and out ofcallers and guests, chattering groups, and flirtatious couples. It washer idea of repose from the winter's gayety, and in it she sustained therole of the non-fatigueable society girl. It is a performance that manyworking-girls regard with amazement. 

There was quite a flutter in the cottage, as there always is when thosewho know each other well meet under new circumstances after a shortseparation. 

"We are very glad to see you, " Miss Tavish said, cordially; "we havebeen awfully dull. "

"That is complimentary to me, " said the Major. 

"You can judge the depths we have been in when even the Major couldn'tpull us out, " she retorted. "Without him we should have simply died. "

"And it would have been the liveliest obsequies I ever attended. "

Carmen was not effusive in her greeting; she left that role to MissTavish, taking for herself that of confidential friend. She was almostretiring in her manner, but she made Jack feel that she had a strongpersonal interest in his welfare, and she asked a hundred questionsabout the voyage and about town and about Edith. 

"I'm going to chaperon you up here, " she said, "for Miss Tavish willlead you into all sorts of wild adventures. "

There was that in the manner of the demure little woman when she madethis proposal that convinced Jack that under her care he would beperfectly safe--from Miss Tavish. 

After cigarettes were lighted she contrived to draw Mavick away to thepiazza. She was very anxious to know what Henderson's latest moves were. Mavick was very communicative, and told her nothing that he knew she didnot already know. And she was clever enough to see, without any apparentdistrust, that whatever she got from him must be in what he did notsay. As to Jack's speculations, she made little more progress. Jack gaveevery sign of being prosperous; he entertained royally on his yacht. 

Mavick himself was puzzled to know whether Carmen really cared for Jack, or whether she was only interested as in a game, one of the things thatamused her life to play, to see how far he would go, and to watch hisascension or his tumble. Mavick would have been surprised if he hadknown that as a result of this wholly agreeable and confidential talk, Carmen wrote that night in a letter to her husband:

"Your friend Mavick is here. What a very clever man he is! If I were youI would keep an eye on him. "

A dozen plans were started at the tea for relieving the tedium of thedaily drives and the regulation teas and receptions. For one thing, weather permitting, they would all breakfast at twelve on the yacht, andthen sail about the harbor, and come home in the sunset. 

The day was indeed charming, so stimulating as to raise the value ofreal estate, and incite everybody to go off in search of adventure, inwagons, in walking parties, in boats. There is no happiness like theanticipation of pleasure begot by such a morning. Those who live theresaid it was regular Bar Harbor weather. 

Captain Delancy was on deck to receive his guests, who came out in smallboats, chattering and fluttering and "ship-ahoying, " as gay inspirits as in apparel. Anything but high spirits and nonsense would beunpardonable on such a morning. Breakfast was served on deck, underan awning, in sight of the mountains, the green islands, the fringeof breaking sea in the distant opening, the shimmer and sparkle ofthe harbor, the white sails of pleasure-boats, the painted canoes, theschooners and coal-boats and steamers swinging at anchor just enough tomake all the scene alive. "This is my idea, " said the Major, "of goingto sea in a yacht; it would be perfect if we were tied up at the dock. "

"I move that we throw the Major overboard, " cried Miss Tavish. 

"No, " Jack exclaimed; "it is against the law to throw anything into theharbor. "

"Oh, I expected Miss Tavish would throw me overboard when Mavickappeared. "

Mavick raised his glass and proposed the health of Miss Tavish. 

"With all my heart, " the Major said; "my life is passed in returninggood for evil. "

"I never knew before, " and Miss Tavish bowed her acknowledgments, "thesecret of the Major's attractions. "

"Yes, " said Carmen, sweetly, "he is all things to all women. "

"You don't appear to have a friend here, Major, " Mavick suggested. 

"No; my friends are all foul-weather friends; come a bright day, theyare all off like butterflies. That comes of being constant. "

"That's no distinction, " Carmen exclaimed; "all men are that till theyget what they want. "

"Alas! that women also in these days here become cynical! It was not sowhen I was young. Here's to the ever young, " and he bowed to Carmen andMiss Tavish. 

"He's been with Ponce de Leon!" cried Miss Tavish. 

"He's the dearest man living, except a few, " echoed Carmen. "The Major'shealth. "

The yellow wine sparkled in the glasses like the sparkling sea, the windblew softly from the south, the sails in the bay darkened and flashed, and the breakfast, it seemed to go along of itself, and erelong theconvives were eating ambrosia and sipping nectar. Van Dam told a sharkstory. Mavick demonstrated its innate improbability. The Major sanga song--a song of the forties, with a touch of sentiment. Jack, whosecheerful voice was a little of the cider-cellar order, and who neversang when he was sad, struck up the latest vaudeville ditty, and Carmenand Miss Tavish joined in the chorus. 

"I like the sea, " the Major declared. They all liked it. The breakfastlasted a long time, and when they rose from the table Jack said thatpresently they would take a course round the harbor. The Major remarkedthat that would suit him. He appeared to be ready to go round the world. 

While they were preparing to start, Carmen and Jack strolled away to thebow, where she perched herself, holding on by the rigging. He thoughthe had never seen her look so pretty as at that moment, in her trimnautical costume, sitting up there, swinging her feet like a girl, andregarding him with half-mocking, half-admiring eyes. 

What were they saying? Heaven only knows. What nonsense do people sosituated usually talk? Perhaps she was warning him against Miss Tavish. Perhaps she was protesting that Julia Tavish was a very, very oldfriend. To an observer this admirable woman seemed to be on thedefensive--her most alluring attitude. It was not, one could hear, exactly sober talk; there was laughter and raillery and earnestnessmingled. It might be said that they were good comrades. Carmenprofessed to like good comradeship and no nonsense. But she liked to beconfidential. 

Till late in the afternoon they cruised about among the islands, gettingdifferent points of view of the coast, and especially different pointsof view of each other, in the freedom of talk and repartee permitted onan excursion. Before sunset they were out in the open, and could feelthe long ocean swell. The wind had risen a little, and there was a lowband of clouds in the south. The skipper told Mr. Delancy that it wouldbe much fresher with the sinking of the sun, but Jack replied that itwouldn't amount to anything; the glass was all right. 

 "Now the great winds shoreward blow; Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. "

Miss Tavish was in the wheel-house, and had taken the wheel. This clevergirl knew her right hand from her left, instantly, without havingto stop and think and look at her rings, and she knew what port andstarboard meant, as orders, and exactly how to meet a wave with a turnof the wheel. 

"I say, Captain Delancy, " she cried out, "the steamer is about due. Let's go down and meet her, and race in. "

"All right, " replied Jack. "We can run round her three times and thenbeat her in. "

The steamer's smoke was seen at that instant, and the yacht was headedfor it. The wind was a little fresher, but the tight little craft tookthe waves like a duck, and all on board enjoyed the excitement of thechange, except the Major, who said he didn't mind, but he didn't believethe steamer needed any escort. 

By the time the steamer was reached the sun was going down in a band ofclouds. There was no gale, but the wind increased in occasional puffs ofspite, and the waves were getting up. The skipper took the wheel to turnthe yacht in a circle to her homeward course. As this operation createdstrange motions, and did not interest the Major, he said he would gobelow and reflect. 

In turning, the yacht came round on the seaward side of the steamer, but far behind. But the little craft speedily showed her breeding andoverhauled her big rival, and began to forge ahead. The little group onthe yacht waved their handkerchiefs as if in good-by, and the passengerson the steamer cheered. As the wind was every moment increasing, theskipper sheered away to allow plenty of sea-room between the boats. Therace appeared to be over. 

"It's a pity, " said Miss Tavish. 

"Let's go round her, " said Jack; "eh, skipper?"

"If you like, sir, " responded the skipper. "She can do it. "

The yacht was well ahead, but the change in the direction brought thevessels nearer together. But there was no danger. The speed they weregoing would easily bring her round away ahead of the steamer. 

But just then something happened. The yacht would not answer to herhelm. The wheel flew around without resistance. The wind, hauled nowinto the east, struck her with violence and drove her sideways. Thelittle thing was like a chip on the sea. The rudder-chain had broken. The yacht seemed to fly towards the long, hulking steamer. The dangerwas seen there, and her helm was put hard down, and her nose began toturn towards the shore. But it was too late. It seemed all over in aninstant. The yacht dashed bow on to the side of the steamer, quiveredan instant, and then dropped away. At the same moment the steamer sloweddown and began to turn to assist the wounded. 

The skipper of the yacht and a couple of hands rushed below. A partof the bow had been carried away and a small hole made just above thewaterline, through which the water spurted whenever she encountered alarge wave. It was enough to waterlog her and sink her in such a sea. The two seamen grasped whatever bedding was in reach below, rammed itinto the opening, and held it there. The skipper ran on deck, and by theaid of the men hauled out a couple of sails and dropped them over thebow. These would aid in keeping out the water. They could float now, butwhere were they going? "Going ashore, " said Mavick, grimly. And so theywere. 

"Was there a panic on board?" it was asked afterwards. Not exactly. Among well-bred people a panic is never good form. But there were whitefaces and trembling knees and anxious looks. The steamer was comingtowards them, and all eyes were fixed on that rather than on the rocksof the still distant shore. 

The most striking incident of the moment--it seemed so to some of thosewho looked back upon it--was a singular test of character, or rather ofwoman's divination of character. Carmen instinctively flew to Jack andgrasped and held his arm. She knew, without stopping to reason about it, that he would unhesitatingly imperil his life to save that of any woman. Whatever judgment is passed upon Jack, this should not be forgotten. AndMiss Tavish; to whom did she fly in this peril? To the gallant Major?No. To the cool and imperturbable Mavick, who was as strong and sinewyas he was cool? No. She ran without hesitation to Van Dam, and clungto him, recognizing instinctively, with the woman's feeling, the samequality that Jack had. There are such men, who may have no great gifts, but who will always fight rather than run under fire, and who willalways protect a woman. 

Mavick saw all this, and understood it perfectly, and didn't object toit at the time--but he did not forget it. 

The task of rescue was not easy in that sea and wind, but it wasdexterously done. The steamer approached and kept at a certain distanceon the windward side. A boat was lowered, and a line was brought to theyacht, which was soon in tow with a stout cable hitched to the steamer'sanchor windlass. 

It was all done with much less excitement than appeared from thetelegraphic accounts, and while the party were being towed home theperil seemed to have been exaggerated, and the affair to look like anordinary sea incident. But the skipper said that it was one escape in ahundred. 

The captain of the steamer raised his hat gravely in reply to thelittle cheer from the yacht, when Carmen and Miss Tavish fluttered theirhandkerchiefs towards him. The only chaff from the steamer was roaredout by a fat Boston man, who made a funnel of his hands and shouted, "The race is not always to the swift. "

As soon as Jack stepped ashore he telegraphed to Edith that the yachthad had an accident in the harbor, but that no one was hurt. When hereached the hotel he found a letter from Edith of such a tenor that hesent another despatch, saying that she might expect him at once, leavingthe yacht behind. There was a buzz of excitement in the town, and therewere a hundred rumors, which the sight of the yacht and its passengerslanded in safety scarcely sufficed to allay. 

When Jack called at the Tavish cottage to say good-by, both the ladieswere too upset to see him. He took a night train, and as he was whirledaway in the darkness the events of the preceding forty-eight hoursseemed like a dream. Even the voyage up the coast was a littleunreal--an insubstantial episode in life. And the summer city by thesea, with its gayety and gossip and busy idleness, sank out of sightlike a phantom. He drew his cap over his eyes, and was impatient thatthe rattling train did not go faster, for Edith, waiting there in theGolden House, seemed to stretch out her arms for him to come. Stillbehind him rose a picture of that bacchanalian breakfast--the Major andCarmen and Mavick and Miss Tavish dancing a reel on the sloping deck, then the rising wind, the reckless daring of the race, and a vision ofsudden death. He shuddered for the first time in a quick realization ofhow nearly it came to being all over with life and its pleasures. 

XIV

Edith had made no appeal to Jack to come home. His going, therefore, hadthe merit in his eyes of being a voluntary response to the promptings ofhis better nature. Perhaps but for the accident at Mount Desert he mighthave felt that his summer pleasure was needlessly interfered with, but the little shock of that was a real, if still temporary, moralturning-point for him. For the moment his inclination seemed to run withhis duty, and he had his reward in Edith's happiness at his coming, theloving hunger in her eyes, the sweet trust that animated her face, thedelightful appropriation of him that could scarcely brook a moment'sabsence from her sight. There could not be a stronger appeal to hismanhood and his fidelity. 

"Yes, Jack dear, it was a little lonesome. " She was swinging in herhammock on the veranda in sight of the sea, and Jack sat by her with hiscigar. "I don't mind telling you now that there were times when I longedfor you dreadfully, but I was glad, all the same, that you were enjoyingyourself, for it is tiresome down here for a man with nothing to do butto wait. "

"You dear thing!" said Jack, with his hand on her head, smoothing herglossy hair and pushing it back from her forehead, to make her look moreintellectual--a thing which she hated. "Yes, dear, I was a brute to gooff at all. "

"But you wanted to comeback?" And there was a wistful look in her eyes. 

"Indeed I did, " he answered, fervently, as he leaned over the hammockto kiss the sweet eyes into content; and he was quite honest in theexpression of a desire that was nearly forty-eight hours old, and by asingular mental reaction seemed to have been always present with him. 

"It was so good of you to telegraph me before I could see thenewspaper. "

"Of course I knew the account would be greatly exaggerated;" and he madelight of the whole affair, knowing that the facts would still becapable of shocking her, giving a comic picture of the Major's seafaringqualities, and Carmen's and Miss Tavish's chaff of the gallant old beau. 

Even with this light sketching of the event she could not avoid aretrospective pang of apprehension, and the tightened grasp of his handwas as if she were holding him fast from that and all other peril. 

The days went by in content, on the whole, shaded a little by anxietyand made grave by a new interest. It could not well be but that theprospect of the near future, with its increase of responsibility, shouldcreate a little uneasiness in Jack's mind as to his own career. Of thisfuture they talked much, and in Jack's attitude towards her Edith saw, for the first time since her marriage, a lever of suggestion, and itcame naturally in the contemplation of their future life that sheshould encourage his discontent at having no occupation. Facing, in thiswaiting-time of quiet, certain responsibilities, it was impressed uponhim that the collecting of bric-a-brac was scarcely an occupation, and that idling in clubs and studios and dangling about at the beck ofsociety women was scarcely a career that could save him from ultimateennui. To be sure, he had plenty of comrades, young fellows of fortune, who never intended to do anything except to use it for their personalsatisfaction; but they did not seem to be of much account except in thelittle circle that they ornamented. Speaking of one of them one day, Father Damon had said that it seemed a pity a fellow of such family andcapacity and fortune should go to the devil merely for the lack of anobject in life. In this closer communion with Edith, whose ideas hebegan to comprehend, Jack dimly apprehended this view, and for themoment impulsively accepted it. 

"I'm half sorry, " he said one day, "that I didn't go in fora profession. But it is late now. Law, medicine, engineering, architecture, would take years of study. "

"There was Armstrong, " Edith suggested, "who studied law after he wasmarried. "

"But it looks sort of silly for a fellow who has a wife to go to school, unless, " said Jack, with a laugh, "he goes to school to his wife. Thenthere's politics. You wouldn't like to see me in that. "

"I rather think, Jack"--she spoke musingly--"if I were a man I should gointo politics. "

"You would have nice company!"

"But it's the noblest career--government, legislation, trying to dosomething to make the world better. Jack, I don't see how the men of NewYork can stand it to be governed by the very worst elements. "

"My dear, you have no idea what practical politics is. "

"I've an idea what I'd make it. What is the good of young men of leisureif they don't do anything for the country? Too fine to do what Hamiltondid and Jay did! I wish you could have heard my father talk about it. Abdicate their birthright for a four-in-hand!"

"Or a yacht, " suggested Jack. 

"Well, I don't see why a man cannot own a yacht and still care somethingabout the decent management of his city. "

"There's Mavick in politics. "

"Not exactly. Mavick is in office for what he can make. No, I willnot say that. No doubt he is a good civil servant, and we can't expecteverybody to be unselfish. At any rate, he is intelligent. Do youremember what Mr. Morgan said last winter?" And Edith lifted herself upon her elbow, as if to add the weight of her attitude to her words, asJack was still smiling at her earnestness. 

"No; you said he was a delightful sort of pessimist. "

"Mr. Morgan said that the trouble with the governing and legislation nowin the United States is that everybody is superficially educated, andthat the people are putting their superficial knowledge into laws, andthat we are going to have a nice time with all these wild theoriesand crudities on the statute-book. And then educated people say thatpolitics is so corrupt and absurd that they cannot have anything to dowith it. "

"And how far do you think we could get, my dear, in the crusade youpropose?"

"I don't know that you would get anywhere. Yet I should think the youngmen of New York could organize its intelligence and do something. But you think I'm nothing but a woman. " And Edith sank back, as ifabandoning the field. 

"I had thought that; but it is hard to tell, these days. Never mind, when we go back to town I'll stir round; you'll see. "

This was an unusual sort of talk. Jack had never heard Edith break outin this direction before, and he wondered if many women were beginningto think of men in this way, as cowardly about their public duties. Not many in his set, he was sure. If Edith had urged him to go intoNeighborhood Guild work, he could have understood that. Women andethical cranks were interested in that. And women were getting queererevery day, beginning, as Mavick said, to take notice. However, it wasodd, when you thought over it, that the city should be ruled by theslums. 

It was easy to talk about these things; in fact, Jack talked a greatdeal about them in the clubs, and occasionally with a knot of men afterdinner in a knowing, pessimistic sort of way. Sometimes the discussionswere very animated and even noisy between these young citizens. Itseemed, sometimes, about midnight, that something might be done; but theresolution vanished next morning when another day, to be lived through, confronted them. They illustrated the great philosophic observation thatit is practically impossible for an idle man who has nothing to do tobegin anything today. 

To do Jack justice, this enforced detention in the country he did notfind dull exactly. To be sure it was vacation-time, and his whole lifewas a vacation, and summer was rather more difficult to dispose of thanwinter, for one had to make more of an effort to amuse himself. ButEdith was never more charming than in this new dependence, and all hislove and loyalty were evoked in caring for her. This was occupationenough, even if he had been the busiest man in the world-to watch overher, to read to her, to anticipate her fancies, to live with her in thatdream of the future which made life seem almost ideal. There came a timewhen he looked back upon this month at the Golden House as the happiestin his life. 

The talk about an occupation was not again referred to. Edith seemedentirely happy to have Jack with her, more entirely her own than he hadever been, and to have him just as he was. And yet he knew, by a sureinstinct, that she saw him as she thought he would be, with some aim andpurpose in life. And he made many good resolutions. 

That which was nearest him attracted him most, and very feeble now werethe allurements of the life and the company he had just left. Not thathe would break with it exactly; it was not necessary to do that; but hewould find something to do, something worth a man's doing, or, at anyrate, some occupation that should tax his time and his energies. That, he knew, would make Edith happy, and to make her happy seemed nowvery much like a worthy object in life. She was so magnanimous, sounsuspicious, so full of all nobility. He knew she would stand by himwhatever happened. Down here her attitude to life was no longer arebuke to him nor a restraint upon him. Everything seemed natural andwholesome. Perhaps his vanity was touched, for there must be somethingin, him if such a woman could love him. And probably there was, thoughhe himself had never yet had a chance to find it out. Brought up in theexpectation of a fortune, bred to idleness as others are to industry, his highest ambition having been to amuse himself creditably and totake life easily, what was to hinder his being one of the multitude of"good-for-nothings" in our modern life? If there had been war, he hadspirit enough to carry him into it, and it would have surprised no oneto hear that Jack had joined an exploring expedition to the North Poleor the highlands of Central Asia. Something uncommon he might do ifopportunity offered. 

About his operations with Henderson he had never told Edith, and he didnot tell her now. Perhaps she divined it, and he rather wondered thatshe had never asked him about his increased expenditures, his yacht, andall that. He used to look at her steadily at times, as if he were tryingto read the secrets of her heart. 

"What are you looking at, Jack?"

"To see if I can find out how much you know, you look so wise. "

"Do I? I was just thinking about you. I suppose that made me look so. "

"No; about life and the world generally. "

"Mighty little, Jack, except--well, I study you. "

"Do you? Then you'll presently lose your mind:"

Jack and most men have little idea that they are windows through whichtheir wives see the world; and how much more of the world they know inthat way than men usually suspect or wives ever tell!

He did not tell her about Henderson, but he almost resolved that whenhis present venture was over he would let stocks alone as speculations, and go into something that he could talk about to his wife as he talkedabout stocks to Carmen. 

From the stranded mariners at Bar Harbor Captain Jack had many andfacetious letters. They wanted to know if his idea was that they shouldstick by the yacht until he got leisure to resume the voyage, or if heexpected them to walk home. He had already given orders to the skipperto patch it up and bring it to New York if possible, and he advised hiscorrespondents to stay by the yacht as long as there was anything in thelarder, but if they were impatient, he offered them transportation onany vessel that would take able-bodied seamen. He must be excused fromcommanding, because he had been assigned to shore duty. Carmen andMiss Tavish wrote that it was unfair to leave them to sustain all thepopularity and notoriety of the shipwreck, and that he owed it to thepublic to publish a statement, in reply to the insinuations of thenewspapers, in regard to the sea-worthiness of the yacht and the objectof this voyage. Jack replied that the only object of the voyage wasto relieve the tedium of Bar Harbor, and, having accomplished this, hewould present the vessel to Miss Tavish if she would navigate it back tothe city. 

