The Great God Success

A NOVEL

By JOHN GRAHAM (DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS)

THE GREGG PRESS / RIDGEWOOD, N. J. 

CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER

I. THE CANDIDATE FROM YALE

II. THE CITY EDITOR RECONSIDERS

III. A PARK ROW CELEBRITY

IV. IN THE EDGE OF BOHEMIA

V. ALICE

VI. IN A BOHEMIAN QUICKSAND

VII. A LITTLE CANDLE GOES OUT

VIII. A STRUGGLE FOR SELF-CONTROL

IX. AMBITION AWAKENS

X. THE ETERNAL MASCULINE

XI. TRESPASSING

XII. MAKING THE MOST OF A MONTH

XIII. RECKONING WITH DANVERS

XIV. THE NEWS-RECORD GETS A NEW EDITOR

XV. YELLOW JOURNALISM

XVI. MR. STOKELY IS TACTLESS

XVII. A WOMAN AND A WARNING

XVIII. HOWARD EXPLAINS HIS MACHINE

XIX. "I MUST BE RICH. "

XX. ILLUSION

XXI. WAVERING

XXII. THE SHENSTONE EPISODE

XXIII. EXPANDING AND CONTRACTING

XXIV. "MR. VALIANT-FOR-TRUTH. "

XXV. THE PROMISED LAND

XXVI. IN POSSESSION

XXVII. THE HARVEST

XXVIII. SUCCESS

THE GREAT GOD SUCCESS

I. 

THE CANDIDATE FROM YALE. 

"O your college paper, I suppose?"

"No, I never wrote even a letter to the editor. "

"Took prizes for essays?"

"No, I never wrote if I could help it. "

"But you like to write?"

"I'd like to learn to write. "

"You say you are two months out of college--what college?"

"Yale. "

"Hum--I thought Yale men went into something commercial; law or banking orrailroads. 'Leave hope of fortune behind, ye who enter here' is over thedoor of this profession. "

"I haven't the money-making instinct. "

"We pay fifteen dollars a week at the start. "

"Couldn't you make it twenty?"

The Managing Editor of the _News-Record_ turned slowly in his chairuntil his broad chest was full-front toward the young candidate for thestaff. He lowered his florid face slowly until his double chin swelled outover his low "stick-up" collar. Then he gradually raised his eyelids untilhis amused blue eyes were looking over the tops of his glasses, straightinto Howard's eyes. 

"Why?" he asked. "Why should we?"

Howard's grey eyes showed embarrassment and he flushed to the line of hisblack hair which was so smoothly parted in the middle. "Well--you see--thefact is--I need twenty a week. My expenses are arranged on that scale. I'mnot clever at money matters. I'm afraid I'd get in a mess with onlyfifteen. "

"My dear young man, " said Mr. King, "I started here at fifteen dollars aweek. And I had a wife; and the first baby was coming. "

"Yes, but your wife was an energetic woman. She stood right beside you andworked too. Now I have only myself. "

Mr. King raised his eyebrows and became a rosier red. He was evidentlypreparing to rebuke this audacious intrusion into his private affairs by astranger whose card had been handed to him not ten minutes before. ButHoward's tone and manner were simple and sincere. And they happened tobring into Mr. King's mind a rush of memories of his youth and his wife. She had married him on faith. They had come to New York fifteen yearsbefore, he to get a place as reporter on the _News-Record_, she tostart a boarding-house; he doubting and trembling, she with courage andconfidence for two. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and openedthe book of memory at the place where the leaves most easily fell apart:

He is coming home at one in the morning, worn out, sick at heart from theday's buffetings. As he puts his key into the latch, the door opens. Therestands a handsome girl; her face is flushed; her eyes are bright; her lipsare held up for him to kiss; she shows no trace of a day that began hoursbefore his and has been a succession of exasperations and humiliationsagainst which her sensitive nature, trained in the home of her father, adistinguished up-the-state Judge, gives her no protection, "Victory, " shewhispers, her arms about his neck and her head upon his coat collar. "Victory! We are seventy-two cents ahead on the week, and everything paidup!"

Mr. King opened his eyes--they had been closed less than five seconds. "Well, let it be twenty--though just why I'm sure I don't know. And we'llgive you a four weeks' trial. When will you begin?"