The golden autumn days by the sea were little disturbed by these echoesof another life, which seemed at the moment to be a very shallow one. Yet the time was not without its undertone of anxieties, of grave perilsthat seemed to sanctify it and heighten its pleasures of hope. Jack sawand comprehended for the first time in his life the real nature of apure woman, the depths of tenderness and self-abnegation, the heroismand calm trust and the nobility of an unworldly life. No wonder thathe stood a little in awe of it, and days when he wandered down on thebeach, with only the waves for company, or sat smoking in the arbor, with an unread book in his hand, his own career seemed petty and empty. Such moods, however, are not uncommon in any life, and are not ofnecessity fruitful. It need not be supposed that Jack took it tooseriously, on the one hand, or, on the other, that a vision of such awoman's soul is ever without influence. 

By the end of October they returned to town, Jack, and Edith with anew and delicate attractiveness, and young Fletcher Delancy the mostwonderful and important personage probably who came to town that season. It seemed to Edith that his advent would be universally remarked, andJack felt relieved when the boy was safely housed out of the publicgaze. Yes, to Edith's inexpressible joy it was a boy, and while Jackgallantly said that a girl would have suited him just as well, hewas conscious of an increased pride when he announced the sex tohis friends. This undervaluation of women at the start is one of themysteries of life. And until women themselves change their point ofview, it is to be feared that legislation will not accomplish all thatmany of them wish. 

"So it is a boy. I congratulate you, " was the exclamation of MajorFairfax the first time Jack went down to the Union. 

"I'm glad, Major, to have your approval. "

"Oh, it's what is expected, that's all. For my part, I prefer girls. Theannouncement of boys is more expensive. "

Jack understood, and it turned out in all the clubs that he had hit uponthe most expensive sex in the view of responding to congratulations. 

"It used to seem to me, " said the Major, "that I must have a male heirto my estates. But, somehow, as the years go on, I feel more like beingan heir myself. If I had married and had a boy, he would have crowded meout by this time; whereas, if it had been a girl, I should no doubthave been staying at her place in Lenox this summer instead of beingshipwrecked on that desert island. There is nothing, my dear boy, like agirl well invested. "

"You speak with the feelings of a father. "

"I speak, sir, from observation. I look at society as it is, not as itwould be if we had primogeniture and a landed aristocracy. A daughterunder our arrangements is more likely to be a comfort to her parent inhis declining years than a son. "

"But you seem, Major, to have preferred a single life?"

"Circumstances--thank you, just a drop more--we are the creatures ofcircumstances. It is a long story. There were misrepresentation andmisunderstanding. It is true, sir, that at that time my property wasencumbered, but it was not unproductive. She died long ago. I havereason to believe that her married life was not happy. I was hot-bloodedin those days, and my honor was touched, but I never blamed her. Shewas, at twenty, the most beautiful woman in Virginia. I have never seenher equal. "

This was more than the Major had ever revealed about his private lifebefore. He had created an illusion about himself which society accepted, and in which he lived in apparent enjoyment of metropolitan existence. This was due to a sanguine temperament and a large imagination. Andhe had one quality that made him a favorite--a hearty enjoyment ofthe prosperity of others. With regard to himself, his imagination wascreative, and Jack could not now tell whether this "most beautiful womanof Virginia" was not evoked by the third glass, about which the Majorremarked, as he emptied it, that only this extraordinary occasion couldjustify such an indulgence at this time of day. 

The courtly old gentleman had inquired about madam--indeed, the secondglass had been dedicated to "mother and child"--and he exhibited afriendly and almost paternal interest, as he always did, in Jack. 

"By-the-way, " he said, after a silence, "is Henderson in town?"

"I haven't heard. Why?"

"There's been a good deal of uneasiness in the Street as to what he isdoing. I hope you haven't got anything depending on him. "

"I've got something in his stocks, if that is what you mean; but I don'tmind telling you I have made something. "

"Well, it's none of my business, only the Henderson stocks have gone offa little, as you know. "

Jack knew, and he asked the Major a little nervously if he knew anythingfurther. The Major knew nothing except Street rumors. Jack was uneasy, for the Major was a sort of weathercock, and before he left the club hewrote to Mavick. 

He carried home with him a certain disquiet, to which he had been formonths a stranger. Even the sight of Edith, who met him with a happyface, and dragged him away at once to see how lovely the baby lookedasleep, could not remove this. It seemed strange that such a littlething should make a change, introduce an alien element into thisdomestic peace. Jack was like some other men who lose heart notwhen they are doing a doubtful thing, but when they have to face theconsequences--cases of misplaced conscience. The peace and content thathe had left in the house in the morning seemed to have gone out of itwhen he returned at night. 

Next day came a reassuring letter from Mavick. 

Henderson was going on as usual. It was only a little bear movement, which wouldn't amount to anything. Still, day after day, the bears keptclawing down, and Jack watched the stock-list with increasing eagerness. He couldn't decide to sacrifice anything as long as he had a margin ofprofit. 

In this state of mind it was impossible to consider any of the plans hehad talked over with Edith before the baby was born. Inquiries he didmake about some sort of position or regular occupation, and these hereported to Edith; but his heart was not in it. 

As the days went by there was a little improvement in his stocks, andhis spirits rose. But this mood was no more favorable than the other forbeginning a new life, nor did there seem to be, as he went along, anyneed of it. He had an appearance of being busy every day; he rose lateand went late to bed. It was the old life. Stocks down, there was anecessity of bracing up with whomever he met at any of the three or fourclubs in which he lounged in the afternoon; and stocks up, there wasreason for celebrating that fact in the same way. 

It was odd how soon he became accustomed to consider himself and tobe regarded as the father of a family. That, also, like his marriage, seemed something done, and in a manner behind him. There was acommonplaceness about the situation. To Edith it was a great event. ToJack it was a milestone in life. He was proud of the boy; he was proudof Edith. "I tell you, fellows, " he would say at the club, "it's a greatthing, " and so on, in a burst of confidence, and he was quite sincerein this. But he preferred to be at the club and say these things ratherthan pass the same hours with his adorable family. He liked to thinkwhat he would do for that family--what luxuries he could procure forthem, how they should travel and see the world. There wasn't a betterfather anywhere than Jack at this period. And why shouldn't a man offamily amuse himself? Because he was happy in his family he needn'tchange all the habits of his life. 

Presently he intended to look about him for something to do thatwould satisfy Edith and fill up his time; but meantime he drifted on, alternately anxious and elated, until the season opened. The Blunts andthe Van Dams and the Chesneys and the Tavishes and Mrs. Henderson hadcalled, invitations had poured in, subscriptions were asked, studies andgayeties were projected, and the real business of life was under way. 

XV

To the nurse of the Delancy boy and to his mother he was by no meansan old story or merely an incident of the year. He was an increasingwonder--new every morning, and exciting every evening. He was the centreof a world of solicitude and adoration. It would be scarcely too much tosay that his coming into the world promised a new era, and his traits, his likes and dislikes, set a new standard in his court. If he hadapprehended his position his vanity would have outgrown his curiosityabout the world, but he displayed no more consciousness of his royaltythan a kicking Infanta of Spain. This was greatly to his credit inthe opinion of the nurse, who devoted herself to the baby with thatenthusiasm of women for infants which fortunately never fails, and wonthe heart of Edith by her worship. And how much they found to say aboutthis marvel! To hear from the nurse, over and over again, what the babyhad done and had not done, in a given hour, was to Edith like a freshchapter out of an exciting romance. 

And the boy's biographer is inclined to think that he had rare powersof discrimination, for one day when Carmen had called and begged to bepermitted to go up into the nursery, and had asked to take him in herarms just for a moment, notwithstanding her soft dress and her caressingmanner, Fletcher had made a wry face and set up a howl. "How much helooks like his father" (he didn't look like anything), Carmen said, handing him over to the nurse. What she thought was that in manner anddisposition he was totally unlike Jack Delancy. 

When they came down-stairs, Mrs. Schuyler Blunt was in the drawing-room. "I've had such a privilege, Mrs. Blunt, seeing the baby!" cried Carmen, in her sweetest manner. 

"It must have been, " that lady rejoined, stiffly. 

Carmen, who hated to be seen through, of all things, did not knowwhether to resent this or not. But Edith hastened to the rescue of herguest. 

"I think it's a privilege. "

"And you know, Mrs. Blunt, " said Carmen, recovering herself and smiling, "that I must have some excitement this dull season. "

"I see, " said Mrs. Blunt, with no relaxation of her manner; "we are allgrateful to Mrs. Delancy. "

"Mrs. Henderson does herself injustice, " Edith again interposed. "I canassure you she has a great talent for domesticity. "

Carmen did not much fancy this apology for her, but she rejoined: "Yes, indeed. I'm going to cultivate it. "

"How is this privileged person?" Mrs. Blunt asked. 

"You shall see, " said Edith. "I am glad you came, for I wanted very muchto consult you. I was going to send for you. "

"Well, here I am. But I didn't come about the baby. I wanted to consultyou. We miss you, dear, every day. " And then Mrs. Blunt began to speakabout some social and charitable arrangements, but stopped suddenly. "I'll see the baby first. Good-morning, Mrs. Henderson. " And she leftthe room. 

Carmen felt as much left out socially as about the baby, and she alsorose to go. 

"Don't go, " said Edith. "What kind of a summer have you had?"

"Oh, very good. Some shipwrecks. "

"And Mr. Henderson? Is he well?"

"Perfectly. He is away now. Husbands, you know, haven't so much talentfor domesticity as we have. "

"That depends, " Edith replied, simply, but with that spirit and air ofbreeding before which Carmen always inwardly felt defeat--"that dependsvery much upon ourselves. "

Naturally, with this absorption in the baby, Edith was slow to resumeher old interests. Of course she knew of the illness of Father Damon, and the nurse, who was from the training-school in which Dr. Leigh wasan instructor, and had been selected for this important distinction bythe doctor, told her from time to time of affairs on the East Side. Overthere the season had opened quite as usual; indeed, it was always open;work must go on every day, because every day food must be obtainedand rent-money earned, and the change from summer to winter was onlya climatic increase of hardships. Even an epidemic scare does notessentially vary the daily monotony, which is accepted with a doggedfatality:

There had been no vacation for Ruth Leigh, and she jokingly said, whenat length she got a half-hour for a visit to Edith, that she wouldhardly know what to do with one if she had it. 

"We have got through very well, " she added. "We always dread the summer, and we always dread the winter. Science has not yet decided which isthe more fatal, decayed vegetables or unventilated rooms. City residencegives both a fair chance at the poor. "

"Are not the people learning anything?" Edith asked. 

"Not much, except to bear it, I am sorry to say. Even Father Damon--"

"Is he at work again? Do you see him often?"

"Yes, occasionally. "

"I should so like to see him. But I interrupted you. "

"Well, Father Damon has come to see that nothing can be done withoutorganization. The masses"--and there was an accent of bitterness in heruse of the phrase--"must organize and fight for anything they want. "

"Does Father Damon join in this?"

"Oh, he has always been a member of the Labor League. Now he has beenat work with the Episcopal churches of the city, and got them to agree, when they want workmen for any purpose, to employ only union men. "

"Isn't that, " Edith exclaimed, "a surrender of individual rights and agreat injustice to men not in the unions?"

"You would see it differently if you were in the struggle. If theworking-men do not stand by each other, where are they to look for help?What have the Christians of this city done?" and the little doctor gotup and began to pace the room. "Charities? Yes, little condescendingcharities. And look at the East Side! Is its condition any better? Itell you, Mrs. Delancy, I don't believe in charities--in any charities. "

"It seems to me, " said Edith, with a smile calculated to mollify thisvehemence, "that you are a standing refutation of your own theory. "

"Me? No, indeed. I'm paid by the dispensary. And I make my patientspay--when they are able. "

"So I have heard, " Edith retorted. "Your bills must be a terror to theneighborhood. "

"You may laugh. But I'm establishing a reputation over there as aworking-woman, and if I have any influence, or do any little good, it'sowing to that fact. Do you think they care anything about Father Damon'sgospel?"

"I should be sorry to think they did not, " Edith said, gravely. 

"Well, very little they care. They like the man because they think heshares their feelings, and does not sympathize with them because theyare different from him. That is the only kind of gospel that is good foranything over there. "

"I don't think Father Damon would agree with you in that. "

"Of course he would not. He's as mediaeval as any monk. But then he isnot blind. He sees that it is never anything but personal influencethat counts. Poor fellow, " and the doctor's voice softened, "he'll killhimself with his ascetic notions. He is trying to take up the burden ofthis life while struggling under the terror of another. "

"But he must be doing a great deal of good. "

"Oh, I don't know. Nothing seems to do much good. But his presence isa great comfort. That is something. And I'm glad he is going aboutnow rousing opposition to what is, rather than all the time preachingsubmission to the lot of this life for the sake of a reward somewhereelse. That's a gospel for the rich. "

Edith was accustomed to hear Ruth Leigh talk in this bitter strain whenthis subject was introduced, and she contrived to turn the conversationupon what she called practical work, and then to ask some particulars ofFather Damon's sudden illness. 

"He did rest, " the doctor said, "for a little, in his way. But he willnot spare himself, and he cannot stand it. I wish you could induce himto come here often--to do anything for diversion. He looks so worn. "

There was in the appeal to Edith a note of personal interest which herquick heart did not fail to notice. And the thought came to her with apainful apprehension. Poor thing! Poor Father Damon!

Does not each of them have to encounter misery enough without this?

Doesn't life spare anybody?

She told her apprehension to Jack when he came home. 

Jack gave a long whistle. "That is a deadlock!"

"His vows, and her absolute materialism! Both of them would go to thestake for what they believe, or don't believe. It troubles me verymuch. "

"But, " said Jack, "it's interesting. It's what they call a situation. There. I didn't mean to make light of it. I don't believe there isanything in it. But it would be comical, right here in New York. "

"It would be tragical. "

"Comedy usually is. I suppose it's the human nature in it. That is sodifficult to get rid of. But I thought the missionary business was safe. Though, do you know, Edith, I should think better of both of them forhaving some human feeling. By-the-way, did Dr. Leigh say anything aboutHenderson?"

"No. What?"

"He has given Father Damon ten thousand dollars. It's in strict secrecy, but Father Damon said I might tell you. He said it was providential. "

"I thought Mr. Henderson was wholly unscrupulous and cold as ice. "

"Yes, he's got a reputation for freeze-outs. If the Street knew this itwould say it was insurance money. And he is so cynical that he wouldn'tcare what the Street said. "

"Do you think it came about through Mrs. Henderson?"

"I don't think so. She was speaking of Father Damon this morning in theLoan Exhibition. I don't believe she knows anything about it. Hendersonis a good deal shut up in himself. They say at the Union that yearsago he used to do a good many generous things--that he is a great dealharder than he used to be. "

This talk was before dinner. She did not ask anything now about Carmen, though she knew that Jack had fallen into his old habit of seeing muchof her. He was less and less at home, except at dinner-time, and hewas often restless, and, she saw, often annoyed. When he was at home hetried to make up for his absence by extra tenderness and considerationfor Edith and the boy. And this effort, and its evidence of a double ifnot divided life, wounded her more than the neglect. One night, when hecame home late, he had been so demonstrative about the baby that Edithhad sent the nurse out of the room until she could coax Jack to go intohis own apartment. His fits of alternate good-humor and depression shetried to attribute to his business, to which he occasionally alludedwithout confiding in her. 

The next morning Father Damon came in about luncheon-time. He apologizedfor not coming before since her return, but he had been a little upset, and his work was more and more interesting. His eyes were bright and hismanner had quite the usual calm, but he looked pale and thinner, and soexhausted that Edith ran immediately for a glass of wine, and began toupbraid him for not taking better care of himself. 

"I take too much care of myself. We all do. The only thing I've got togive is myself. "

"But you will not last. "

"That is of little moment; long or short, a man can only give himself. Our Lord was not here very long. " And then Father Damon smiled, and said"My dear friend, I'm really doing very well. Of course I get tired. ThenI come up again. And every now and then I get a lift. Did Jack tell youabout Henderson?"

"Yes. Wasn't it strange?"

"I never was more surprised. He sent for me to come to his office. Without any circumlocution, he asked me how I was getting on, and, before I could answer, he said, in the driest business way, that he hadbeen thinking over a little plan, and perhaps I could help him. He had alittle money he wanted to invest--RR"'In our mission chapel?' I asked. 

"'No, ' he said, without moving a muscle. 'Not that. I don't know muchabout chapels, Father Damon. But I've been hearing what you are doing, and it occurred to me that you must come across a good many cases notin the regular charities that you could help judiciously, get themover hard spots, without encouraging dependence. I'm going to put tenthousand dollars into your hands, if you'll be bothered with it, to useat your discretion. '

"I was taken aback, and I suppose I showed it, and I said that was agreat deal of money to intrust to one man. 

"Henderson showed a little impatience. It depended upon the man. Thatwas his lookout. The money would be deposited, he said, in bank to myorder, and he asked me for my signature that he could send with thedeposit. 

"Of course I thanked him warmly, and said I hoped I could do some goodwith it. He did not seem to pay much attention to what I was saying. Hewas looking out of the window to the bare trees in the court back ofhis office, and his hands were moving the papers on his table aimlesslyabout. 

"'I shall know, ' he said, 'when you have drawn this out. I've got afancy for keeping a little fund of this sort there. ' And then he added, still not looking at me, but at the dead branches, 'You might call itthe Margaret Fund. '"

"That was the name of his first wife!" Edith exclaimed. 

"Yes, I remember. I said I would, and began to thank him again as I rosefrom my chair. He was still looking away, and saying, as if to himself, 'I think she would like that. ' And then he turned, and, in his usualabrupt office manner, said: 'Good-morning, good-morning. I am very muchobliged to you. '"

"Wasn't it all very strange!" Edith spoke, after a moment. "I didn'tsuppose he cared. Do you think it was just sentiment?"

"I shouldn't wonder. Men like Henderson do queer things. In the heartsof such hardened men there are sometimes roots of sentiment that youwouldn't suspect. But I don't know. The Lord somehow looks out for hispoor. "

Notwithstanding this windfall of charity, Father Damon seemed somewhatdepressed. "I wish, " he said, after a pause, "he had given it to themission. We are so poor, and modern philanthropy all runs in otherdirections. The relief of temporary suffering has taken the place of thecare of souls. "

"But Dr. Leigh said that you were interesting the churches in the laborunions. "

"Yes. It is an effort to do something. The church must put herself intosympathetic relations with these people, or she will accomplish nothing. To get them into the church we must take up their burdens. But it is along way round. It is not the old method of applying the gospel to men'ssins. "

"And yet, " Edith insisted, "you must admit that such people as Dr. Leighare doing a good work. "

Father Damon did not reply immediately. Presently he asked: "Do youthink, Mrs. Delancy, that Dr. Leigh has any sympathy with the higherlife, with spiritual things? I wish I could think so. "

"With the higher life of humanity, certainly. "

"Ah, that is too vague. I sometimes feel that she and those like her arethe worst opponents to our work. They substitute humanitarianism for thegospel. "

"Yet I know of no one who works more than Ruth Leigh in theself-sacrificing spirit of the Master. "

"Whom she denies!" The quick reply came with a flush in his pale face, and he instantly arose and walked away to the window and stood for somemoments in silence. When he turned there was another expression inhis eyes and a note of tenderness in his voice that contradicted theseverity of the priest. It was the man that spoke. "Yes, she is the bestwoman I ever knew. God help me! I fear I am not fit for my work. "

This outburst of Father Damon to her, so unlike his calm and trainedmanner, surprised Edith, although she had already some suspicion of hisstate of mind. But it would not have surprised her if she had known moreof men, the necessity of the repressed and tortured soul for sympathy, and that it is more surely to be found in the heart of a pure woman thanelsewhere. 

But there was nothing that she could say, as she took his hand to bidhim good-by, except the commonplace that Dr. Leigh had expressed anxietythat he was overworking, and that for the sake of his work he must bemore prudent. Yet her eyes expressed the sympathy she did not put inwords. 

Father Damon understood this, and he went away profoundly grateful forher forbearance of verbal expression as much as for her sympathy. Buthe did not suspect that she needed sympathy quite as much as he did, andconsequently he did not guess the extent of her self-control. It wouldhave been an immense relief to have opened her heart to him--and to whomcould she more safely do this than to a priest set apart from all humanentanglements?--and to have asked his advice. But Edith's peculiarstrength--or was it the highest womanly instinct?--lay in herdiscernment of the truth that in one relation of life no confidences arepossible outside of that relation except to its injury, and that to askinterference is pretty sure to seal its failure. As its highest joyscannot be participated in, so its estrangements cannot be healed by anyinfluence outside of its sacred compact. To give confidence outsideis to destroy the mutual confidence upon which the relation rests, andthough interference may patch up livable compromises, the bloom of loveand the joy of life are not in them. Edith knew that if she could notwin her own battle, no human aid could win it for her. 

And it was all the more difficult because it was vague and indefinite, as the greater part of domestic tragedies are. For the most part lifegoes on with external smoothness, and the public always professessurprise when some accident, a suit at law, a sudden death, a contestedwill, a slip from apparent integrity, or family greed or femininerevenge, turns the light of publicity upon a household, to find howhollow the life has been; in the light of forgotten letters, revealingcheck-books, servants' gossip, and long-established habits of aversionor forbearance, how much sordidness and meanness!

Was not everything going on as usual in the Delancy house and in thelittle world of which it was a part? If there had been any open neglector jealousy, any quarrel or rupture, or any scene, these could bedescribed. These would have an interest to the biographer and perhaps tothe public. But at this period there was nothing of this sort totell. There were no scenes. There were no protests or remonstrances oraccusations, nor to the world was there any change in the daily life ofthese two. 

It was more pitiful even than that. Here was a woman who had set herheart in all the passionate love of a pure ideal, and day by day shefelt that the world, the frivolous world, with its low and selfishaims, was too strong for her, and that the stream was wrecking herlife because it was bearing Jack away from her. What could one womando against the accepted demoralizations of her social life? To go withthem, not to care, to accept Jack's idle, good-natured, easy philosophyof life and conduct, would not that have insured a peaceful life? Whyshouldn't she conform and float, and not mind?