"Now, " answered the young man, glancing about the room. "And I shall try toshow that I appreciate your consideration, whether I deserve it or not. "

It was a large bare room, low of ceiling. Across one end were five windowsoverlooking from a great height the tempest that rages about the City Hallday and night with few lulls and no pauses. Mr. King's roll-top desk was atthe first window. Under each of the other windows was a broad flat tabledesk--for copy-readers. At the farthest of these sat the City Editor--thin, precise-looking, with yellow skin, hollow cheeks, ragged grey-brownmoustache, ragged scant grey-brown hair and dark brown eyes. He lookednervously tired and, because brown was his prevailing shade, dusty. He roseas Mr. King came with young Howard. 

"Here, Mr. Bowring, is a young man from Yale. He wishes you to teach himhow to write. Mr. Howard, Mr. Bowring. I hope you gentlemen will get oncomfortably together. "

Mr. King went back to his desk. Mr. Bowring and Howard looked each at theother. Mr. Bowring smiled, with good-humour, without cordiality. "Let mesee, where shall we put you?" And his glance wandered along the rows ofsloping table-desks--those nearer the windows lighted by daylight; thosefarther away, by electric lamps. Even on that cool, breezy August afternoonthe sunlight and fresh air did not penetrate far into the room. 

"Do you see the young man with the beautiful fair moustache, " said Mr. Bowring, "toiling away in his shirt-sleeves--there?"

"Near the railing at the entrance?"

"Precisely. I think I will put you next him. " Mr. Bowring touched a buttonon his desk and presently an office boy--a mop of auburn curls, a pert faceand gangling legs in knickerbockers--hurried up with a "Yes, Sir?"

"Please tell Mr. Kittredge that I would like to speak to him and--pleasescrape your feet along the floor as little as possible. "

The boy smiled, walking away less as if he were trying to terrorize parkpedestrians by a rush on roller skates. Kittredge and Howard were madeacquainted and went toward their desks together. "A few moments--if youwill excuse me--and I'm done, " said Kittredge motioning Howard into theadjoining chair as he sat and at once bent over his work. 

Howard watched him with interest, admiration and envy. The reporter wasperhaps twenty-five years old--fair of hair, fair of skin, goodlooking in apretty way. His expression was keen and experienced yet too self-complacentto be highly intelligent. He was rapidly covering sheet after sheet of softwhite paper with bold, loose hand-writing. Howard noticed that at the endof each sentence he made a little cross with a circle about it, and that hebegan each paragraph with a paragraph sign. Presently he scrawled a bigdouble cross in the centre of the sheet under the last line of writing andgathered up his sheets in the numbered order. "Done, thank God, " he said. "And I hope they won't butcher it. "

"Do you send it to be put in type?" asked Howard. 

"No, " Kittredge answered with a faint smile. "I hand it in to Mr. Bowring--the City Editor, you know. And when the copyreaders come at six, it will be turned over to one of them. He reads it, cuts it down ifnecessary, and writes headlines for it. Then it goes upstairs to thecomposing room--see the box, the little dumb-waiter, over there in thewall?--well, it goes up by that to the floor above where they set the typeand make up the forms. "

"I'm a complete ignoramus, " said Howard, "I hope you'll not mind my tryingto find out things. I hope I shall not bore you. "

"Glad to help you, I'm sure. I had to go through this two years ago when Icame here from Princeton. "

Kittredge "turned in" his copy and returned to his seat beside Howard. 

"What were you writing about, if I may ask?" inquired Howard. 

"About some snakes that came this morning in a 'tramp' from South America. One of them, a boa constrictor, got loose and coiled around a windlass. Thecook was passing and it caught him. He fainted with fright and the beastsqueezed him to death. It's a fine story--lots of amusing and dramaticdetails. I wrote it for a column and I think they won't cut it. I hope not, anyhow. I need the money. "

"You are paid by the column?"

"Yes. I'm on space--what they call a space writer. If a man is of anyaccount here they gradually raise him to twenty-five dollars a week andthen put him on space. That means that he will make anywhere from forty toa hundred a week, or perhaps more at times. The average for the best isabout eighty. "

"Eighty dollars a week, " thought Howard. "Fifty-two times eighty isforty-one hundred and sixty. Four thousand a year, counting out two weeksfor vacation. " To Howard it seemed wealth at the limit of imagination. Ifhe could make so much as that!--he who had grave doubts whether, no matterhow hard he worked, he would ever wrench a living from the world. 

Just then a seedy young man with red hair and a red beard came through thegate in the railing, nodded to Kittredge and went to a desk well up towardthe daylight end of the room. 