To be sure, a wise woman, who has been blessed or cursed with a longexperience of life, would have known that such a course could notforever, or for long, secure happiness, and that a man's love ultimatelymust rest upon a profound respect for his wife and a belief in hernobility. Perhaps Edith did not reason in this way. Probably it was herinstinct for what was pure and true-showing, indeed, the quality of herlove-that guided her. 

To Jack's friends he was much the same as usual. He simply went on inhis ante-marriage ways. Perhaps he drank a little more, perhaps he wasa little more reckless at cards, and it was certain that his taste foramusing himself in second-hand book-shops and antiquity collections hadweakened. His talked-of project for some regular occupation seemedto have been postponed, although he said to himself that it was onlypostponed until his speculations, which kept him in a perpetual fever, should put him in a position to command a business. 

Meantime he did not neglect social life--that is, the easy, tolerantcompany which lived as he liked to live. There was at first somepretense of declining invitations which Edith could not accept, buthe soon fell into the habit of a man whose family has temporarilygone abroad, with the privileges of a married man, without theresponsibilities of a bachelor. Edith could see that he took greatcredit to himself for any evenings he spent at home, and perhaps he hada sort of support in the idea that he was sacrificing himself to hisfamily. Major Fairfax, whom Edith distrusted as a misleader of youth, did not venture to interfere with Jack again, but he said to himselfthat it was a blank shame that with such a wife he should go danglingabout with women like Carmen and Miss Tavish, not that the Major himselfhad any objection to their society, but, hang it all, that was no reasonwhy Jack should be a fool. 

In midwinter Jack went to Washington on business. It was necessary tosee Mavick, and Mr. Henderson, who was also there. To spend a fewweeks at the capital, in preparation for Lent, has become a part of theprogram of fashion. There can be met people like-minded from all partsof the Union, and there is gayety, and the entertainment to be had innew acquaintances, without incurring any of the responsibilities ofsocial continuance. They meet there on neutral ground. Half Jack's sethad gone over or were going. Young Van Dam would go with him. It will beonly for a few days, Jack had said, gayly, when he bade Edith good-by, and she must be careful not to let the boy forget him. 

It was quite by accident, apparently, that in the same train were theChesneys, Miss Tavish, and Carmen going over to join her husband. Thisgave the business expedition the air of an excursion. And indeed at thehotel where they stayed this New York contingent made something ofan impression, promising an addition to the gayety of the season, andcontributing to the importance of the house as a centre of fashion. Henderson's least movements were always chronicled and speculated on, and for years he had been one of the stock subjects, out of which eventhe dullest interviewers, who watch the hotel registers in all parts ofthe country, felt sure that they could make an acceptable paragraph. Thearrival of his wife, therefore, was a newspaper event. 

They said in Washington at the time that Mrs. Henderson was one of themost fascinating of women, amiable, desirous to please, approachable, and devoted to the interests of her husband. If some of the women, residents in established society, were a little shy of her, if some, indeed, thought her dangerous--women are always thinking this of eachother, and surely they ought to know-nothing of this appeared in thereports. The men liked her. She had so much vivacity, such esprit, sheunderstood men so well, and the world, and could make allowances, andwas always an entertaining companion. More than one Senator paid markedcourt to her, more than one brilliant young fellow of the House thoughthimself fortunate if he sat next her at dinner, and even cabinetofficers waited on her at supper. It could not be doubted that a smileand a confidential or a witty remark from Mrs. Henderson brightened manyan evening. Wherever she went her charming toilets were fully described, and the public knew as well as her jewelers the number and cost of herdiamonds, her necklaces, her tiaras. But this was for the world andfor state occasions. At home she liked simplicity. And this was whatimpressed the reporters when, in the line of their public duty, theywere admitted to her presence. With them she was very affable, and shemade them feel that they could almost be classed with her friends, andthat they were her guardians against the vulgar publicity, which shedisliked and shrank from. 

There went abroad, therefore, an impression of her amiability, herfabulous wealth in jewels and apparel, her graciousness and hercleverness and her domesticity. Her manners seemed to the reportersthose of a "lady, " and of this both her wit and freedom from prudishnessand her courteous treatment of them convinced them. And the best of allthis was that while it was said that Henderson was one of the boldestand shrewdest of operators, and a man to be feared in the Street, hewas in his family relations one of the most generous and kind-hearted ofmen. 

Henderson himself had not much time for the frivolities of the season, and he evaded all but the more conspicuous social occasions, atwhich Carmen, sometimes with a little temper, insisted that he shouldaccompany her. "You would come here, " he once said, "when you knew I wasimmersed in most perplexing business. "

"And now I am here, " she had replied, in a tone equally wanting insoftness, "you have got to make the best of me. "

Was Jack happy in the whirl he was in? Some days exceedingly so. Somedays he sulked, and some days he threw himself with recklessness bornof artificial stimulants into the always gay and rattling moods of MissTavish. Somehow he could get no nearer to Henderson or to Mavick thanwhen he was in New York. Not that he could accuse Mavick of tryingto conceal anything; Mavick bore to him always the open, "all right"attitude, but there were things that he did not understand. 

And then Carmen? Was she a little less dependent on him, in this widehorizon, than in New York? And had he noticed a little dispositionto patronize on two or three occasions? It was absurd. He laughed athimself for such an idea. Old Eschelle's daughter patronize him! And yetthere was something. She was very confidential with Mavick. They seemedto have a great deal in common. It so happened that even in the littleexpeditions of sightseeing these two were thrown much together, and attimes when the former relations of Jack and Carmen should have made themcomrades. They had a good deal to say to each other, and momentarilyevidently serious things, and at receptions Jack had interrupted theirglances of intelligence. But what stuff this was! He jealous of theattentions of his friend to another man's wife! If she was a coquette, what did it matter to him? Certainly he was not jealous. But he wasirritated. 

One day after a round of receptions, in which Jack had been speciallydisgruntled, and when he was alone in the drawing-room of the hotel withCarmen, his manner was so positively rude to her that she could not butnotice it. There was this trait of boyishness in Jack, and it was one ofthe weaknesses that made him loved, that he always cried out when he washurt. 

Did Carmen resent this? Did she upbraid him for his manner? Did sheapologize, as if she had done anything to provoke it? She sank downwearily in a chair and said:

"I'm so tired. I wish I were back in New York. "

"You don't act like it, " Jack replied, gruffly. 

"No. You don't understand. And now you want to make me more miserable. See here, Mr. Delancy, " and she started up in her seat and turned tohim, "you are a man of honor. Would you advise me to make an enemyof Mr. Mavick, knowing all that he does know about Mr. Henderson'saffairs?"

"I don't see what that has got to do with it, " said Jack, wavering. "Lately your manner--"

"Nonsense!" cried Carmen, springing up and approaching Jack with a smileof animation and trust, and laying her hand on his shoulder. "We areold, old friends. And I have just confided to you what I wouldn't to anyother living being. There!" And looking around at the door, she tappedhim lightly on the cheek and ran out of the room. 

Whatever you might say of Carmen, she had this quality of a wise person, that she never cut herself loose from one situation until she wasentirely sure of a better position. 

For one reason or another Jack's absence was prolonged. He wrote often, he made bright comments on the characters and peculiarities of thecapital, and he said that he was tired to death of the everlasting whirland scuffle. People plunged in the social whirlpool always say they areweary of it, and they complain bitterly of its exactions and its tax ontheir time and strength. Edith judged, especially from the complaints, that her husband was enjoying himself. She felt also that his letterswere in a sense perfunctory, and gave her only the surface of his life. She sought in vain in them for those evidences of spontaneous love, ofdelight in writing to her of all persons in the world, the eagerness ofthe lover that she recalled in letters written in other days. Howeveraffectionate in expression, these were duty letters. Edith was notalone. She had no lack of friends, who came and went in the common roundof social exchange, and for many of them she had a sincere affection. And there were plenty of relatives on the father's and on the mother'sside. But for the most part they were old-fashioned, home-keepingNew-Yorkers, who were sufficient to themselves, and cared little for theset into which Edith's marriage had more definitely placed her. In anyreal trouble she would not have lacked support. She was deemed fortunatein her marriage, and in her apparent serene prosperity it was believedthat she was happy. If she had had mother or sister or brother, it isdoubtful if she would have made either a confidant of her anxieties, but high-spirited and self-reliant as she was, there were days when shelonged with intolerable heartache for the silent sympathy of a mother'spresence. 

It is singular how lonely a woman of this nature can be in a gay andfriendly world. She had her interests, to be sure. As she regained herstrength she took up her social duties, and she tried to resume herstudies, her music, her reading, and she occupied herself more and morewith the charities and the fortunes of her friends who were giving theirlives to altruistic work. But there was a sense of unreality in allthis. The real thing was the soul within, the longing, loving womanwhose heart was heavy and unsatisfied. Jack was so lovable, he had inhis nature so much nobility, if the world did not kill it, her lifemight be so sweet, and so completely fulfill her girlish dreams. Allthese schemes of a helpful, altruistic life had been in her dream, buthow empty it was without the mutual confidence, the repose in the onehuman love for which she cared. 

Though she was not alone, she had no confidant. She could have none. What was there to confide? There was nothing to be done. There wasno flagrant wrong or open injustice. Some women in like circumstancesbecome bitter and cynical. Others take their revenge in a careerreckless, but within social conventions, going their own way in a sortof matrimonial truce. These are not noticeable tragedies. They arethings borne with a dumb ache of the heart. There are lives into whichthe show of spring comes, but without the song of birds or the scent offlowers. They are endured bravely, with a heroism for which the worlddoes not often give them credit. Heaven only knows how many noblewomen-noble in this if in nothing else--carry through life this burdenof an unsatisfied heart, mocked by the outward convention of love. 

But Edith had one confidant--the boy. And he was perfectly safe; hewould reveal nothing. There were times when he seemed to understand, and whether he did or not she poured out her heart to him. Often in thetwilight she sat by him in this silent communion. If he were asleep--andhe was not troubled with insomnia--he was still company. And when he wasawake, his efforts to communicate the dawning ideas of the queer worldinto which he had come were a never-failing delight. He wanted so manymore things than he could ask for, which it was his mother's pleasure todivine; later on he would ask for so many things he could not get. Thenurse said that he had uncommon strength of will. 

These were happy hours, imagining what the boy would be, planning whatshe would make his life, hours enjoyed as a traveler enjoys waysideflowers, snatched before an approaching storm. It is a pity, the nursewould say, that his father cannot see him now. And at the thought Edithcould only see the child through tears, and a great weight rested on herheart in all this happiness. 

XVI

When Father Damon parted from Edith he seemed to himself strengthenedin his spirit. His momentary outburst had shown him where he stood-thestrength of his fearful temptation. To see it was to be able to conquerit. He would humiliate himself; he would scourge himself; he would fastand pray; he would throw himself more unreservedly into the service ofhis Master. He had been too compromising with sin and sinners, and withhis own weakness and sin, the worst of all. 

The priest walked swiftly through the wintry streets, welcoming as asort of penance the biting frost which burned his face and penetratedhis garments. He little heeded the passers in the streets, those whohurried or those who loitered, only, if he met or passed a woman ora group of girls, he instinctively drew himself away and walked morerapidly. He strode on uncompromisingly, and his clean-shaved face wasset in rigid lines. Those who saw him pass would have said that therewent an ascetic bent on judgment. Many who did know him, and whoordinarily would have saluted him, sure of a friendly greeting, wererepelled by his stern face and determined air, and made no sign. Thefather had something on his mind. 

As he turned into Rivington Street there approached him from theopposite direction a girl, walking slowly and undecidedly. When he camenear her she looked up, with an appealing recognition. In a flash ofthe quick passing he thought he knew her--a girl who had attended hismission and whom he had not seen for several months-but he made no signand passed on. 

"Father Damon!"

He turned about short at the sound of the weak, pleading voice, but withno relaxation of his severe, introverted mood. "Well?"

It was the girl he remembered. She wore a dress of silk that had oncebeen fine, and over it an ample cloak that had quite lost its freshness, and a hat still gay with cheap flowers. Her face, which had a sweet andalmost innocent expression, was drawn and anxious. The eyes were thoseof a troubled and hunted animal. 

"I thought, " she said, hesitatingly, "you didn't know me. "

"Yes, I know you. Why haven't you been at the mission lately?"

"I couldn't come. I--"

"I'm afraid you have fallen into bad ways. "

She did not answer immediately. She looked away, and, still avoidinghis gaze, said, timidly: "I thought I would tell you, Father Damon, thatI'm--that I'm in trouble. I don't know what to do. "

"Have you repented of your sin?" asked he, with a little softening ofhis tone. "Did you want to come to me for help?"

"He's deserted me, " said the girl, looking down, absorbed in her ownmisery, and not heeding his question. 

"Ah, so that is what you are sorry for?" The severe, reproving tone hadcome back to his voice. 

"And they don't want me in the shop any more. "

The priest hesitated. Was he always to preach against sin, to strive toextirpate it, and yet always to make it easy for the sinner? This girlmust realize her guilt before he could do her any good. "Are you sorryfor what you have done?"

"Yes, I'm sorry, " she replied. Wasn't to be in deep trouble to be sorry?And then she looked up, and continued with the thought in her mind, "Ididn't know who else to go to. "

"Well, my child, if you are sorry, and want to lead a different life, come to me at the mission and I will try to help you. "

The priest, with a not unkindly good-by, passed on. The girl stood amoment irresolute, and then went on her way heavily and despondent. Whatgood would it do her to go to the mission now?

Three days later Dr. Leigh was waiting at the mission chapel to speakwith the rector after the vesper service. He came out pale and weary, and the doctor hesitated to make known her errand when she saw howexhausted he was. 

"Did you wish me for anything?" he asked, after the rather forcedgreeting. 

"If you feel able. There is a girl at the Woman's Hospital who wants tosee you. "

"Who is it?"

"It is the girl you saw on the street the other afternoon; she said shehad spoken to you. "

"She promised to come to the mission. "

"She couldn't. I met the poor thing the same afternoon. She looked soaimless and forlorn that, though I did not remember her at first, Ithought she might be ill, and spoke to her, and asked her what was thematter. At first she said nothing except that she was out of work andfelt miserable; but the next moment she broke down completely, and saidshe hadn't a friend in the world. "

"Poor thing!" said the priest, with a pang of self-reproach. 

"There was nothing to do but to take her to the hospital, and there shehas been. "

"Is she very ill?"

"She may live, the house surgeon says. But she was very weak for such atrial. "

Little more was said as they walked along, and when they reached thehospital, Father Damon was shown without delay into the ward where thesick girl lay. Dr. Leigh turned back from the door, and the nurse tookhim to the bedside. She lay quite still in her cot, wan and feeble, withevery sign of having encountered a supreme peril. 

She turned her head on the low pillow as Father Damon spoke, saying hewas very glad he could come to her, and hoped she was feeling better. 

"I knew you would come, " she said, feebly. "The nurse says I'm better. But I wanted to tell you--" And she stopped. 

"Yes, I know, " he said. "The Lord is very good. He will forgive all yoursins now, if you repent and trust Him. "

"I hope--" she began. "I'm so weak. If I don't live I want him to know. "

"Want whom to know?" asked the father, bending over her. 

She signed for him to come closer, and then whispered a name. 

"Only if I never see him again, if you see him, you will tell him that Iwas always true to him. He said such hard words. I was always true. "

"I promise, " said the father, much moved. "But now, my child, you oughtto think of yourself, of your--"

"He is dead. Didn't they tell you? There is nothing any more. "

The nurse approached with a warning gesture that the interview was tooprolonged. 

Father Damon knelt for a moment by the bedside, uttering a hardlyarticulate prayer. The girl's eyes were closed. When he rose she openedthem with a look of gratitude, and with the sign of blessing he turnedaway. 

He intended to hasten from the house. He wanted to be alone. His troubleseemed to him greater than that of the suffering girl. What had he done?What was he in thought better than she? Was this intruding human elementalways to cross the purpose of his spiritual life?

As he was passing through the wide hallway the door of thereception-room was open, and he saw Dr. Leigh seated at the table, witha piece of work in her hands. She looked up, and stopped him with anunspoken inquiry in her face. It was only civil to pause a moment andtell her about the patient, and as he stepped within the room she rose. 

"You should rest a moment, Father Damon. I know what these scenes are. "

Yielding weakly, as he knew, he took the offered chair. But he raisedhis hand in refusal of the glass of wine which she had ready for him onthe table, and offered before he could speak. 

"But you must, " she said, with a smile. "It is the doctor'sprescription. "

She did not look like a doctor. She had laid aside the dustywalking-dress, the business-jacket, the ugly little hat of felt, thebattered reticule. In her simple house costume she was the woman, homelike, sympathetic, gentle, with the everlasting appeal of the strongfeminine nature. It was not a temptress who stood before him, but ahelpful woman, in whose kind eyes-how beautiful they were in this momentof sympathy--there was trust--and rest--and peace. 

"So, " she said, when he had taken the much-needed draught; "in thehospital you must obey the rules, one of which is to let no one sink inexhaustion. "

She had taken her seat now, and resumed her work. Father Damon waslooking at her, seeing the woman, perhaps, as he never had seen herbefore, a certain charm in her quiet figure and modest self-possession, while the thought of her life, of her labors, as he had seen her now formonths and months of entire sacrifice of self, surged through his brainin a whirl of emotion that seemed sweeping him away. But when he spokeit was of the girl, and as if to himself. 

"I was sorry to let her go that day. Friendless, I should have known. Idid know. I should have felt. You--"

"No, " she said, gently, interrupting him; "that was my business. Youshould not accuse yourself. It was a physician's business. "

"Yes, a physician--the great Physician. The Master never let the sinhinder his compassion for the sinner. "

To this she could make no reply. Presently she looked up and said: "ButI am sure your visit was a great comfort to the poor girl! She was veryeager to see you. "

"I do not know. "

His air was still abstracted. He was hardly thinking of the girl, afterall, but of himself, of the woman who sat before him. It seemed to himthat he would have given the world to escape--to fly from her, to flyfrom himself. Some invisible force held him--a strong, new, and yet notnew, emotion, a power that seemed to clutch his very life. He could notthink clearly about it. In all his discipline, in his consecration, in his vows of separation from the world, there seemed to have beenno shield prepared for this. The human asserted itself, and came in, overwhelming his guards and his barriers like a strong flood in thespring-time of the year, breaking down all artificial contrivances. "They reckon ill who leave me out, " is the everlasting cry of the humanheart, the great passion of life, incarnate in the first man and thefirst woman. 

With a supreme effort of his iron will--is the Will, after all, strongerthan Love?--Father Damona rose. He stretched out his hand to sayfarewell. She also stood, and she felt the hand tremble that held hers. 

"God bless you!" he said. "You are so good. "

He was going. He took her other hand, and was looking down upon herface. She looked up, and their eyes met. It was for an instant, a flash, glance for glance, as swift as the stab of daggers. 

All the power of heaven and earth could not recall that glance nor undoits revelations. The man and the woman stood face to face revealed. 

He bent down towards her face. Affrighted by his passion, scarcelyable to stand in her sudden emotion, she started back. The action, theinstant of time, recalled him to himself. He dropped her hands, and wasgone. And the woman, her knees refusing any longer to support her, sankinto a chair, helpless, and saw him go, and knew in that moment theheight of a woman's joy, the depth of a woman's despair. 

It had come to her! Steeled by her science, shielded by herphilanthropy, schooled in indifference to love, it had come to her! Andit was hopeless. Hopeless? It was absurd. Her life was determined. In noevent could it be in harmony with his opinions, with his religion, whichwas dearer to him than life. There was a great gulf between them whichshe could not pass unless she ceased to be herself. And he? A severepriest! Vowed and consecrated against human passion! What a governmentof the world--if there were any government--that could permit such athing! It was terrible. 

And yet she was loved! That sang in her heart with all the pain, withall the despair. And with it all was a great pity for him, alone, goneinto the wilderness, as it would seem to him, to struggle with hisfierce temptation. 

It had come on darker as she sat there. The lamps were lighted, and shewas reminded of some visits she must make. She went, mechanically, toher room to prepare for going. The old jacket, which she took up, did look rather rusty. She went to the press--it was not much of awardrobe--and put on the one that was reserved for holidays. And thehat? Her friends had often joked her about the hat, but now for thefirst time she seemed to see it as it might appear to others. As sheheld it in her hand, and then put it on before the mirror, she smiled alittle, faintly, at its appearance. And then she laid it aside for herbetter hat. She never had been so long in dressing before. And in theevening, too, when it could make no difference! It might, after all, be a little more cheerful for her forlorn patients. Perhaps she was notconscious that she was making selections, that she was paying a littlemore attention to her toilet than usual. Perhaps it was only the womanwho was conscious that she was loved. 

It would be difficult to say what emotion was uppermost in the mind ofFather Damon as he left the house--mortification, contempt of himself, or horror. But there was a sense of escape, of physical escape, and theimperative need of it, that quickened his steps almost into a run. Inthe increasing dark, at this hour, in this quarter of the town, therewere comparatively few whose observation of him would recall him tohimself. He thought only of escape, and of escape from that quarter ofthe city that was the witness of his labors and his failure. Forthe moment to get away from this was the one necessity, and withoutreasoning in the matter, only feeling, he was hurrying, stumbling inhis haste, northward. Before he went to the hospital he had been tired, physically weary. He was scarcely conscious of it now; indeed, his body, his hated body, seemed lighter, and the dominant spirit now awakened tocontempt of it had a certain pleasure in testing it, in drawing uponits vitality, to the point of exhaustion if possible. It should be seenwhich was master. His rapid pace presently brought him into one of thegreat avenues leading to Harlem. That was the direction he wished to go. That was where he knew, without making any decision, he must go, to thehaven of the house of his order, on the heights beyond Harlem. A trainwas just clattering along on the elevated road above him. He could seethe faces at the windows, the black masses crowding the platforms. Itwent pounding by as if it were freight from another world. He was inhaste, but haste to escape from himself. That way, bearing him alongwith other people, and in the moving world, was to bring him in touchwith humanity again, and so with what was most hateful in himself. Hemust be alone. But there was a deeper psychological reason than that forwalking, instead of availing himself of the swiftest method of escape. He was not fleeing from justice or pursuit. When the mind is in tortureand the spirit is torn, the instinctive effort is to bodily activity, toforce physical exertion, as if there must be compensation for the mentalstrain in the weariness of nature. The priest obeyed this instinct, asif it were possible to walk away from himself, and went on, at firstwith almost no sense of weariness. 

And the shame! He could not bear to be observed. It seemed to him thatevery one would see in his face that he was a recreant priest, perjuredand forsworn. And so great had been his spiritual pride! So removed hehad deemed himself from the weakness of humanity! And he had yielded atthe first temptation, and the commonest of all temptations! Thank God, he had not quite yielded. He had fled. And yet, how would it have beenif Ruth Leigh had not had a moment of reserve, of prudent repulsion! Hegroaned in anguish. The sin was in the intention. It was no merit of histhat he had not with a kiss of passion broken his word to his Lord andlost his soul. 

It was remorse that was driving him along the avenue; no room for anyother thought yet, or feeling. Perhaps it is true in these days thatthe old-fashioned torture known as remorse is rarely experienced exceptunder the name of detection. But it was a reality with this highlysensitive nature, with this conscience educated to the finest edge offeeling. The world need never know his moment's weakness; Ruth Leighhe could trust as he would have trusted his own sister to guard hishonor--that was all over--never, he was sure, would she even by a lookrecall the past; but he knew how he had fallen, and the awful measure ofhis lapse from loyalty to his Master. And how could he ever again standbefore erring, sinful men and women and speak about that purity whichhe had violated? Could repentance, confession, penitence, wipe away thisstain?

As he went on, his mind in a whirl of humiliation, self-accusation, and contempt, at length he began to be conscious of physical weariness. Except the biscuit and the glass of wine at the hospital, he had takennothing since his light luncheon. When he came to the Harlem Bridgehe was compelled to rest. Leaning against one of the timbers and halfseated, with the softened roar of the city in his ears, the lightsgleaming on the heights, the river flowing dark and silent, he beganto be conscious of his situation. Yes, he was very tired. It seemeddifficult to go on without help of some sort. At length he crossedthe bridge. Lights were gleaming from the saloons along the street. He paused in front of one, irresolute. Food he could not taste, butsomething he must have to carry him on. But no, that would not do; hecould not enter that in his priest's garb. He dragged himself alonguntil he came to a drug-shop, the modern saloon of the respectablyvirtuous. That he entered, and sat down on a stool by the soda-watercounter. The expectant clerk stared at him while waiting the order, hishand tentatively seeking one of the faucets of refreshment. 

"I feel a little feverish, " said the father. "You may give me fivegrains of quinine in whisky. "

"That'll put you all right, " said the boy as he handed him the mixture. "It's all the go now. "

It seemed to revive him, and he went out and walked on towards theheights. Somehow, seeing this boy, coming back to common life, perhapsthe strong and unaccustomed stimulant, gave a new shade to his thoughts. He was safe. Presently he would be at the Retreat. He would rest, andthen gird up his loins and face life again. The mood lasted for sometime. And when the sense of physical weariness came back, that seemed todull the acuteness of his spiritual torment. It was late when he reachedthe house and rang the night-bell. No one of the brothers was up exceptFather Monies, and it was he who came to the door. 

"You! So late! Is anything the matter?"

"I needed to come, " the father said, simply, and he grasped thedoor-post, steadying himself as he came in. 

"You look like a ghost. "

"Yes. I'm tired. I walked. "

"Walked? From Rivington Street?"

"Nearly. I felt like it. "

"It's most imprudent. You dined first?"

"I wasn't hungry. "

"But you must have something at once. " And Father Monies hurried away, heated some bouillon by a spirit-lamp, and brought it, with bread, andset it before his unexpected guest. 

"There, eat that, and get to bed as soon as you can. It was greatnonsense. "

And Father Damon obeyed. Indeed, he was too exhausted to talk. 

XVII

Father Damon slept the sleep of exhaustion. In this for a time the mindjoined in the lethargy of the body. But presently, as the vital currentswere aroused, the mind began to play its fantastic tricks. He was aseminary student, he was ordained, he was taking his vows before thebishop, he was a robust and consecrated priest performing his firstservice, shining, it seemed to him, before the congregation in thepurity of his separation from the world. How strong he felt. And thencame perplexities, difficulties, interests, and conflicting passionsin life that he had not suspected, good that looked like evil, and evilthat had an alloy of virtue, and the way was confused. And then therewas a vision of a sort of sister of charity working with him in the eviland the good, drawing near to him, and yet repelling him with a cold, scientific skepticism that chilled him like blasphemy; but so patientwas she, so unconscious of self, that gradually he lost this feelingof repulsion and saw only the woman, that wonderful creation, tender, pitiful comrade, the other self. And then there was darkness andblindness, and he stood once more before his congregation, speakingwords that sounded hollow, hearing responses that mocked him, stared atby accusing eyes that knew him for a hypocrite. And he rushed awayand left them, hearing their laughter as he went, and so into thestreet--plainly it was Rivington Street--and faces that he knew had asmile and a sneer, and he heard comments as he passed "Hulloa, FatherDamon, come in and have a drink. " "I say, Father Damon, I seen her goinground into Grand Street. "

When Father Monies looked in, just before daylight, Father Damon wasstill sleeping, but tossing restlessly and muttering incoherently; andhe did not arouse him for the early devotions. 

It was very late when he awoke, and opened his eyes to a confused senseof some great calamity. Father Monies was standing by the bedside with acup of coffee. 

"You have had a good sleep. Now take this, and then you may get up. Thebreakfast will wait for you. "

Father Damon started up. "Why didn't you call me? I am late for themission. "

"Oh, Bendes has gone down long ago. You must take it easy; rest today. You'll be all right. You haven't a bit of fever. "

"But, " still declining the coffee, "before I break my fast, I havesomething to say to you. I--"

"Get some strength first. Besides, I have an engagement. I cannot wait. Pull yourself together; I may not be back before evening. "

So it was fated that he should be left still with himself. After hiscoffee he dressed slowly, as if it were not he, but some one else goingthrough this familiar duty, as if it were scarcely worth while to doanything any more. And then, before attempting his breakfast, he wentinto the little oratory, and remained long in the attitude of prayer, trying to realize what he was and what he had done. He prayed forhimself, for help, for humility, and he prayed for her; he had beenused of late to pray for her guidance, now he prayed that she might besustained. 

When he came forth it was in a calmer frame of mind. It was all clearnow. When Father Monies returned he would confess, and take his penance, and resolutely resume his life. He understood life better now. Perhapsthis blow was needed for his spiritual pride. 

It was a mild winter day, bright, and with a touch of summer, such assometimes gets shuffled into our winter calendar. The book that he tookup did not interest him; he was in no mood for the quiet meditationthat it usually suggested to him, and he put it down and strolled out, directing his steps farther up the height, and away from the suburbanstir. As he went on there was something consonant with his feelings inthe bare wintry landscape, and when he passed the ridge and walked alongthe top of the river slope, he saw, as it seemed to him he had not seenit before, that lovely reach of river, the opposite wooded heights, thenoble pass above, the peacefulness and invitation of nature. Had he anew sense to see all this? There was a softness in the distant outline, villas peeped out here and there, carriages were passing in the roadbelow, there was a cheerful life in the stream--there was a harmony inthe aspect of nature and humanity from this height. Was not the worldbeautiful? and human emotion, affection, love, were they alien to theDivine intention?

She loved beauty; she was fond of flowers; often she had spoken to himof her childish delight in her little excursions, rarely made, into thecountry. He could see her now standing just there and feasting her eyeson this noble panorama, and he could see her face all aglow, as shemight turn to him and say, "Isn't it beautiful, Father Damon?" Andshe was down in those reeking streets, climbing about in the foultenement-houses, taking a sick child in her arms, speaking a word ofcheer--a good physician going about doing good!

And it might have been! Why was it that this peace of nature shouldbring up her image, and that they should seem in harmony? Was not thelove of beauty and of goodness the same thing? Did God require in Hisservice the atrophy of the affections? As long as he was in the worldwas it right that he should isolate himself from any of its sympathiesand trials? Why was it not a higher life to enter into the common lot, and suffer, if need be, in the struggle to purify and ennoble all? Heremembered the days he had once passed in the Trappist monastery ofGethsemane. The perfect peace of mind of the monks was purchased atthe expense of the extirpation of every want, all will, every humaninterest. Were these men anything but specimens in a Museum of Failures?And yet, for the time being, it had seemed attractive to him, thissimple vegetable existence, whose only object was preparation for deathby the extinction of all passion and desire. No, these were not soldiersof the Lord, but the fainthearted, who had slunk into the hospital. 

All this afternoon he was drifting in thought, arraigning his past life, excusing it, condemning it, and trying to forecast its future. Was thisa trial of his constancy and faith, or had he made a mistake, enteredupon a slavish career, from which he ought to extricate himself at anycost of the world's opinion? But presently he was aware that in allthese debates with himself her image appeared. He was trying to fit hislife to the thought of her. And when this became clearer in his torturedmind, the woman appeared as a temptation. It was not, then, the loveof beauty, not even the love of humanity, and very far from being theservice of his Master, that he was discussing, but only his desire forone person. It was that, then, that made him, for that fatal instant, forget his vow, and yield to the impulse of human passion. The thoughtof that moment stung him with confusion and shame. There had beenmoments in this afternoon wandering--when it had seemed possible for himto ask for release, and to take up a human, sympathetic life with her, in mutual consecration in the service of the Lord's poor. Yes, and bylove to lead her into a higher conception of the Divine love. But thisbreaking a solemn vow at the dictates of passion was a mortal sin--therewas no other name for it--a sin demanding repentance and expiation. 

As he at last turned homeward, facing the great city and his life there, this became more clear to him. He walked rapidly. The lines of his facebecame set in a hard judgment of himself. He thought no more of escapingfrom himself, but of subduing himself, stamping out the appeals of hislower nature. It was in this mood that he returned. 

Father Monies was awaiting him, and welcomed him with that look ofaffection, of more than brotherly love, which the good man had for theyounger priest. 

"I hope your walk has done you good. "

"Perhaps, " Father Damon replied, without any leniency in his face; "butthat does not matter. I must tell you what I could not last night. Canyou hear me?"

They went together into the oratory. Father Damon did not spare himself. He kept nothing back that could heighten the enormity of his offense. 

And Father Monies did not attempt to lessen the impression upon himselfof the seriousness of the scandal. He was shocked. He was exceedinglygrave, but he was even more pitiful. His experience of life had beenlonger than that of the penitent. He better knew its temptations. Hisown peace had only been won by long crucifixion of the natural desires. 

"I have nothing to say as to your own discipline. That you know. Butthere is one thing. You must face this temptation, and subdue it. "

"You mean that I must go back to my labor in the city?"

"Yes. You can rest here a few days if you feel too weak physically. "

"No; I am well enough. " He hesitated. "I thought perhaps some otherfield, for a time?"

"There is no other field for you. It is not for the moment the questionof where you can do most good. You are to reinstate yourself. You area soldier of the Lord Jesus, and you are to go where the battle is mostdangerous. "

That was the substance of it all. There was much affectionate counseland loving sympathy mingled with all the inflexible orders of obedience, but the sin must be faced and extirpated in presence of the enemy. 

On the morrow Father Damon went back to his solitary rooms, to hischapel, to the round of visitations, to his work with the poor, thesinful, the hopeless. He did not seek her; he tried not to seem to avoidher, or to seem to shun the streets where he was most likely to meether, and the neighborhoods she frequented. Perhaps he did avoid them alittle, and he despised himself for doing it. Almost involuntarily helooked to the bench by the chapel door which she occasionally occupiedat vespers. She was never there, and he condemned himself for thinkingthat she might be; but yet wherever he walked there was always theexpectation that he might encounter her. As the days went by and shedid not appear, his expectation became a kind of torture. Was she ill, perhaps? It could not be that she had deserted her work. 

And then he began to examine himself with a morbid introspection. Hadthe hope that he should see her occasionally influenced him at all inhis obedience to Father Monies? Had he, in fact, a longing to be in thestreets where she had walked, among the scenes that had witnessed herbeautiful devotion? Had his willingness to take up this work again beenbecause it brought him nearer to her in spirit?

No, she could not be ill. He heard her spoken of, here and there, in hiscalls and ministrations to the sick and dying. Evidently she was goingabout her work as usual. Perhaps she was avoiding him. Or perhapsshe did not care, after all, and had lost her respect for him when hediscovered to her his weakness. And he had put himself on a plane sohigh above her. 

There was no conscious wavering in his purpose. But from much dwellingupon the thought, from much effort rather to put it away, his desireonly to see her grew stronger day by day. He had no fear. He longed totest himself. He was sure that he would be impassive, and be all thestronger for the test. He was more devoted than ever in his Work. He wasmore severe with himself, more charitable to others, and he could notdoubt that he was gaining a hold-yes, a real hold-upon the lives of manyabout him. The attendance was better at the chapel; more of the penitentand forlorn came to him for help. And how alone he was! My God, nevereven to see her!

In fact, Ruth Leigh was avoiding him. It was partly from a womanlyreserve--called into expression in this form for the first time--andpartly from a wish to spare him pain. She had been under no illusionfrom the first about the hopelessness of the attachment. Shecomprehended his character so thoroughly that she knew that for him anyfall from his ideal would mean his ruin. He was one of the rare spiritsof faith astray in a skeptical age. For a time she had studied curiouslyhis efforts to adapt himself to his surroundings. One of these wasjoining a Knights of Labor lodge. Another was his approach to theethical-culture movement of some of the leaders in the NeighborhoodGuild. Another was his interest in the philanthropic work of agnosticslike herself. She could see that he, burning with zeal to save the soulsof men, and believing that there was no hope for the world except inthe renunciation of the world, instinctively shrank from these contacts, which, nevertheless, he sought in the spirit of a Jesuit missionary to abarbarous tribe. 

It was possible for such a man to be for a time overmastered by humanpassion; it was possible even that he might reason himself temporarilyinto conduct that this natural passion seemed to justify; yet she neverdoubted that there would follow an awakening from that state of mind asfrom a horrible delusion. It was simply because Ruth Leigh was guided bythe exercise of reason, and had built up her scheme of life upon factsthat she believed she could demonstrate, that she saw so clearly theirrelations, and felt that the faith, which was to her only a vagary ofthe material brain, was to him an integral part of his life. 

Love, to be sure, was as unexpected in her scheme of life as it was inhis; but there was on her part no reason why she should not yield to it. There was every reason in her nature and in her theory why she should, for, bounded as her vision of life was by this existence, love was thehighest conceivable good in life. It had been with a great shout of joythat the consciousness had come to her that she loved and was loved. Though she might never see him again, this supreme experience for man orwoman, this unsealing of the sacred fountain of life, would be for heran enduring sweetness in her lonely and laborious pilgrimage. How stronglove is they best know to whom it is offered and denied. 

And why, so far as she was concerned, should she deny it? An ordinarywoman probably would not. Love is reason enough. Why should artificialconventions defeat it? Why should she sacrifice herself, if he werewilling to brave the opinion of the world for her sake? Was it any newthing for good men to do this? But Ruth Leigh was not an ordinary woman. Perhaps if her intellect had not been so long dominant over her heart itwould have been different. But the habit of being guided by reason wassecond nature. She knew that not only his vow, but the habit of lifeengendered by the vow, was an insuperable barrier. And besides, and thiswas the touchstone of her conception of life and duty, she felt that ifhe were to break his vow, though she might love him, her respect for himwould be impaired. 

It was a singular phenomenon--very much remarked at the time--that thewomen who did not in the least share Father Damon's spiritual faith, and would have called themselves in contradistinction materialists, werethose who admired him most, were in a way his followers, loved to attendhis services, were inspired by his personality, and drawn to him ina loving loyalty. The attraction to these very women was hisunworldliness, his separateness, his devotion to an ideal which in theirreason seemed a delusion. And no women would have been more sensitivethan they to his fall from his spiritual pinnacle. 

It was easy with a little contrivance to avoid meeting him. She did notgo to the chapel or in its neighborhood when he was likely to be goingto or from service. She let others send for him when in her calls hisministration was required, and she was careful not to linger where hewas likely to come. A little change in the time of her rounds was madewithout neglecting her work, for that she would not do, and she trustedthat if accident threw him in her way, circumstances would make itnatural and not embarrassing. And yet his image was never long absentfrom her thoughts; she wondered if he were dejected, if he were ill, ifhe were lonely, and mostly there was for him a great pity in her heart, a pity born, alas! of her own sense of loneliness. 

How much she was repressing her own emotions she knew one evening whenshe returned from her visits and found a letter in his handwriting. Thesight of it was a momentary rapture, and then the expectation of what itmight contain gave her a feeling of faintness. The letter was long. Itscoming needs a word of explanation. 

Father Damon had begun to use the Margaret Fund. He found that itsjudicious use was more perplexing than he had supposed. He neededadvice, the advice of those who had more knowledge than he had of themerits of relief cases. And then there might be many sufferers whom hein his limited field neglected. It occurred to him that Dr. Leigh wouldbe a most helpful co-almoner. No sooner did this idea come to him thanhe was spurred to put it into effect. This common labor would be asort of bond between them, a bond of charity purified from all personalalloy. He went at once to Mr. Henderson's office and told him hisdifficulties, and about Dr. Leigh's work, and the opportunities shewould have. Would it not be possible for Dr. Leigh to draw from the fundon her own checks independent of him? Mr. Henderson thought not. Dr. Leigh was no doubt a good woman, but he didn't know much about womanvisitors and that sort; their sympathies were apt to run away with them, and he should prefer at present to have the fund wholly under FatherDamon's control. Some time, he intimated, he might make more lastingprovisions with trustees. It would be better for Father Damon to giveDr. Leigh money as he saw she needed it. 

The letter recited this at length; it had a check endorsed, and thewriter asked the doctor to be his almoner. He dwelt very much upon therelief this would be to him, and the opportunity it would give her inmany emergencies, and the absolute confidence he had in her discretion, as well as in her quick sympathy with the suffering about them. And alsoit would be a great satisfaction to him to feel that he was associatedwith her in such a work. 

In its length, in its tone of kindliness, of personal confidence, especially in its length, it was evident that the writing of it had beena pleasure, if not a relief, to the sender. Ruth read it and reread it. It was as if Father Damon were there speaking to her. She could hearthe tones of his voice. And the glance of love--that last overmasteringappeal and cry thrilled through her soul. 

But in the letter there was no love; to any third person it would haveread like an ordinary friendly philanthropic request. And her reply, accepting gratefully his trust, was almost formal, only the writer feltthat she was writing out of her heart. 

XVIII

The Roman poet Martial reckons among the elements of a happy life "anincome left, not earned by toil, " and also "a wife discreet, yet blytheand bright. " Felicity in the possession of these, the epigrammatistmight have added, depends upon content in the one and full appreciationof the other. 

Jack Delancy returned from Washington more discontented than when hewent. His speculation hung fire in a most tantalizing way; more thanthat, it had absorbed nearly all the "income not earned by toil, " whichwas at the hazard of operations he could neither control nor comprehend. And besides, this little fortune had come to seem contemptiblyinadequate. In his associations of the past year his spendthrift habitshad increased, and he had been humiliated by his inability to keeppace with the prodigality of those with whom he was most intimate. Miss Tavish was an heiress in her own right, who never seemed to givea thought to the cost of anything she desired; the Hendersons, for anywhim, drew upon a reservoir of unknown capacity; and even Mavick beganto talk as if he owned a flock of geese that laid golden eggs. 

To be sure, it was pleasant coming home into an atmosphere of sincerity, of worship--was it not? It was very flattering to his self-esteem. Themaster had come! The house was in commotion. Edith flew to meet him, hugged him, shook him, criticised his appearance, rallied him for arecreant father. How well she looked-buoyant, full of vivacity, runningover with joy, asking a dozen questions before he could answer one, testifying her delight, her affection, in a hundred ways. And the boy!He was so eager to see his papa. He could converse now--that is, in hisway. And that prodigy, when Jack was dragged into his presence, and alsofell down with Edith and worshiped him in his crib, did actually smile, and appear to know that this man belonged to him, was a part of hisworldly possessions. 

"Do you know, " said Edith, looking at the boy critically, "I think ofmaking Fletcher a present, if you approve. "

"What's that?"

"He'll want some place to go to in the summer. I want to buy that oldplace where he was born and give it to him. Don't you think it would bea good investment?"

"Yes, permanent, " replied Jack, laughing at such a mite of a real-estateowner. 

"I know he would like it. And you don't object?"

"Not in the least. It's next to an ancestral feeling to be the father ofa land-owner. "

They were standing close to the crib, his arm resting lightly acrossher shoulders. He drew her closer to him, and kissed her tenderly. "Thelittle chap has a golden-hearted mother. I don't know why he should nothave a Golden House. "

Her eyes filled with sudden tears. She could not speak. But both armswere clasped round his neck now. She was too happy for words. And thebaby, looking on with large eyes, seemed to find nothing unusual inthe proceeding. He was used to a great deal of this sort of nonsensehimself. 

It was a happy evening. In truth, after the first surprise, Jack waspleased with this contemplated purchase. It was something removed beyondtemptation. Edith's property was secure to her, and it was his honorablepurpose never to draw it into his risks. But he knew her generosity, andhe could not answer for himself if she should offer it, as he was sureshe would do, to save him from ruin. 

There was all the news to tell, the harmless gossip of daily life, whichEdith had a rare faculty of making dramatically entertaining, with herinsight and her feeling for comedy. There had been a musicale at theBlunts'--oh, strictly amateur--and Edith ran to the piano and imitatedthe singers and took off the players, until Jack declared that itbeat the Conventional Club out of sight. And she had been to a parlormind-cure lecture, and to a Theosophic conversation, and to a ReadingClub for the Cultivation of a Feeling for Nature through Poetry. It wasall immensely solemn and earnest. And Jack wondered that the managersdid not get hold of these things and put them on the stage. Nothingcould draw like them. Not burlesques, though, said Edith; not in theleast. If only these circles would perform in public as they did inprivate, how they would draw!

And then Father Damon had been to consult her about his fund. He hadbeen ill, and would not stay, and seemed more severe and ascetic thanever. She was sure something was wrong. For Dr. Leigh, whom she hadsought out several times, was reserved, and did not voluntarily speak ofFather Damon; she had heard that he was throwing himself with more thanhis usual fervor into his work. There was plenty to talk about. Thepurchase of the farm by the sea had better not be delayed; Jack mighthave to go down and see the owner. Yes, he would make it his firstbusiness in the morning. Perhaps it would be best to get someLong-Islander to buy it for them. 

By the time it was ten o'clock, Jack said he thought he would step downto the Union a moment. Edith's countenance fell. There might be letters, he explained, and he had a little matter of business; he wouldn't belate. 

It was very agreeable, home was, and Edith was charming. He coulddistinctly feel that she was charming. But Jack was restless. He feltthe need of talking with somebody about what was on his mind. If onlywith Major Fairfax. He would not consult the Major, but the latter wasin the way of picking up all sorts of gossip, both social and Streetgossip. 

And the Major was willing to unpack his budget. It was not veryreassuring, what he had to tell; in fact, it was somewhat depressing, the general tightness and the panicky uncertainty, until, after a coupleof glasses of Scotch, the financial world began to open a little andseem more hopeful. 

"The Hendersons are going to build, " Jack said at length, after a remarkof the Major's about that famous operator. 

"Build? What for? They've got a palace. "

"Carmen says it's for an object-lesson. To show New York millionaireshow to adorn their city. "

"It's like that little schemer. What does Henderson say?"

"He appears to be willing. I can't get the hang of Henderson. He doesn'tseem to care what his wife does. He's a cynical cuss. The other night, at dinner, in Washington, when the thing was talked over, he said: 'Mydear, I don't know why you shouldn't do that as well as anything. Let'sbuild a house of gold, as Nero did; we are in the Roman age. ' Carmenlooked dubious for a moment, but she said, 'You know, Rodney, that youalways used to say that some time you would show New York what a houseought to be in this climate. ' 'Well, go on, ' and he laughed. 'I supposelightning will not strike that sooner than anything else. '" "Seems tome, " said the Major, reflectively, reaching out his hand for the brownmug, "the way he gives that woman her head, and doesn't care what shedoes, he must have a contempt for her. "

"I wish somebody had that sort of contempt for me, " said Jack, fillingup his glass also. 

"But, I tell you, " he continued, "Mrs. Henderson has caught on to thenew notions. Her idea is the union of all the arts. She has already gotthe refusal of a square 'way up-town, on the rise opposite the Park, andhas been consulting architects about it. It is to be surrounded with thebuilding, with a garden in the interior, a tropical garden, under glassin the winter. The facades are to be gorgeous and monumental. Artistsand sculptors are to decorate it, inside and out. Why shouldn't therebe color on the exterior, gold and painting, like the Fugger palaces inAugsburg, only on a great scale? The artists don't see any reason whythere should not. It will make the city brilliant, that sort of thing, in place of our monotonous stone lanes. And it's using her wealth forthe public benefit-the architects and artists all say that. Gad, I don'tknow but the little woman is beginning to regard herself as a publicbenefactor. "

"She is that or nothing, " echoed the Major, warmly. 

"And do you know, " continued Jack, confidentially, "I think she's gotthe right idea. If I have any luck--of course I sha'n't do that--butif I have any luck, I mean to build a house that's got some life init--color, old boy--something unique and stunning. "

"So you will, " cried the Major, enthusiastically, and, raising hisglass, "Here's to the house that Jack built!"

It was later than he thought it would be when he went home, but Jack wasattended all the way by a vision of a Golden House--all gold wouldn't betoo good, and he will build it, damme, for Edith and the boy. The nextmorning not even the foundations of this structure were visible. Themaster of the house came down to a late breakfast, out of sorts withlife, almost surly. Not even Edith's bright face and fresh toilet andradiant welcome appealed to him. No one would have thought from herappearance that she had waited for him last night hour after hour, andhad at last gone to bed with a heavy heart, and not to sleep-to toss, and listen, and suffer a thousand tortures of suspense. How manytragedies of this sort are there nightly in the metropolis, none theless tragic because they are subjects of jest in the comic papers and onthe stage! What would be the condition of social life if women ceasedto be anxious in this regard, and let loose the reins in an easy-goingindifference? What, in fact, is the condition in those households wherethe wives do not care? One can even perceive a tender sort of loyalty towomen in the ejaculation of that battered old veteran, the Major, "ThankGod, there's nobody sitting up for me!"

Jack was not consciously rude. He even asked about the baby. And hesipped his coffee and glanced over the morning journal, and he referredto the conversation of the night before, and said that he would lookafter the purchase at once. If Edith had put on an aspect of injury, andhad intimated that she had hoped that his first evening at home mighthave been devoted to her and the boy, there might have been a scene, for Jack needed only an occasion to vent his discontent. And for thechronicler of social life a scene is so much easier to deal with, anoutburst of temper and sharp language, of accusation and recrimination, than the well-bred commonplace of an undefined estrangement. 

And yet estrangement is almost too strong a word to use in Jack's case. He would have been the first to resent it. But the truth was that Edith, in the life he was leading, was a rebuke to him; her very purityand unworldliness were out of accord with his associations, with hisventures, with his dissipations in that smart and glittering circlewhere he was more welcome the more he lowered his moral standards. Couldhe help it if after the first hours of his return he felt therestraint of his home, and that the life seemed a little flat? Almostunconsciously to himself, his interests and his inclinations wereelsewhere. 

Edith, with the divination of a woman, felt this. Last night herlove alone seemed strong enough to hold him, to bring him back to thepurposes and the aspirations that only last summer had appeared totransform him. Now he was slipping away again. How pitiful it is, thiscontest of a woman who has only her own love, her own virtue, with theworld and its allurements and seductions, for the possession of herhusband's heart! How powerless she is against these subtle invitations, these unknown and all-encompassing temptations! At times the whole driftof life, of the easy morality of the time, is against her. The currentis so strong that no wonder she is often swept away in it. And whatcould an impartial observer of things as they are say otherwise thanthat John Delancy was leading the common life of his kind and his time, and that Edith was only bringing trouble on herself by being out ofsympathy with it?

He might not be in at luncheon, he said, when he was prepared to godown-town. He seldom was. He called at his broker's. Still suspense. Hewrote to the Long Island farmer. At the Union he found a scented notefrom Carmen. They had all returned from the capital. How rejoiced shewas to be at home! And she was dying to see him; no, not dying, but verymuch living; and it was very important. She should expect him at theusual hour. And could he guess what gown she would wear?

And Jack went. What hold had this woman on him? Undoubtedly she hadfascinations, but he knew--knew well enough by this time--that herfriendship was based wholly on calculation. And yet what a sympatheticcomrade she could be! How freely he could talk with her; there was nosubject she did not adapt herself to. No doubt it was this adaptabilitythat made her such a favorite. She did not demand too much virtue orrequire too much conventionality. The hours he was with her he waswholly at his ease. She made him satisfied with himself, and she didn'tdisturb his conscience. 

"I think, " said Jack--he was holding both her hands with a swingingmotion--when she came forward to greet him, and looking at hercritically--"I think I like you better in New York than in Washington. "

"That is because you see more of me here. "

"Oh, I saw you enough in Washington. "

"But that was my public manner. I have to live up to Mr. Henderson'sreputation. "

"And here you only have to live up to mine?"

"I can live for my friends, " she replied, with an air of candor, givinga very perceptible pressure with her little hands. "Isn't that enough?"

Jack kissed each little hand before he let it drop, and looked as if hebelieved. 

"And how does the house get on?"

"Famously. The lot is bought. Mr. Van Brunt was here all the morning. It's going to be something Oriental, mediaeval, nineteenth-century, gorgeous, and domestic. Van Brunt says he wants it to represent me. "

"How?" inquired Jack; "all the four facades different?"

"With an interior unity--all the styles brought to express an individualtaste, don't you know. A different house from the four sides ofapproach, and inside, home--that's the idea. "

"It appears to me, " said Jack, still bantering, "that it will look likean apartment-house. "

"That is just what it will not--that is, outside unity, and inside amenagerie. This won't look gregarious. It is to have not more thanthree stories, perhaps only two. And then exterior color, decoration, statuary. "

"And gold?"

"Not too much--not to give it a cheap gilded look. Oh, I asked him aboutNero's house. As I remember it, that was mostly caverns. Mr. Van Bruntlaughed, and said they were not going to excavate this house. The Romannotion was barbarous grandeur. But in point of beauty and luxury, thiswould be as much superior to Nero's house as the electric light is to aRoman lamp. "

"Not classic, then?"

"Why, all that's good in classic form, with the modern spirit. You oughtto hear Mr. Van Brunt talk. This country has never yet expressed itselfin domestic inhabitation. "

"It's going to cost! What does Mr. Henderson say?"

"I think he rather likes it. He told Mr. Van Brunt to consult me and goahead with his plans. But he talks queerly. He said he thought he wouldhave money enough at least for the foundation. Do you think, Jack, "asked Carmen, with a sudden change of manner, "that Mr. Henderson isreally the richest man in the United States?"

"Some people say so. Really, I don't know how any one can tell. If helet go his hand from his affairs, I don't know what a panic would do. "

Carmen looked thoughtful. "He said to me once that he wasn't afraid ofthe Street any more. I told him this morning that I didn't want to beginthis if it was going to incommode him. "

"What did he say?"

"He was just going out. He looked at me a moment with that speculativesort of look-no, it isn't cynical, as you say; I know it so well--andthen said: 'Oh, go ahead. I guess it will be all right. If anythinghappens, you can turn it into a boardinghouse. It will be an excellentsanitarium. ' That was all. Anyway, it's something to do. Come, let'sgo and see the place. " And she started up and touched the bell for thecarriage. It was more than something to do. In those days before hermarriage, when her mother was living, and when they wandered aboutEurope, dangerously near to the reputation of adventuresses, the girlhad her dream of chateaux and castles and splendor. Her chance did notcome in Europe, but, as she would have said, Providence is good to thosewho wait. 

The next day Jack went to Long Island, and the farm was bought, and thedeed brought to Edith, who, with much formality, presented it to theboy, and that young gentleman showed his appreciation of it by tryingto eat it. It would have seemed a pretty incident to Jack, if he had notbeen absorbed in more important things. 

But he was very much absorbed, and apparently more idle than ever. Asthe days went on, and the weeks, he was less and less at home, and in aworse humor--that is, at home. Carmen did not find him ill-humored, norwas there any change towards the fellows at the Union, except that itwas noticed that he had his cross days. There was nothing specially todistinguish him from a dozen others, who led the same life of vacuity, of mild dissipation, of enforced pleasure. A wager now and then on an"event"; a fictitious interest in elections; lively partisanship insociety scandals: Not much else. The theatres were stale, and onlyendurable on account of the little suppers afterwards; and really therewasn't much in life except the women who made it agreeable. 

Major Fairfax was not a model; there had not much survived out of hischeckered chances and experiences, except a certain instinct of being agentleman, sir; the close of his life was not exactly a desirable goal;but even the Major shook his head over Jack. 

XIX

The one fact in which men universally agree is that we come into theworld alone and we go out of the world alone; and although we travel incompany, make our pilgrimage to Canterbury or to Vanity Fair in a greatshow of fellowship, and of bearing one another's burdens, we carry ourdeepest troubles alone. When we think of it, it is an awful lonesomenessin this animated and moving crowd. Each one either must or will carryhis own burden, which he commonly cannot, or by pride or shame will not, ask help in carrying. 

Henderson drew more and more apart from confidences, and was alonein building up the colossal structure of his wealth. Father Damon wascarrying his renewed temptation alone, after all his brave confessionand attempt at renunciation. Ruth Leigh plodded along alone, with hersecret which was the joy and the despair of her life--the opening of agate into the paradise which she could never enter. Jack Delancy, theconfiding, open-hearted good fellow, had come to a stage in his journeywhere he also was alone. Not even to Carmen could he confess the extentof his embarrassments, nor even in her company, nor in the distractionof his increasingly dissipated life, could he forget them. Not only hadhis investments been all transferred to his speculations, but his homehad been mortgaged, and he did not dare tell Edith of the lowering cloudthat hung over it; and that his sole dependence was the confidence ofthe Street, which any rumor might shatter, in that one of Henderson'sschemes to which he had committed himself. Edith, the one person whocould have comforted him, was the last person to whom he could have toldthis, for he had the most elementary, and the common conception of whatmarriage is. 

But Edith's lot was the most pitiful of all. She was not only alone, butcompelled to inaction. She saw the fair fabric of her life dissolving, and neither by cries nor tears, by appeals nor protest, by show of angernor by show of suffering, could she hinder the dissolution. Strong inherself and full of courage, day by day and week by week she felt herpowerlessness. Heaven knows what it cost her--what it costs all womenin like circumstances--to be always cheerful, never to show distrust. Ifher love were not enough, if her attractions were not enough, there wasno human help to which she could appeal. 

And what, pray, was there to appeal? There was no visible neglect, nosufficient alienation for gossip to take hold of. If there was a littletalk about Jack's intimacy elsewhere, was there anything uncommonin that? Affairs went on as usual. Was it reasonable to suppose thatsociety should notice that one woman's heart was full of foreboding, heavy with a sense of loss and defeat, and with the ruin of two lives?Could simple misery like this rise to the dignity of tragedy in a worldthat has its share of tragedies, shocking and violent, but is on thewhole going on decorously and prosperously?

The season wore on. It was the latter part of May. Jack had taken Edithand the boy down to the Long Island house, and had returned to the cityand was living at his club, feverishly waiting for some change in hisaffairs. It was a sufficient explanation of his anxiety that moneywas "tight, " that failures were daily announced, and that there wasa general fear of worse times. It was fortunate for Jack and otherspeculators that they could attribute their ill-luck to the generalfinancial condition. There were reasons enough for this condition. Someattributed it to want of confidence, others to the tariff, others tothe action of this or that political party, others to over-production, others to silver, others to the action of English capitalists inwithdrawing their investments. It could all be accounted for withoutreferring to the fact that most of the individual sufferers, like Jack, owed more than they could pay. 

Henderson was much of the time absent--at the West and at the South. Hisevery move was watched, his least sayings were reported as significant, and the Street was hopeful or depressed as he seemed to be cheerful orunusually taciturn. Uncle Jerry was the calmest man in town, and hisobservation that Henderson knew what he was about was reassuring. Hisserenity was well founded. The fact was that he had been pulling in andlowering canvas for months. Or, as he put it, he hadn't much hay out... "It's never a good plan, " said Uncle Jerry, "to put off raking up tillthe shower begins. "

It seems absurd to speak of the East Side in connection with thefinancial situation. But that was where the pinch was felt, and feltfirst. Work was slack, and that meant actual hunger for many families. The monetary solidarity of the town is remarkable. No one flies a kitein Wall Street that somebody in Rivington Street does not in consequencehave to go without his dinner. As Dr. Leigh went her daily rounds sheencountered painful evidence of the financial disturbance. Increasednumber of cases for the doctor followed want of sufficient food and theeating of cheap, unwholesome food. She was often obliged to draw uponthe Margaret Fund, and to invoke the aid of Father Damon when theresponsibility was too great for her. And Father Damon found thathis ministry was daily diverted from the cure of souls to the care ofbodies. Among all those who came to the mission as a place of refugeand rest, and to whom the priest sought to offer the consolations ofreligion and of his personal sympathy, there were few who did not havea tale of suffering to tell that wrung his heart. Some of them wereactually ill, or had at home a sick husband or a sick daughter. And suchcases had to be reported to Dr. Leigh. 

It became necessary, therefore, that these two, who had shunned eachother for months, should meet as often as they had done formerly. Thiswas very hard for both, for it meant only the renewal of heart-break, regret, and despair. And yet it had been almost worse when they did notsee each other. They met; they talked of nothing but their work; theytried to forget themselves in their devotion to humanity. But the humanheart will not be thus disposed of. It was impossible that some show ofpersonal interest, some tenderness, should not appear. They were walkingtowards Fourth Avenue one evening--the priest could not resist theimpulse to accompany her a little way towards her home--after a day ofunusual labor and anxiety. 

"You are working too hard, " he said, gently; "you look fatigued. "

"Oh no, " she replied, looking up cheerfully; "I'm a regular machine. Iget run down, and then I wind up. I get tired, and then I get rested. It isn't the work, " she added, after a moment, "if only I could see anygood of it. It seems so hopeless. "

"From your point of view, my dear doctor, " he answered, but withoutany shade of reproof in his tone. "But no good deed is lost. There isnothing else in the world--nothing for me. " The close of the sentenceseemed wholly accidental, and he stopped speaking as if he could nottrust himself to go on. 

Ruth Leigh looked up quickly. "But, Father Damon, it is you who ought tobe rebuked for overwork. You are undertaking too much. You ought to gooff for a vacation, and go at once. "

The father looked paler and thinner than usual, but his mouth was setin firm lines, and he said: "It cannot be. My duty is here. And"--heturned, and looked her full in the face--"I cannot go. "

No need to explain that simple word. No need to interpret the swiftglance that their eyes exchanged--the eager, the pitiful glance. Theyboth knew. It was not the work. It was not the suffering of the world. It was the pain in their own hearts, and the awful chasm that hisholy vows had put between them. They stood so only an instant. He wastrembling in the extort to master himself, and in a second she felt thehot blood rising to her face. Her woman's wit was the first to break thehopeless situation. She turned, and hailed a passing car. "I cannot walkany farther. Good-night. " And she was gone. 

The priest stood as if a sudden blow had struck him, following theretreating car till it was out of sight, and then turned homeward, dazed, and with feeble steps. What was this that had come to him toso shake his life? What devil was tempting him to break his vows andforsake his faith? Should he fly from the city and from his work, orshould he face what seemed to him, in the light of his consecration, amonstrous temptation, and try to conquer himself? He began to doubt hispower to do this. He had always believed that it was easy to conquernature. And now a little brown woman had taught him that he reckons illwho leaves out the strongest human passion. And yet suppose he shouldbreak his solemn vows and throw away his ideal, and marry Ruth Leigh, would he ever be happy? Here was a mediaeval survival confronted by anineteenth-century skepticism. The situation was plainly insoluble. It was as plainly so to the clear mind of the unselfish little womanwithout faith as it was to him. Perhaps she could not have respected himif he had yielded. Strangely enough, the attraction of the priest forher and for other women who called themselves servants of humanity wasin his consecration, in his attitude of separation from the vanities andpassions of this world. They believed in him, though they did not sharehis faith. To Ruth Leigh this experience of love was as unexpected as itwas to the priest. Perhaps because her life was lived on a less exaltedplane she could bear it with more equanimity. But who knows? The habitof her life was endurance, the sturdy meeting of the duty of every day, with at least only a calm regard of the future. And she would go on. But who can measure the inner change in her life? She must certainlybe changed by this deep experience, and, terrible as it was, perhapsennobled by it. Is there not something supernatural in such a loveitself? It has a wonderful transforming power. It is certain that a newlight, a tender light, was cast upon her world. And who can say thatsome time, in the waiting and working future, this new light might notchange life altogether for this faithful soul?

There was one person upon whom the tragedy of life thus far sat lightly. Even her enemies, if she had any, would not deny that Carmen had anadmirable temperament. If she had been a Moslem, it might be predictedthat she would walk the wire 'El Serat' without a tremor. In these daysshe was busy with the plans of her new house. The project suited herambition and her taste. The structure grew in her mind into barbaricsplendor, but a barbaric splendor refined, which reveled in theexquisite adornment of the Alhambra itself. She was in daily conferenceswith her architect and her artists, she constantly consulted Jack aboutit, and Mavick whenever he was in town, and occasionally sheawakened the interest of Henderson himself, who put no check upon herproceedings, although his mind was concerned with a vaster structure ofhis own. She talked of little else, until in her small world there grewup a vast expectation of magnificence, of which hints appeared from timeto time in the newspapers, mysterious allusions to Roman luxury, to Neroand his Golden House. Henderson read these paragraphs, as he read theparagraphs about his own fortune, with a grim smile. 

"Your house is getting a lot of free advertising, " he said to Carmen oneevening after dinner in the library, throwing the newspaper on the tableas he spoke. 

"They all seem to like the idea, " replied Carmen. "Did you see what oneof the papers said about the use of wealth in adorning the city? That'smy notion. "

"I suppose, " said Henderson, with a smile, "that you put that notioninto the reporter's head. "

"But he thought he suggested it to me. "

"Let's look over the last drawing. " Henderson half rose from his chairto pull the sheet towards him, but instantly sank back, and put his handto his heart. Carmen saw that he was very pale, and ran round to hischair. 

"What is it?"

"Nothing, " he said, taking a long breath. "Just a stitch. Indigestion. It must have been the coffee. "

Carmen ran to the dining-room, and returned with a wineglass of brandy. 

"There, take that. "

He drank it. "Yes, that's better. I'm all right now. " And he sat still, slowly recovering color and control of himself. 

"I'm going to send for the doctor. "

"No, no; nonsense. It has all passed, " and he stretched out his armsand threw them back vigorously. "It was only a moment's faintness. It'squite gone. "

He rose from his chair and took a turn or two about the room. Yes, hewas quite himself, and he patted Carmen's head as he passed and took hisseat again. For a moment or two there was silence. Then he said, stillas if reflecting:

"Isn't it queer? In that moment of faintness all my life flashed throughmy mind. "

"It has been a very successful life, " Carmen said, by way of sayingsomething. 

"Yes, yes; but I wonder if it was worth while?"

"If I were a man, I should enjoy the power you have, the ability to dowhat you will. "

"I suppose I do. That is all there is. I like to conquer obstacles, andI like to command. And money; I never did care for money in itself. But there is a fascination in building up a great fortune. It is likeconducting a political or a military campaign. Now, I haven't muchinterest in anything else. "

As he spoke he looked round upon the crowded shelves of his library, and, getting up, went to the corner where there was a shelf of rareeditions and took down a volume. 

"Do you remember when I got this, Carmen? It was when I was a bachelor. It was rare then. I saw it quoted the other day as worth twice the priceI gave for it. "

He replaced it carefully, and walked along the shelves looking at thefamiliar titles. 

"I used to read then. And you read still; you have time. "

"Not those books, " she replied, with a laugh. "Those belong to the lastgeneration. "

"That is where I belong, " he said, smiling also. "I don't think I haveread a book, not really read it, in ten years. This modern stuffthat pretends to give life is so much less exciting than my own dailyexperience that I cannot get interested in it. Perhaps I could readthese calm old books. "

"It is the newspapers that take your time, " Carmen suggested. 

"Yes, they pass the time when I am thinking. And they are full ofsuggestions. I suppose they are as accurate about other things as aboutme. I used to think I would make this library the choicest in the city. It is good as far as it goes. Perhaps I will take it up some day--ifI live. " And he turned away from the shelves and sat down. Carmen hadnever seen him exactly in this humor and was almost subdued by it. 

He began to talk again, philosophizing about life generally and his ownlife. He seemed to like to recall his career, and finally said: "UncleJerry is successful too, and he never did care for anything else--excepthis family. There is a clerk in my office on five thousand a year who isnever without a book when he comes to the office and when I see him onthe train. He has a wife and a nice little family in Jersey. I ask himsometimes about his reading. He is collecting a library, but not of rarebooks; says he cannot afford that. I think he is successful too, or willbe if he never gets more than five thousand a year, and is content withhis books and his little daily life, coming and going to his family. Ah, well! Everybody must live his life. I suppose there is some explanationof it all. "

"Has anything gone wrong?" asked Carmen, anxiously. 

"No, not at all. Nothing to interfere with the house of gold. " Hespoke quite gently and sincerely. "I don't know what set me into thismoralizing. Let's look at the plans. "

The next day--it was the first of June--in consultation with thearchitect, a project was broached that involved such an addition of costthat Carmen hesitated. She declared that it was a question of ways andmeans, and that she must consult the chairman. Accordingly she calledher carriage and drove down to Henderson's office. 

It was a beautiful day, a little warm in the narrow streets of the lowercity, but when she had ascended by the elevator to the high story thatHenderson occupied in one of the big buildings that rise high enough togive a view of New York Harbor, and looked from the broad windows uponone of the most sparkling and animated scenes in the world, it seemed toher appreciative eyes a day let down out of Paradise. 

The clerks all knew Mrs. Henderson, and they rose and bowed as shetripped along smiling towards her husband's rooms. It did not seem tobe a very busy day, and she found no one waiting in the anteroom, andpassed into the room of his private secretary. 

"Is Mr. Henderson in?"

"Yes, madam. "

"And busy?"

"Probably busy, " replied the secretary, with a smile, "but he is alone. No one has disturbed him for over half an hour. "

"Then I will go in. "

She tapped lightly at the door. There was no response. She turned theknob softly and looked in, and then, glancing back at the secretary, with a finger uplifted, "I think he is asleep, " opened the door, steppedin, and closed it carefully. 

The large room was full of light, and through the half-dozen windowsburst upon her the enchanting scene of the Bay, Henderson sat at histable, which was covered with neatly arranged legal documents, but bowedover it, his head resting upon his arms. 

"So, Rodney, this is the way, old boy, that you wear yourself out inbusiness!"

She spoke laughingly, but he did not stir, and she tiptoed along toawaken him. 

She touched his hand. It moved heavily away from her hand. The left arm, released, dropped at his side. 

She started back, her eyes round with terror, and screamed. 

Instantly the secretary was at her side, and supported her, fainting, toa seat. Other clerks rushed in at the alarm. Henderson was lifted fromhis chair and laid upon a lounge. When the doctor who had been calledarrived, Carmen was in a heap by the low couch, one arm thrown acrossthe body, and her head buried in the cushion close to his. 

The doctor instantly applied restoratives; he sent for an electricbattery; everything was done that science could suggest. But all wasof no avail. There was no sign of life. He must have been dead half anhour, said the doctor. It was evidently heart-failure. 

Before the doctor had pronounced his verdict there was a whisper in theStock Exchange. 

"Henderson is dead!"

"It is not possible, " said one. 

"I saw him only yesterday, " said another. 

"I was in his office this morning, " said a third. "I never saw himlooking in better health. "

The whisper was confirmed. There was no doubt of it. Henderson's privatesecretary had admitted it. Yet it seemed incredible. No provision hadbeen made for it. Speculation had not discounted it. A panic set in. No one knew what to do, for no one knew well the state of Henderson'saffairs. In the first thirty minutes there was a tremendous drop inHenderson stocks. Then some of them rallied, but before the partialrecovery hundreds of men had been ruined. It was a wild hour in theExchange. Certain stocks were hopelessly smashed for the time, and somecombinations were destroyed; among them was one that Uncle Jerry hadkept out of; and Jack Delancy was hopelessly ruined. 

The event was flashed over the wires of the continent; it wasbulletined; it was cried in the streets; it was the all-absorbing talkof the town. Already, before the dead man was removed to his own house, people were beginning to moralize about him and his career. Perhaps thetruest thing was said by the old broker in the board whose reputationfor piety was only equaled by his reputation of always having money toloan at exorbitant rates in a time of distress. He said to a group ofdowncast operators, "In the midst of life we are in death. "

XX

The place that Rodney Henderson occupied in the mind of the public wasshown by the attention the newspapers paid to his death. All the greatnewspapers in all the cities of importance published long and minutebiographies of him, with pictorial illustrations, and day after daycharacteristic anecdotes of his remarkable career. Nor was there, itis believed, a newspaper in the United States, secular, religious, or special, that did not comment upon his life. This was the moreremarkable in that he was not a public man in the common use of theword: he had never interested himself in politics, or in public affairs, municipal or State or national; he had devoted himself entirely tobuilding up his private fortune. If this is the duty of a citizen, hehad discharged it with singleness of purpose; but no other duty of thecitizen had he undertaken, if we except his private charities. Andyet no public man of his day excited more popular interest or was thesubject of more newspaper comment. 

And these comments were nearly all respectful, and most of them kindly. There was some justice in this, for Henderson had been doing whateverybody else was trying to do, usually without his good-fortune. Ifhe was more successful than others in trying to get rich, surely a greatdeal of admiration was mingled with the envy of his career. To be sure, some journals were very severe upon his methods, and some revived theold stories of his unscrupulousness in transactions which had laid himopen to criminal prosecution, from the effects of which he was onlysaved by uncommon adroitness and, some said, by legal technicalities. His career also was denounced by some as wholly vicious in its effectupon the youth of the republic, and as lowering the tone of publicmorals. And yet it was remembered that he had been a frank, open-heartedfriend, kind to his family, and generous in contrast with some of hisclose-fisted contemporaries. There was nothing mean about him; even hisrascalities, if you chose to call his transactions by that name, wereon a grand scale. To be sure, he would let nothing stand between him andthe consummation of his schemes--he was like Napoleon in that--butthose who knew him personally liked him. The building up of his colossalfortune--which the newspapers were saying was the largest that had beenaccumulated in one lifetime in America--had ruined thousands of people, and carried disaster into many peaceful houses, and his sudden death hadbeen a cyclone of destruction for an hour. But it was hardly fair, onejournal pointed out, to hold Henderson responsible for his untimelydeath. 

Even Jack Delancy, when the crushing news was brought him at the club, where he sat talking with Major Fairfax, although he saw his own ruin ina flash, said, "It wouldn't have happened if Henderson had lived. "

"Not so soon, " replied the Major, hesitatingly. 

"Do you mean to say that Henderson and Mavick and Mrs. Henderson wouldhave thrown me over?"

"Why, no, not exactly; but a big machine grinds on regardless, and whenthe crash comes everybody looks out for himself. "

"I think I'll telegraph to Mavick. "

"That wouldn't do any good now. He couldn't have stopped the panic. Itell you what, you'd better go down to your brokers and see just howmatters stand. "

And the two went down to Wall Street. It was after hours, but thebrokers' office was full of excitement. No one knew what was left fromthe storm, nor what to expect. It was some time before Jack could getspeech with one of the young men of the firm. 

"How is it?" he asked. 

"It's been a----of a time. "

"And Henderson?"

"Oh, his estate is all right, so far as we know. He was well out of theMissouris. "

"And the Missouri?"

"Bottom dropped out; temporarily, anyway. "

"And my account?"

"Wiped out, I am sorry to say. Might come up by-and-by, if you've got alot of money to put up, and wait. "

"Then it's all up, " said Jack, turning to the Major. He was very pale. He knew now that his fortune was gone absolutely--house, everything. 

Few words were exchanged as they made their way back to the club. Andhere the Major did a most unusual thing for him. He ordered the drinks. But he did this delicately, apologetically. 

"I don't know as you care for anything, but Wall Street has made methirsty. Eh?"

"I don't mind if I do, " Jack replied. 

And they sat down. 

The conversation was not cheerful; it was mainly ejaculatory. After asecond glass, Jack said, "I don't suppose it would do any good, but Ishould like to see Mavick. " And then, showing the drift of his thoughts, "I wonder what Carmen will do?"

"I should say that will depend upon the will, " replied the Major. 

"She is a good-hearted woman, " and Jack's tone was one of inquiry. 

"She hasn't any, Jack. Not the least bit of a heart. And I believeHenderson found it out. I shall be surprised if his will doesn't showthat he knew it. "

A servant came to the corner where they were sitting and handed Jack atelegram. 

"What's this? Mavick?" He tore it open. "No; Edith. " He read it withsomething like a groan, and passed it over to the Major. 

What he read was this: "Don't be cast down, Jack. The boy and I arewell. Come. Edith. "

"That is splendid; that is just like her, " cried the Major. "I'd be outof this by the first train. "

"It is no use, " replied Jack gloomily. "I couldn't 'face Edith now. Icouldn't do it. I wonder how she knew?"

He called back the servant, and penned as reassuring a message as hecould, but said that it was impossible to leave town. She must notworry about him. This despatched, they fell again into a talk about thesituation. After another glass Jack was firm in his resolution to stayand watch things. It seemed not impossible that something might turn up. 

On the third day after, both the Major and Jack attended the funeral atthe house. Carmen was not visible. The interment was private. The dayfollowing, Jack left his card of condolence at the door; but one daypassed, and another and another, and no word of acknowledgment camefrom the stricken widow. Jack said to himself that it was not natural toexpect it. But he did expect it, and without reason, for he should haveknown that Carmen was not only overwhelmed with the sudden shock of hercalamity, but that she would necessarily be busy with affairs that evengrief would not permit her to neglect. Jack heard that Mavick had beenin the city, and that he went to the Henderson house, but he had notcalled at the club, and the visit must have been a flying one. 

A week passed, and Jack received no message from Carmen. His noteoffering his services if she needed the services of any one had not beenanswered. 

Carmen was indeed occupied. It could not be otherwise. The state ofHenderson's affairs could not wait upon conventionalities. The day afterthe funeral Mr. Henderson's private secretary came to the house, andhad a long interview with Mrs. Henderson. He explained to her that theaffairs should be immediately investigated, the will proved, and theestate put into the hands of the executors. It would be best for Mrs. Henderson herself to bring his keys down to the office, and to see theopening of his desk and boxes. Meantime it would be well for her to seeif there were any papers of importance in the house; probably everythingwas in the office safe. 

The next morning Carmen nerved herself to the task. With his keysin hand she went alone into the library and opened his writing-desk. Everything was in perfect order; letters and papers filed andlabeled, and neatly arranged in drawers and pigeonholes. There lay hisletter-book as he had last used it, and there lay fresh memoranda of hisprojects and engagements. She found in one of the drawers some lettersof her own, mostly notes, and most of them written before her marriage. In another drawer were some bundles of letters, a little yellow withage, endorsed with the name of "Margaret. " She shut the drawer withoutlooking at them. She continued to draw papers from the pigeon-holes andglance at them. Most of them related to closed transactions. At lengthshe drew out one that instantly fixed her attention. It was endorsed, "Last Will and Testament. " She looked first at the date at the end--itwas quite recent--and then leaned back in her chair and set herselfdeliberately to read it. 

The document was long and full of repetitions and technicalities, butthe purport of it was plain. As she read on she was at first astonished, then she was excited to trembling, and felt herself pale and faint;but when she had finished and fully comprehended it her pretty face wasdistorted with rage. The great bulk of the property was not for her. Shesprang up and paced the floor. She came back and took up the documentwith a motion of tearing it in pieces. No--it would be better toburn it. Of course there must be another will deposited in the safe. Henderson had told her so. It was drawn up shortly after their marriage. It could not be worse for her than this. She lighted the gas-jet by thefireplace, and held the paper in her hand. Then a thought struck her. What if somebody knew of this will, and its execution could be proved!She looked again at the end. It was signed and sealed. There were thenames of two witnesses. One was the name of their late butler, who hadbeen long in Henderson's service, and who had died less than a monthago. The other name was Thomas Mavick. Evidently the will had beensigned recently, on some occasion when Mavick was in the house. AndHenderson's lawyer probably knew it also!

She folded the document carefully, put it back in the pigeon-hole, locked the desk, and rang the bell for her carriage. She was ready whenthe carriage came to the door, and told the coachman to drive to theoffice of Mr. Sage in Nassau Street. Mr. Sage had been for many yearsHenderson's most confidential lawyer. 

He received Carmen in his private office, with the subdued respect dueto her grief and the sudden tragedy that had overtaken her. He was a manwell along in years, a small man, neat in his dress, a little formal andprecise in his manner, with a smoothly shaven face and gray eyes, keen, but not unkindly in expression. He had the reputation, which hedeserved, for great ability and integrity. After the first salutationsand words of condolence were spoken, Carmen said, "I have come toconsult you, Mr. Sage, about my husband's affairs. "

"I am quite at your service, madam. "

"I wanted to see you before I went to the office with the keys of hissafe. "

"Perhaps, " said Mr. Sage, "I could spare you that trouble. "

"Oh no; his secretary thought I had better come myself, if I could. "

"Very well, " said Mr. Sage. 

Carmen hesitated a moment, and then said, in an inquiring tone, "Isuppose the first thing is the will. He told me long ago that his willwas made. I suppose it is in the safe. Didn't you draw it, Mr. Sage?"

"Oh yes, " the lawyer replied, leaning back in his chair, "I drew that; along time ago; shortly after your marriage. And about a year ago I drewanother one. Did he ever speak of that?"

"No, " Carmen replied, with a steady voice, but trembling inwardly at hernarrow escape. 

"I wonder, " continued Mr. Sage, "if it was ever executed? He took it, and said he would think it over. "

"Executed?" queried Carmen, looking up. "How do you mean, before amagistrate?"

"Oh, no; signed and witnessed. It is very simple. The law requires twowitnesses; the testator and the witnesses must declare that they signin the presence of each other. The witnesses prove the will, or, if theyare dead, their signatures can be proved. I was one of the witnesses ofthe first will, and a clerk of Henderson's, who is still in his office, was the other. "

"The last one is probably in the safe if it was executed. "

"Probably, " the lawyer assented. "If not, you'd better look for it inthe house. "

"Of course. Whether it exists or not, I want to carry out my husband'sintention, " Carmen said, sweetly. "Have you any memorandum of it?"

"I think so, somewhere, but the leading provisions are in my mind. Itwould astonish the public. "

"Why?" asked Carmen. 

"Well, the property was greater than any of us supposed, and--perhaps Iought not to speak to you of this now, Mrs. Henderson. "

"I think I have a right to know what my husband's last wishes were, "Carmen answered, firmly. 

"Well, he had a great scheme. The greater part of his property afterthe large legacies--" The lawyer saw that Carmen looked pale, and hehesitated a moment, and then said, in a cheery manner: "Oh, Iassure you, madam, that this will gave you a great fortune; all theestablishment, and a very great fortune. But the residue was in trustfor the building and endowment of an Industrial School on the East Side, with a great library and a reading-room, all to be free. It was a greatscheme, and carefully worked out. "

"I am so glad to know this, " said Carmen. "Was there anything else?"

"Only some legacies. " And Mr. Sage went on, trying to recall detailsthat his attentive listener already knew. There were legacies to some ofhis relatives in New Hampshire, and there was a fund, quite a handsomefund, for the poor of the city, called the "Margaret Fund. " And therewas something also for a relative of the late Mrs. Henderson. 

Carmen again expressed her desire to carry out her husband's wishes ineverything, and Mr. Sage was much impressed by her sweet manner. Whenshe had found out all that he knew or remembered of the new will, andarose to go, Mr. Sage said he would accompany her to the office. AndCarmen gratefully accepted his escort, saying that she had wished to askhim to go with her, but that she feared to take up so much of his time. 

At the office the first will was found, but no other. The lawyer glancedthrough it, and then handed it to Mrs. Henderson, with the remark, "Itleaves you, madam, pretty much everything of which he died possessed. "Carmen put it aside. She did not care to read it now. She would go homeand search for the other one. 

"If no other is found, " said Mr. Sage, in bidding her good-morning, "this one ought to be proved tomorrow. I may tell you that you and Mr. Hollowell are named as executors. "

On her way home Carmen stopped at a telegraph station, and sent amessage to Mavick, in Washington, to take an afternoon train and come toNew York. 

When Carmen reached home she was in a serious but perfectly clear frameof mind. The revelation in the last will of Henderson's change of mindtowards her was mortifying to a certain extent. It was true that hisfortune was much increased since the first will was made, and that itjustified his benevolent scheme. But he might have consulted her aboutit. If she had argued the matter with her conscience, she would havetold her conscience that she would carry out this new plan in her ownway and time. She was master of the situation, and saw before her afuture of almost unlimited opportunity and splendor, except for onelittle obstacle. That obstacle was Mr. Mavick. She believed that sheunderstood him thoroughly, but she could not take the next step untilshe had seen him. It was true that no one except herself positively knewthat a second will now existed, but she did not know how much he mightchoose to remember. 

She was very impatient to see Mr. Mavick. She wandered about the house, restless and feverish. Presently it occurred to her that it would bebest to take the will wholly into her own keeping. She unlocked thedesk, took it out with a trembling hand, but did not open it again. Itwas not necessary. A first reading had burned every item of it into herbrain. It seemed to be a sort of living thing. She despised herself forbeing so agitated, and for the furtive feeling that overcame her as sheglanced about to be sure that she was alone, and then she ran up stairsto her room and locked the document in her own writing-desk. 

What was that? Oh, it was only the door-bell. But who could it be?Some one from the office, from her lawyer? She could see nobody. Intwo minutes there was a rap at her door. It was only the servant with adespatch. She took it and opened it without haste. 

"Very well, Dobson; no answer. I expect Mr. Mavick on business at ten. Iam at home to no one else. "

At ten o'clock Mr. Mavick came, and was shown into the library, whereCarmen awaited him. 

"It was very good of you to come, " she said, as she advanced to meethim and gave him her hand in the natural subdued manner that thecircumstances called for. 

"I took the first train after I received your despatch. "

"I am sorry to inconvenience you so, " she said, after they were seated, "but you know so much of Mr. Henderson's affairs that your advice willbe needed. His will is to be proved tomorrow. "

"Yes?" said Mavick. 

"I went to see--Mr. Sage today, and he went with me to the office. Thewill was in the safe. I did not read it, but Mr. Sage said that it lefteverything to me except a few legacies. "

"Yes?"

"He said it should be proved tomorrow, unless a later will turned up. "

"Was there a later will?"

"That is what he did not know. He had drawn a new will about a yearago, but he doubted if it had ever been executed. Mr. Henderson wasconsidering it. He thought he had a memorandum of it somewhere, but heremembered the principal features of it. "

"Was it a great change from the first?" Mavick asked. 

"Yes, considerable. In fact, the greater part of his property, as faras I could make out, was to go to endow a vast training-school, library, and reading-room on the East Side. Of course that would be a finething. "

"Of course, " said Mavick. "And no such will has been found?"

"I've looked everywhere, " replied Carmen, simply; "all over the house. It should be in that desk if anywhere. We can look again, but I feelpretty sure there is no such document there. "

She took in her hand the bunch of keys that lay on the table, as if shewere about to rise and unlock the desk. Then she hesitated, and lookedMavick full in the face. 

"Do you think, Mr. Mavick, that will was ever executed?"

For a moment they looked steadily at each other, and then he said, deliberately, their eyes squarely meeting, "I do not think it was. "And in a moment he added, "He never said anything to me about such adisposition of his property. "

Two things were evident to Carmen from this reply. He saw her interestsas she saw them, and it was pretty certain that the contents of thewill were not made known to him when he witnessed it. She experienced animmense feeling of relief as she arose and unlocked the desk. They satdown before it together, and went over its contents. Mavick made a noteof the fresh business memoranda that might be of service next day, sinceMrs. Henderson had requested him to attend the proving of the will, andto continue for the present the business relations with her that he hadheld with Mr. Henderson. 

It was late when he left the house, but he took with him a note to Mr. Sage to drop into the box for morning delivery. The note said that shehad searched the house, that no second will existed there, and that shehad telegraphed to Mr. Mavick, who had much knowledge of Mr. Henderson'saffairs, to meet him in the morning. And she read the note to Mavickbefore she sealed it. 

Before the note could have been dropped into the box, Carmen was in herroom, and the note was literally true. No second will existed. 

The will was proved, and on the second day its contents were in all thenewspapers. But with it went a very exciting story. This was the rumorof another will, and of Henderson's vast scheme of benevolence. Mr. Sagehad been interviewed and Carmen had been interviewed. The memorandum(which was only rough and not wholly legible notes) had been foundand sent to Carmen. There was no concealment about it. She gave thereporters all the details, and to every one she said that it was herintention to carry out her husband's wishes, so far as they could beascertained from this memorandum, when his affairs had been settled. Thethirst of the reporters for information amused even Carmen, who had seenmuch of this industrious tribe. One of them, to whom she had partiallyexplained the situation, ended by asking her, "Are you going to contestthe will?"

"Contest the will?" cried Carmen. "There is nothing to contest. "

"I didn't know, " said the young man, whose usual occupation wasreporting sports, and who had a dim idea that every big will must becontested. 

Necessarily the affair made a great deal of talk. The newspapersdiscussed it for days, and turned over the scheme in every light, themost saying that it was a noble gift to the city that had been intended, while only one or two doubted if charity institutions of this sortreally helped the poor. Regret, of course, was expressed that the secondwill had never been executed, but with this regret was the confidencethat the widow would carry out, eventually, Henderson's plans. 

This revelation modified the opinion in regard to Henderson. He cameto be regarded as a public benefactor, and his faithful wife shared thecredit of his noble intention. 

XXI

Waiting for something to turn up, Jack found a weary business. Hehad written to Mavick after the newspaper report that that governmentofficer had been in the city on Henderson's affairs, and had received avery civil and unsatisfactory reply. In the note Mavick had asked him tocome to Washington and spend a little time, if he had nothing betteron hand, as his guest. Perhaps no offense was intended, but the replyenraged Jack. There was in the tone of the letter and in the manner ofthe invitation a note of patronage that was unendurable. 

"Confound the fellow's impudence!" said Jack to himself; and he did notanswer the invitation. 

Personally his situation was desperate enough, but he was not inclinedto face it. In a sort of stupor he let the law take its course. Therewas nothing left of his fortune, and his creditors were in possession ofhis house and all it contained. "Do not try to keep anything back thatlegally belongs to them, " Edith had written when he informed her of thislast humiliation. Of course decency was observed. Jack's and Edith'swardrobes, and some pieces of ancestral furniture that he pointed outas belonging to his wife, were removed before the auction flag washung out. When this was over he still temporized. Edith's affectionateentreaties to him to leave the dreadful city and come home were evadedon one plea or another. He had wild schemes of going off West orSouth--of disappearing. Perhaps he would have luck somewhere. Hecouldn't ask aid or seek occupation of his friends, but some placewhere he was not known he felt that he might do something to regain hisposition, get some situation, or make some money--lots of men had doneit in a new country and reinstate himself in Edith's opinion. 

But he did not go, and days and weeks went by in irresolution. No wordcame from Carmen, and this humiliated Jack more than anything else--notthe loss of her friendship, but the remembrance that he had ever dancedattendance on her and trusted her. He was getting a good many wholesomelessons in these days. 

One afternoon he called upon Miss Tavish. There was no change in her. She received him with her usual gay cordiality, and with no affectation. 

"I didn't know what had become of you, " she said. 

"I've been busy, " he replied, with a faint attempt at a smile. 

"Yes, I know. It's been an awful time, what with Henderson's death andeverything else. Almost everybody has been hit. But, " and she looked athim cheerfully, "they will come up again; up and down; it is always so. Why, even I got a little twist in that panic. " The girl was doing whatshe could in her way to cheer him up. 

"I think of going off somewhere to seek my fortune, " said Jack, with arueful smile. 

"Oh, I hope not; your friends wouldn't like that. There is no placelike New York, I'm sure. " And there was a real note of friendlinessand encouragement in her tone. "Only, " and she gave him another brightsmile, "I think of running away from it myself, for a time. It's asecret yet. Carmen wants me to go abroad with her. "

"I have not seen Mrs. Henderson since her husband's death. How is she?"

"Oh, she bears up wonderfully. But then she has so much to do, poorthing. And then the letters she gets, the begging letters. You've noidea. I don't wonder she wants to go abroad. Don't stay away so longagain, " she said as Jack rose to go. "And, oh, can't you come in todinner tomorrow night--just Carmen--I think I can persuade her--andnobody else?"

"I'm sorry that I have an engagement, " Jack answered. 

"Well, some other time. Only soon. "

This call did Jack temporarily a world of good. It helped hisself-esteem. But it was only temporary. The black fact stared him in theface every morning that he was ruined. And it came over him graduallythat he was a useless member of society. He never had done anything; hewas not trained or fitted to do anything. And this was impressed uponhim in the occasional attempts he made to get employment. He avoided asmuch as possible contact with those who knew him. Shame prevented himfrom applying to them for occupation, and besides he very well knewthat to those who knew him his idle career was no recommendation. Yethe formed a habit of going down-town every day and looking for work. Hisappearance commanded civility, but everywhere he met with refusal, andhe began to feel like a well-bred tramp. There had been in his mindbefore no excuse for tramps. He could see now how they were made. 

It was not that he lacked capacity. He knew a great deal, in anamateurish way, about pictures, books, bric-a-brac, and about society. Why shouldn't he write? He visited the Loan Exhibition, and wrote acareful criticism on the pictures and sent it to a well-known journal. It was returned with thanks: the journal had its own art critic. Heprepared other articles about curious books, and one about porcelain andpottery. They were all returned, except one which gave the history of arare bit of majolica, which had been picked up forty cents and then soldfor five hundred dollars, and was now owned by a collector who hadpaid four thousand dollars for it. For that the newspaper sent him fivedollars. That was not encouraging, and his next effort for the samejournal was returned. Either he hadn't the newspaper knack, or thecompetition was too great. 

He had ceased going to his club. It was too painful to meet hisacquaintances in his altered circumstances, and it was too expensive. Iteven annoyed him to meet Major Fairfax. That philosopher had not changedtowards him any more than Miss Tavish had, but it was a melancholybusiness to talk of his affairs, and to listen to the repeated adviceto go down to the country to Edith, and wait for some good opening. Thatwas just what he could not do. His whole frivolous life he began now tosee as she must have seen it. And it seemed to him that he could onlyretain a remnant of his self-respect by doing something that wouldreinstate him in her opinion. 

"Very well, " said the Major, at the close of the last of their talks atthe club; "what are you going to do?"

"I'm going into some business, " said Jack, stiffly. 

"Have you spoken to any of your friends?"

"No. It's no use, " he said, bitterly; "they are all like me, or theyknow me. "

"And hasn't your wife some relations who are in business?"

"The last people I should apply to. No. I'm going to look around. Major, do you happen to know a cheap lodging-house that is respectable?"

"I don't know any that is not respectable, " the Major replied, in ahuffy manner. 

"I beg your pardon, " said Jack. "I want to reduce expenses. "

The Major did know of a place in the neighborhood where he lived. Hegave Jack the address, and thereafter the club and his usual resortsknew him no more. 

As the days went by and nothing happened to break the monotony of hiswaiting and his fruitless search, he became despondent. Day after dayhe tramped about the city, among the business portions, and often onthe East Side, to see misery worse than his own. He had saved out of thewreck his ample wardrobe, his watch, and some jewelry, and upon these heraised money for his cheap lodgings and his cheap food. He grew carelessof his personal appearance. Every morning he rose and went about thecity, always with less hope, and every night he returned to his lodging, but not always sober. 

One day he read the announcement that Mrs. Rodney Henderson and MissTavish had sailed for Europe. That ended that chapter. What exactlyhe had expected he could not say. Help from Carmen? Certainly not. Butthere had never been a sign from her, nor any word from Mavick lately. There evidently was nothing. He had been thrown over. Carmen evidentlyhad no more use for him. She had other plans. The thought that he hadbeen used and duped was almost more bitter than his loss. 

In after-days Jack looked back upon this time with a feeling akin tothankfulness for Carmen's utter heartlessness in regard to his affairs. He trembled to think what might have happened to him if she had sent forhim and consulted him and drawn him again into the fatal embrace of herschemes and her fascinations. Now he was simply enraged when he thoughtof her, and irritated with himself. 

These were dark days, days to which he looked back with a shudder. Hewrote to Edith frequently--a brief note. He was straightening out hisaffairs; he was busy. But he did not give her his address, and he onlygot her letters when the Major forwarded them from the club, which wasirregularly. A stranger, who met him at his lodgings or elsewhere, wouldhave said that he was an idle and rather dissipated-looking man. Hewas idle, except in his feeble efforts to get work; he was worn anddiscouraged, but he was not doing anything very bad. In his way oflooking at it, he was carrying out his notion of honor. He was onlybreaking a woman's heart. 

He was conscious of little except his own misfortunes and misery. He didnot yet apprehend his own selfishness nor her nobility. He did not yetcomprehend the unselfishness of a good woman's love. 

On the East Side one day, as he was sauntering along Grand Street, heencountered Dr. Leigh, his wife's friend, whom he had seen once at hishouse. She did not at first recognize him until he stopped and spoke hisname. 

"Oh, " she said, with surprise at seeing him, and at his appearance, "Ididn't expect to see you here. I thought everybody had gone from thecity. Perhaps you are going to the Neighborhood Guild?"

"No, " and Jack forced a little laugh, "I'm not so good as that. I'm keptin town on business. I strolled over here to see how the other side oflife looks. "

"It doesn't improve. It is one of the worst summers I ever saw. SinceMr. Henderson's death--"

"What difference did Henderson's death make over here?"

"Why, he had deposited a little fund for Father Damon to draw on, andthe day after his death the bank returned a small check with thenotice that there was no deposit to draw on. It had been such a helpin extraordinary cases. Perhaps you saw some allusion to it in thenewspapers?"

"Wasn't it the Margaret Fund?"

"Yes. Father Damon dropped a note to Mrs. Henderson explaining about it. No reply came. "

"As he might have expected. " Dr. Leigh looked up quickly as if for anexplanation, but Jack ignored the query, and went on. "And Father Damon, is he as active as ever?"

"He has gone. "

"What, left the city, quit his work? And the mission?"

"I don't suppose he will ever quit his work while he lives, but he ismuch broken down. The mission chapel is not closed, but a poor womantold me that it seemed so. "

"And he will not return? Mrs. Delancy will be so sorry. "

"I think not. He is in retreat now, and I heard that he might go toBaltimore. I thought of your wife. She was so interested in his work. Isshe well this summer?"

"Yes, thank you, " said Jack, and they parted. But as she went on herway his altered appearance struck her anew, and she wondered what hadhappened. 

This meeting with Mr. Delancy recalled most forcibly Edith, her interestin the East Side work, her sympathy with Father Damon and the mission, the first flush of those days of enthusiasm. When Father Damon beganhis work the ladies used to come in their carriages to the little chapelwith flowers and money and hearts full of sympathy with the devotedpriest. Alone of all these Edith had been faithful in her visits, always, when she was in town. And now the whole glittering show ofcharity had vanished for the time, and Father Damon--The little doctorstopped, consulted a memorandum in her hand-bag, looked up at thetenement-house she was passing, and then began to climb its ricketystairway. 

Yes, Father Damon had gone, and Ruth Leigh simply went on with her workas before. Perhaps in all the city that summer there was no other personwhose daily life was so little changed as hers. Others were drivenaway by the heat, by temporary weariness, by the need of a vacationand change of scene. Some charities and some clubs and schools weretemporarily suspended; other charities, befitting the name, were moreactive, the very young children were most looked after, and the GoodSamaritans of the Fresh-Air Funds went about everywhere full of this newenthusiasm of humanity. But the occupation of Ruth Leigh remainedalways the same, in a faithful pertinacity that nothing could whollydiscourage, in a routine that no projects could kindle into muchenthusiasm. Day after day she went about among the sick and the poor, relieving and counseling individuals, and tiring herself out in thatpersonal service, and more and more conscious, when she had time, atnight, for instance, to think, of the monstrous injustice somewhere, andat times in a mood of fierce revolt against the social order that madeall this misery possible and hopeless. 

Yet a great change had come into her life--the greatest that can come toany man or woman in the natural order. She loved and she was loved. Anideal light had been cast upon her commonplace existence, the depths ofher own nature had been revealed to herself. In this illuminating lightshe walked about in the misery of this world. This love must be denied, this longing of the heart for companionship could never be gratified, yet after all it was a sweet self-sacrifice, and the love itself broughtits own consolation. She had not to think of herself as weak, andneither was her lover's image dimmed to her by any surrender of his ownprinciple or his own ideal. She saw him, as she had first seen him, aperson consecrated and set apart, however much she might disagree withhis supernatural vagaries--set apart to the service of humanity. She hadbitter thoughts sometimes of the world, and bitter thoughts of the falsesystem that controlled his conduct, but never of him. 

It was unavoidable that she should recall her last interview with him, and that the image of his noble, spiritual face should be ever distinctin her mind. And there was even a certain comfort in this recollection. 

Father Damon had indeed striven, under the counsel of his owncourage and of Brother Monies, to conquer himself on the field of histemptation. But with his frail physique it was asking too much. This atlast was so evident that the good brother advised him, and the advicewas in the nature of a command in his order, to retire for a while, andthen take up his work in a fresh field. 

When this was determined on, his desire was nearly irresistible to seeRuth Leigh; he thought it would be cowardly to disappear and not saygood-by. Indeed, it was necessary to see her and explain the stoppageof help from the Margaret Fund. The check that he had drawn, which wasreturned, had been for one of Dr. Leigh's cases. With his failureto elicit any response from Mrs. Henderson, the hope, raised by thenewspaper comments on the unexecuted will, that the fund would berenewed was dissipated. 

In the interview which Father Damon sought with Dr. Leigh at the Women'sHospital all this was explained, and ways and means were discussed forhelp elsewhere. 

"I wanted to talk this over with you, " said Father Damon, "because I amgoing away to take a rest. "

"You need it, Father Damon, " was Ruth's answer, in a professionalmanner. 

"And--and, " he continued, with some hesitation, "probably I shall notreturn to this mission. "

"Perhaps that will be best, " she said, simply, but looking up at himnow, with a face full of tender sympathy. 

"I am sure of it, " he replied, turning away from her gaze. "The factis, doctor, I am a little hipped--overworked, and all that. I shall pullmyself together with a little rest. But I wanted to tell you how much Iappreciate your work, and--and what a comfort you have been to me in mypoor labors. I used to hope that some time you would see this world inrelation to the other, and--"

"Yes, I know, " she interrupted, hastily, "I cannot think as youdo, but--" And she could not go on for a great lump in her throat. Involuntarily she rose from her seat. The interview was too trying. Father Damon rose also. There was a moment's painful silence as theylooked in each other's faces. Neither could trust the voice for speech. He took her hand and pressed it, and said "God bless you!" and went out, closing the door softly. 

A moment after he opened it again and stood on the threshold. She wasin her chair, her head bowed upon her arms on the table. As he spoke shelooked up, and she never forgot the expression of his face. 

"I want to say, Ruth"--he had never before called her by her first name, and his accent thrilled her--"that I shall pray for you as I pray formyself, and though I may never see you again in this world, the greatesthappiness that can come to me in this life will be to hear that you havelearned to say Our Father which art in heaven. "

As she looked he was gone, and his last words remained a refrain in hermind that evening and afterwards--"Our Father which art in heaven"--arefrain recurring again and again in all her life, inseparable from thememory of the man she loved. 

XXII

Along the Long Island coast lay the haze of early autumn. It was thetime of lassitude. In the season of ripening and decay Nature seemed tohave lost her spring, and lay in a sort of delicious languor. Sea andshore were in a kind of truce, and the ocean south wind brought coolrefreshment but no incentive. 

From the sea the old brown farmhouse seemed a snug haven of refuge; fromthe inland road it appeared, with its spreading, sloping roofs, likean ancient sea-craft come ashore, which had been covered in and thenembowered by kindly Nature with foliage. In those days its golden-browncolor was in harmony with the ripening orchards and gardens. 

Surely, if anywhere in the world, peace was here. But to its owner thisvery peace and quietness was becoming intolerable. The waiting days wereso long, the sleepless nights of uncertainty were so weary. When herwork was done, and Edith sat with a book or some sewing under the arborwhere the grape clusters hung, growing dark and transparent, and theboy played about near her, she had a view of the blue sea, and abouther were the twitter of birds and the hum of the cicada. The very beautymade her heart ache. Seaward there was nothing--nothing but the leapinglittle waves and the sky. From the land side help might come at anyhour, and at every roll of wheels along the road her heart beat fasterand hope sprang up anew. But day after day nothing came. 

Perhaps there is no greater bravery than this sort of waiting, doingthe daily duty and waiting. Endurance is woman's bravery, and Edith wasenduring, with an almost broken but still with a courageous heart. Itwas all so strange. Was it simply shame that kept him away, or had heceased to love her? If the latter, there was no help for her. She hadbegged him to come, she had offered to leave the boy with her cousincompanion and go to him. Perhaps it was pride only. In one of his shortletters he had said, "Thank God, your little fortune is untouched. " Ifit were pride only, how could she overcome it? Of this she thought nightand day. She thought, and she was restless, feverish, and growing thinin her abiding anxiety. 

It was true that her own fortune was safe and in her control. But withthe usual instinct of women who know they have an income not likelyto be ever increased, she began to be economical. She thought not ofherself; but of the boy. It was the boy's fortune now. She began to looksharply after expenses; she reduced her household; she took upon herselfthe care of the boy, and other household duties. This was all well forher, for it occupied her time, and to some extent diverted her thoughts. 

So the summer passed--a summer of anxiety, longing, and dull pain forEdith. The time came when the uncertainty of it could no longer beendured. If Jack had deserted her, even if he should die, she couldorder her life and try to adjust her heavy burden. But this uncertaintywas quite beyond her power to sustain. 

She made up her mind that she would go to the city and seek him. It waswhat he had written that she must not on any account do, but nothingthat could happen to her there could be so bad as this suspense. Perhaps she could bring him back. If he refused, and was angry at herinterference, that even would be something definite. And then she hadcarefully thought out another plan. It might fail, but some action hadnow become for her a necessity. 

Early one morning--it was in September-she prepared for a journey to thecity. This little trip, which thousands of people made daily, took onfor her the air of an adventure. She had been immured so long that itseemed a great undertaking. And when she bade good-by to the boy for theday she hugged him and kissed him again and again, as if it were tobe an eternal farewell. To her cousin were given the most explicitdirections for his care, and after she had started for the train shereturned to give further injunctions. So she told herself, but it wasreally for one more look at the boy. 

But on the whole there was a certain exhilaration in the preparation andthe going, and her spirits rose as they had not done in months before. Arrived in the city, she drove at once to the club Jack most frequented. "He is not in, " the porter said; "indeed, Mr. Delancy has not been herelately. "

"Is Major Fairfax in?" Edith asked. 

Major Fairfax was in, and he came out immediately to her carriage. Fromhim she learned Jack's address, and drove to his lodging-house. TheMajor was more than civil; he was disposed to be sympathetic, but he hadthe tact to see that Mrs. Delancy did not wish to be questioned, nor totalk. 

"Is Mr. Delancy at home?" she asked the small boy who ran the elevator. 

"No'me. "

"And he did not say where he was going?"

"No'me. "

"Is he not sometimes at home in the daytime?"

"No'me. "

"And what time does he usually come home in the evening?"

"Don't know. After I've gone, I guess. "

Edith hesitated whether she should leave a card or a note, but shedecided not to do either, and ordered the cabman to take her to PearlStreet, to the house of Fletcher & Co. 

Mr. Fletcher, the senior partner, was her cousin, the son of herfather's elder brother, and a man now past sixty years. Circumstanceshad carried the families apart socially since the death of her fatherand his brother, but they were on the most friendly terms, and the tiesof blood were not in any way weakened. Indeed, although Edith had seenGilbert Fletcher only a few times since her marriage, she felt that shecould go to him any time if she were in trouble, with the certainty ofsympathy and help. He had the reputation of the old-fashioned New Yorkmerchants, to whom her father belonged, for integrity and conservatism. 

It was to him that she went now. The great shop, or wholesale warehouserather, into which she entered from the narrow and cart-encumberedstreet, showed her at once the nature of the business of Fletcher & Co. It was something in the twine and cordage way. There were everywheregreat coils of ropes and bales of twine, and the dark rooms had a tarrysmell. Mr. Fletcher was in his office, a little space partitioned offin the rear, with half a dozen clerks working by gaslight, and a littlesanctum where the senior partner was commonly found at his desk. 

Mr. Fletcher was a little, round-headed man, with a shrewd face, vigorous and cheerful, thoroughly a man of business, never speculating, and who had been slowly gaining wealth by careful industry and cautiousextension of his trade. Certain hours of the day--from ten to three--hegave to his business. It was a habit, and it was a habit that heenjoyed. He had now come back, as he told Edith, from a little holidayat the sea, where his family were, to get into shape for the fall trade. 

Edith was closeted with him for a full hour. When she came out her eyeswere brighter and her step more elastic. At sundown she reached home, almost in high spirits. And when she snatched up the boy and hugged him, she whispered in his ear, "Baby, we have done it, and we shall see. "

One night when Jack returned from his now almost aimless tramping aboutthe city he found a letter on his table. It seemed from the printing onthe envelope to be a business letter; and business, in the condition hewas in--and it was the condition in which he usually came home--did notinterest him. He was about to toss the letter aside, when the name ofFletcher caught his eye, and he opened it. 

It was a brief note, written on an office memorandum, which simply askedMr. Delancy to call at the office as soon as it was convenient, asthe writer wished to talk with him on a matter of business, and it wassigned "Gilbert Fletcher. "

"Why don't he say what his business is?" said Jack, throwing the letterdown impatiently. "I am not going to be hauled over the coals by anyof the Fletchers. " And he tumbled into bed in an injured and yetindependent frame of mind. 

But the next morning he reread the formal little letter in a new light. To be sure, it was from Edith's cousin. He knew him very well; he wasnot a person to go out of his way to interfere with anybody, and morethan likely it was in relation to Edith's affairs that he was askedto call. That thought put a new aspect on the matter. Of course if itconcerned her interests he ought to go. He dressed with unusual carefor him in these days, breakfasted at the cheap restaurant which hefrequented, and before noon was in the Fletcher warehouse in PearlStreet. 

He had never been there before, and he was somewhat curious to see whatsort of a place it was where Gilbert carried on the string business, ashe used to call it when speaking to Edith of her cousin's occupation. Itwas a much more dingy and smelly place than he expected, but the cartsabout the doors, and the bustle of loading and unloading, of workmenhauling and pulling, and of clerks calling out names and numbers to beregistered and checked, gave him the impression that it was not a dullplace. 

Mr. Fletcher received him in the little dim back office with a cordialshake of the hand, gave him a chair, and reseated himself, pushingback the papers in front of him with the air of a very busy man who wasdropping for a moment one thing in order to give his mind promptly toanother. 

"Our fall trade is just starting up, " he said, "and it keeps us allpretty busy. "

"Yes, " said Jack. "I could drop in any other time--"

"No, no, " interrupted Mr. Fletcher; "it is just because I am busy that Iwanted to see you. Are you engaged in anything?"

"Nothing in particular, " replied Jack, hesitating. "I'd thought of goinginto some business. " And then, after a pause: "It's no use to mincematters. You know--everybody knows, I suppose--that I got hit in thatHenderson panic. "

"So did lots of others, " replied Mr. Fletcher, cheerfully. "Yes, I knowabout it. And I'm not sure but it was a lucky thing for me. " He spokestill more cheerfully, and Jack looked at him inquiringly. 

"Are you open to an offer?"

"I'm open to almost anything, " Jack answered, with a puzzled look. 

"Well, " and Mr. Fletcher settled back in his chair, "I can give youthe situation in five minutes. I've been in this business over thirtyyears--yes; over thirty-five years. It has grown, little by little, until it's a pretty big business. I've a partner, a first-rate man--heis in Europe now--who attends to most of the buying. And the businesskeeps spreading out, and needs more care. I'm not as young as I was Ishall be sixty-four in October--and I can't work right along as I usedto. I find that I come later and go away earlier. It isn't the 'workexactly, but the oversight, the details; and the fact is that I wantsomebody near me whom I can trust, whether I'm here or whether I'maway. I've got good, honest, faithful clerks--if there was one I didnot trust, I wouldn't have him about. But do you know, Jack, " it wasthe first time in the interview that he had used this name--"there issomething in blood. "

"Yes, " Jack assented. 

"Well, I want a confidential clerk. That's it. "

"Me?" he asked. He was thinking rapidly while Mr. Fletcher had beenspeaking; something like a revolution was taking place in his mind, andwhen he asked this, the suggestion took on a humorous aspect--a humorousview of anything had not occurred to him in months. 

"You are just the man. "

"I can be confidential, " Jack rejoined, with the old smile on his facethat had been long a stranger to it, "but I don't know that I can be aclerk. "

Mr. Fletcher was good enough to laugh at this pleasantry. 

"That's all right. It isn't much of a position. We can make the salarytwenty-five hundred dollars for a starter. Will you try it?"

Jack got up and went to the area window, and looked out a moment uponthe boxes in the dim court. Then he came back and stood by Mr. Fletcher, and put his hand on the desk. 

"Yes, I'll try. "

"Good. When will you begin?"

"Now. "

"That's good. No time like now. Wait a bit, and I'll show you about theplace before we go to lunch. You'll get hold of the ropes directly. "

This was Mr. Fletcher's veteran joke. 

At three o'clock Mr. Fletcher closed his desk. It was time to take histrain. "Tomorrow, then, " he said, "we will begin in earnest. "

"What are the business hours here?" asked Jack. 

"Oh, I am usually here from ten to three, but the business hours arefrom nine till the business is done. By-the-way, why not run out with meand spend the night, and we can talk the thing over?"

There was no reason why he should not go, and he went. And that was theway John Corlear Delancy was initiated in the string business in the oldhouse of Fletcher & Co. 

XXII

Few battles are decisive, and perhaps least of all those that are won bya sudden charge or an accident, and not as the result of long-maturingcauses. Doubtless the direction of a character or a career is oftenturned by a sudden act of the will or a momentary impotence of the will. But the battle is not over then, nor without long and arduous fighting, often a dreary, dragging struggle without the excitement of novelty. 

It was comparatively easy for Jack Delancy in Mr. Fletcher's office toface about suddenly and say yes to the proposal made him. There was onhim the pressure of necessity, of his own better nature acting undera sense of his wife's approval; and besides, there was a novelty thatattracted him in trying something absolutely new to his habits. 

But it was one thing to begin, and another, with a man of histemperament, to continue. To have regular hours, to attend to thedetails of a traffic that was to the last degree prosaic, in short, tosettle down to hard work, was a very different thing from the "business"about which Jack and his fellows at the club used to talk so much, andto fancy they were engaged in. When the news came to the Union thatDelancy had gone into the house of Fletcher & Co. As a clerk, there wasa general smile, and a languid curiosity expressed as to how long hewould stick to it. 

In the first day or two Jack was sustained not only by the originalimpulse, but by a real instinct in learning about business ways anddetails that were new to him. To talk about the business and about themarkets, to hear plans unfolded for extension and for taking advantageof fluctuations in prices, was all very well; but the drudgery ofdetails--copying, comparing invoices, and settling into the routine of aclerk's life, even the life of a confidential clerk--was contrary to thehabits of his whole life. It was not to be expected that these habitswould be overcome without a long struggle and many back-slidings. 

The little matter of being at his office desk at nine o'clock in themorning began to seem a hardship after the first three or four days. ForMr. Fletcher not to walk into his shop on the stroke of ten would havebeen such a reversal of his habits as to cause him as much annoyance asit caused Jack to be bound to a fixed hour. It was only the differencein training. But that is saying everything. 

Besides, while the details of his work, the more he got settled in them, were not to his taste, he was daily mortified to find himself ignorantof matters which the stupidest clerk in the office seemed to know byinstinct. This acted, however, as a sort of stimulus, and touched hispride. He determined that he would not be humiliated in this way, andduring office hours he worked as diligently as Mr. Fletcher could havedesired. He had pledged himself to the trial, and he summoned all hisintelligence to back his effort. 

And it is true that the satisfaction of having a situation, of doingsomething, the relief to the previous daily anxiety and almost despair, raised his spirits. It was only when he thought of the public opinion ofhis little world, of some other occupation more befitting his education, of the vast change from his late life of ease and luxury to this ofdaily labor with a clerk's pay, that he had hours of revolt and cursedhis luck. 

No, Jack's battle was not won in a day, or a week, or a year. And beforeit was won he needed more help than his own somewhat irresolute willcould give. It is the impression of his biographer that he would havefailed in the end if he had been married to a frivolous and selfishwoman. 

Mr. Fletcher was known as a very strict man of business, and as littleelse. But he was a good judge of character, and under his notions ofdiscipline and of industry he was a kindly man, as his clerks, whofeared his sharp oversight, knew. And besides, he had made a compactwith Edith, for whom he had something more than family affection, and hewatched Jack's efforts to adjust himself to the new life with sympathy. If it was an experiment for Jack, it was also an experiment for him, the result of which gave him some anxiety. The situation was not avery heroic one, but a life is often decided for good or ill by asinsignificant a matter as Jack's ability to persevere in learning aboutthe twine and cordage trade. This was a day of trial, and the elementof uncertainty in it kept both Mr. Fletcher and Jack from writing of thenew arrangement to Edith, for fear that only disappointment to her wouldbe the ultimate result. Jack's brief notes to her were therefore, asusual, indefinite, but with the hint that he was beginning to see a wayout of his embarrassment. 

After the passage of a couple of weeks, during which Mr. Fletcherhad been quietly studying his new clerk, he suddenly said to him, oneSaturday morning, after they had looked over and estimated the ordersby the day's mail, "Jack, I think you'd better let up a little, and rundown and see Edith. "

"Oh!" said Jack, a little startled by the proposal, but recoveringhimself; "I didn't suppose the business could spare me. "

"I didn't mean a vacation, but run down for over Sunday. It must belovely there, and the change will make you as keen as a brier forbusiness. It always does me. Stay over Monday if the weather is good. I have to be away myself the week after. " As Jack hesitated and did notreply, Mr. Fletcher continued:

"I really think you'd better go, Jack. You have hardly had a breath offresh air this summer. There's plenty of time to go up-town and get yourgrip and catch the afternoon train. "

Jack was still silent. The thought of seeing Edith created a tumult inhis mind. It seemed as if he were not quite ready, not exactly settled. He had been procrastinating so long, putting off going, on one pretextor another, that he had fallen into a sort of fear of going. At first, absorbed in his speculations, enthralled by the company of Carmen andthe luxurious, easy-going view of life that her society created for him;he had felt Edith and his house as an irritating restraint. Later, whenthe smash came, he had been still more relieved that she was out oftown. And finally he had fallen into a reckless apathy, and had madehimself believe that he never would see her again until some stroke offortune should set him on his feet and restore his self-respect. 

But since he had been with Fletcher & Co. His feelings had graduallyundergone a change. With a regular occupation and regular hours, and incontact with the sensible mind and business routine of Mr. Fletcher, he began to have saner views of life, and to realize that Edith wouldapprove what he was now attempting to do much more than any effort torelieve himself by speculation. 

As soon as he felt himself a little more firmly established, a littlemore sure of himself, he would go to Edith, and confess everything, andbegin life anew. This had been his mood, but he was still irresolute, and it needed some outside suggestion to push him forward to overcomehis lingering reluctance to go home. 

But this had come suddenly. It seemed to him at first thought that heneeded time to prepare for it. Mr. Fletcher pulled out his watch. "Thereis a later train at four. Take that, and we will get some lunch first. "

An hour of postponement was such a relief! Why, of course he could go atfour. And instantly his heart leaped up with desire. 

"All right, " he said, as he rose and closed his desk. "But I think I'dbetter not stay for lunch. I want to get something for the boy on my wayuptown. "

"Very good. Tuesday, then. My best regards to Edith. "

As Jack came down the stairway from the elevated road at Twenty-thirdStreet he ran against a man who was hurrying up--a man in a pronouncedtraveling-suit, grip-sack and umbrella in hand, and in haste. It wasMavick. Recognition was instantaneous, and it was impossible for eitherto avoid the meeting if he had desired to do so. 

"You in town!" said Mavick. 

"And you!" Jack retorted. 

"No, not really. I'm just going to catch the steamer. Short leave. Wehave all been kept by that confounded Chile business. "

"Going for the government?"

"No, not publicly. Of course shall confer with our minister in London. Any news here?"

"Yes; Henderson's dead. " And Jack looked Mavick squarely in the face. 

"Ah!" And Mavick smiled faintly, and then said, gravely: "It was anawful business. So sudden, you know, that I couldn't do anything. " Hemade a movement to pass on. "I suppose there has been no--no--"

"I suppose not, " said Jack, "except that Mrs. Henderson has gone toEurope. "

"Ah!" And Mr. Mavick didn't wait for further news, but hurried up, witha "Good-by. "

So Mavick was following Carmen to Europe. Well, why not? What an unrealworld it all was, that of a few months ago! The gigantic Henderson;Jack's own vision of a great fortune; Carmen and her house of Nero; theastute and diplomatic Mavick, with his patronizing airs! It was like ascene in a play. 

He stepped into a shop and selected a toy for the boy. It was a realtoy, and it was for a real boy. Jack experienced a genuine pleasure atthe thought of pleasing him. Perhaps the little fellow would not knowhim. 

And then he thought of Edith--not of Edith the mother, but of Edith thegirl in the days of his wooing. And he went into Maillard's. The prettygirl at the counter knew him. He was an old customer, and she had oftenfilled orders for him. She had despatched many a costly box to addresseshe had given her. It was in the recollection of those transactions thathe said: "A box of marrons glaces, please. My wife prefers that. "

"Shall I send it?" asked the girl, when she had done it up. 

"No, thanks; we are not in town. "

"Of course, " she said, beaming upon him; "nobody is yet. "

And this girl also seemed a part of the old life, with her littleaffectation of familiarity with its ways. 

He went to his room--it seemed a very mean little room now--packed hisbag, told the janitor he should be absent a few days, and hurried to theferry and the train as if he feared that some accident would delay him. When he was seated and the train moved off, his thoughts took anotherturn. He was in for it now. 

He began to regret that he had not delayed, to think it all out morethoroughly; perhaps it would have been better to have written. 

He bought an evening journal, but he could not read it. What he readbetween the lines was his own life. What a miserable failure! What amess he had made of his own affairs, and how unworthy of such a woman asEdith he had been! How indifferent he had been to her happiness in thepursuit of his own pleasure! How would she receive him? He couldhardly doubt that; but she must know, she must have felt cruelly hisestrangement. What if she met him with a royal forgiveness, as if hewere a returned prodigal? He couldn't stand that. If now he were onlygoing back with his fortune recovered, with brilliant prospects tospread before her, and could come into the house in his old playfulmanner, with the assumed deference of the master, and say: "Well, Edithdear, the storm is over. It's all right now. I am awfully glad to gethome. Where's the rascal of an heir?"

Instead of that, he was going with nothing, humiliated, a clerk in atwine-store. And not much of a clerk at that, he reflected, with hisready humorous recognition of the situation. 

And yet he was for the first time in his life earning his living. Edithwould like that. He had known all along that his idle life had been aconstant grief to her. No, she would not reproach him; she never didreproach him. No doubt she would be glad that he was at work. But, oh, the humiliation of the whole thing! At one moment he was eager to seeher, and the next the rattling train seemed to move too fast, and hewelcomed every wayside stop that delayed his arrival. But even the LongIsland trains arrive some time, and all too soon the cars slowed up atthe familiar little station, and Jack got out. 

"Quite a stranger in these parts, Mr. Delancy, " was the easy salutationof the station-keeper. 

"Yes. I've been away. All right down here?"

"Right as a trivet. Hot summer, though. Calculate it's goin' to be awarm fall--generally is. "

It was near sunset. When the train had moved on, and its pounding on therails became a distant roar and then was lost altogether, the countrysilence so impressed Jack, as he walked along the road towards the sea, that he became distinctly conscious of the sound of his own footsteps. He stopped and listened. Yes, there were other sounds--the twitter ofbirds in the bushes by the roadside, the hum of insects, and the faintrhythmical murmur of lapsing waves on the shore. 

And now the house came in view--first the big roof, and then thelatticed windows, the balconies, where there were pots of flowers, andthen the long veranda with its hammocks and climbing vines. There wasa pink tone in the distant water answering to the flush in the sky, andaway to the west the sand-dune that made out into the Sound was a pointof light. 

But the house! Jack's steps were again arrested. The level last rays ofthe disappearing sun flashed upon the window-panes so that they glowedlike painted windows illuminated from within, with a reddish lustre, andthe roofs and the brown sides of the building, painted by those greatmasters in color, the sun and the sea-wind, in that moment were likeburnished gold. Involuntarily Jack exclaimed:

"It is the Golden House!"

He made his way through the little fore yard. No one was about. Theveranda was deserted. There was Edith's work-basket; there were thebaby's playthings. The door stood open, and as he approached it he heardsinging--not singing, either, but a fitful sort of recitation, with theoccasional notes of an accompaniment struck as if in absence of mind. The tune he knew, and as he passed through the first room towards thesitting-room that looked on the sea he caught a line:

"Wely, wely, but love is bonny, for a little while--when it is new. "

It was an old English ballad, the ballad of the "Cockle-shells, " thatEdith used to sing often in the old days, when its note of melancholyseemed best to express her happiness. It was only that line, and thevoice seemed to break, and there was silence. 

He stole along and looked in. There was Edith, seated, her head bowed onher hands, at the piano. 

In an instant, before she could turn to the sound of his quickfootsteps, he was at her side, kneeling, his head bowed in the folds ofher dress. 

"Edith! I've been such a fool!"

She turned, slid from her seat, and was kneeling also, with her armsthrown about his neck. 

"Oh, Jack! You've come. Thank God! Thank God!"

And presently they stood, and his arms were still around her, and shewas looking up into his face, with her hands on his shoulders, andsaying "You've come to stay. "

"Yes, dear, forever. "

XXIV

The whole landscape was golden, the sea was silver, on that Octobermorning. It was the brilliant decline of the year. Edith stood with Jackon the veranda. He had his grip-sack in hand and was equipped for town. Both were silent in the entrancing scene. 

The birds, twittering in the fruit-trees and over the vines, had theair of an orchestra, the concerts of the season over, gathering theirinstruments and about to depart. One could detect in the lapse of thewaves along the shore the note of weariness preceding the change intothe fretfulness and the tumult of tempests. In the soft ripening of theseason there was peace and hope, but it was the hope of another day. Thecurtain was falling on this. 

Was life beginning, then, or ending? If life only could change and renewitself like the seasons, with the perpetually recurring springs! Butyouth comes only once, and thereafter the man gathers the fruit of it, sweet or bitter. 

Jack was not given to moralizing, but perhaps a subtle suggestion ofthis came to him in the thought that an enterprise, a new enterprise, might have seemed easier in May, when the forces of nature were withhim, than in October. There was something, at least, that fell in withhis mood, a mood of acquiescence in failure, in this closing season ofthe year, when he stood empty-handed in the harvest-time. 

"Edith, " he said, as they paced down the walk which was flaming withscarlet and crimson borders, and turned to look at the peaceful brownhouse, "I hate to go. "

"But you are not going, " said Edith, brightly. "I feel all the time asif you were just coming back. Jack, do you know, " and she put her handon his shoulder, "this is the sweetest home in the world now!"

"It is the only one, dear;" and Jack made the statement with a humoroussense of its truth. "Well, there's the train, and I'm off with the otherclerks. "

"Clerk, indeed!" cried Edith, putting up her face to his; "you are goingto be a Merchant Prince, Jack, that is what you are going to be. "

On the train there was an atmosphere of business. Jack felt that he wasnot going to the New York that he knew--not to his New York, but to acity of traffic; down into the streets of commercial enterprise, not atall to the metropolis of leisure, of pleasure, to the world of clubs anddrawing-rooms and elegant loiterings and the rivalries of society life. That was all ended. Jack was hurrying to catch the down-town car for thedingy office of Fletcher & Co. At an hour fixed. 

It was ended, to be sure, but the struggle with Jack in his new life wasnot ended, his biographer knows, for months and years. 

It was long before he could pass his club windows without a pang ofhumiliation, or lift his hat to a lady of his acquaintance in herpassing carriage without a vivid feeling of separateness from his oldlife. For the old life--he could see that any day in the Avenue, anyevening by the flaming lights--went by in its gilded chariots andentrancing toilets, the fascinating whirl of Vanity Fair crowned withroses and with ennui. Did he regret it? No doubt. Not to regret wouldhave been to change his nature, and that were a feat impossible for hisbiographer to accomplish. In a way his life was gone, and to build up anew life, serene and enduring, was not the work of a day. 

One thing he did not regret in the shock he had received, and that wasthe absence of Carmen and her world. When he thought of her he had asense of escape. She was still abroad, and he heard from time to timethat Mavick was philandering about from capital to capital in her train. Certainly he would have envied neither of them if he had been aware, asthe reader is aware, of the guilty secret that drew them together andmust be forever their torment. They knew each other. 

But this glittering world, to attain a place in which is the object ofmost of the struggles and hungry competition of modern life, seemednot so real nor so desirable when he was at home with Edith, and in hisgradually growing interest in nobler pursuits. They had decided to takea modest apartment in town for the winter, and almost before the leasewas signed, Edith, in her mind, had transformed it into a charming home. Jack used to rally her on her enthusiasm in its simple furnishing; itreminded him, he said, of Carmen's interest in her projected house ofNero. It was a great contrast, to be sure, to their stately house by thePark, but it was to them both what that had never been. To one who knowshow life goes astray in the solicitations of the great world, there wassomething pathetic in Edith's pleasure. Even to Jack it might some daycome with the force of keen regret for years wasted, that it is enoughto break a body's heart to see how little a thing can make a womanhappy. 

It was another summer. Major Fairfax had come down with Jack to spendSunday at the Golden House. Edith was showing the Major the view fromthe end of the veranda. Jack was running through the evening paper. "Hi!" he cried; "here's news. Mavick is to have the mission to Rome, andit is rumored that the rich and accomplished Mrs. Henderson, as the wifeof the minister, will make the Roman season very gay. "

"It's too bad, " said Edith. "Nothing is said about the training-school?"

"Nothing. " "Poor Henderson!" was the Major's comment. "It was for thisthat he drudged and schemed and heaped up his colossal fortune! His lifemust look to him like a burlesque. "