"That's the best of 'em all, " said Kittredge in a low tone. "His name isSewell. He's a Harvard man--Harvard and Heidelberg. But drink! Ye gods, howhe does drink! His wife died last Christmas--practically starvation. Sewelldisappeared--frightful bust. A month afterward they found him under anassumed name over on Blackwell's Island, doing three months for disorderlyconduct. He wrote a Christmas carol while his wife was dying. It began"Merrily over the Snow" and went on about light hearts and youth and joyand all that--you know, the usual thing. When he got the money, she didn'tneed it or anything else in her nice quiet grave over in Long Island City. So he 'blew in' the money on a wake. "

Sewell was coming toward them. Kittredge called out: "Was it a good story, Sam?"

"Simply great! You ought to have seen the room. Only the bed and thecook-stove and a few dishes on a shelf--everything else gone to thepawnshop. The man must have killed the children first. They lay side byside on the bed, each with its hands folded on its chest--suppose themother did that; and each little throat was cut from ear to ear--supposethe father did that. Then he dipped his paint brush in the blood and daubedon the wall in big scrawling letters: 'There is no God!' Then he took hiswife in his arms, stabbed her to the heart and cut his own throat. Andthere they lay, his arms about her, his cheek against hers, dead. It wasmurder as a fine art. Gad, I wish I could write. "

Kittredge introduced Howard--"a Yale man--just came on the paper. "

"Entering the profession? Well, they say of the other professions thatthere is always room at the top. Journalism is just the reverse. The roomis all at the bottom--easy to enter, hard to achieve, impossible to leave. It is all bottom, no top. " Sewell nodded, smiled attractively in spite ofhis swollen face and his unsightly teeth, and went back to his work. 

"He's sober, " said Kittredge when he was out of hearing, "so his story ispretty sure to be the talk of Park Row tomorrow. "

Howard was astonished at the cheerful, businesslike point of view of thesetwo educated and apparently civilised young men as to the tragedies oflife. He had shuddered at Kittredge's story of the man squeezed to death bythe snake. Sewell's story, so graphically outlined, filled him with horror, made it a struggle for him to conceal his feelings. 

"I suppose you must see a lot of frightful things, " he suggested. 

"That's our business. You soon get used to it, just as a doctor does. Youlearn to look at life from the purely professional standpoint. Of courseyou must feel in order to write. But you must not feel so keenly that youcan't write. You have to remember always that you're not there to cheer orsympathise or have emotions, but only to report, to record. You tell whatyour eyes see. You'll soon get so that you can and will make good storiesout of your own calamaties. "

"Is that a portrait of the editor?" asked Howard, pointing to a grimedoil-painting, the only relief to the stretch of cracked and streaked whitewall except a few ragged maps. 

"That--oh, that is old man Stone--the 'great condenser. ' He's there for adouble purpose, as an example of what a journalist should be and as awarning of what a journalist comes to. After twenty years of fine work atcrowding more news in good English into one column than any other editorcould get in bad English into four columns, he was discharged fordrunkenness. Soon afterwards he walked off the end of a dock one night in afog. At least it was said that there was a fog and that he was drunk. Ihave my doubts. "

"Cheerful! I have not been in the profession an hour but I have alreadylearned something very valuable. "

"What's that?" asked Kittredge, "that it's a good profession to get outof?"

"No. But that bad habits will not help a man to a career in journalism anymore than in any other profession. "

"Career?" smiled Kittredge, resenting Howard's good-humoured irony andputting on a supercilious look that brought out more strongly theinsignificance of his face. "Journalism is not a career. It is either aschool or a cemetery. A man may use it as a stepping-stone to somethingelse. But if he sticks to it, he finds himself an old man, dead and donefor to all intents and purposes years before he's buried. "

"I wonder if it doesn't attract a great many men who have a little talentand fancy that they have much. I wonder if it does not disappoint theirvanity rather than their merit. "

"That sounds well, " replied Kittredge, "and there's some truth in it. But, believe me, journalism is the dragon that demands the annual sacrifice ofyouth. It will have only youth. Why am I here? Why are you here? Because weare young, have a fresh, a new point of view. As soon as we get a littleolder, we shall be stale and, though still young in years, we must stepaside for young fellows with new ideas and a new point of view. "

"But why should not one have always new ideas, always a new point of view?Why should one expect to escape the penalties of stagnation in journalismwhen one can't escape them in any other profession?"

"But who has new ideas all the time? The average successful man has at mostone idea and makes a whole career out of it. Then there are thetemptations. "

"How do you mean?"

Kittredge flushed slightly and answered in a more serious tone:

"We must work while others amuse themselves or sleep. We must sleep whileothers are at work. That throws us out of touch with the whole world ofrespectability and regularity. When we get done at night, wrought up by theafternoon and evening of this gambling with our brains and nerves as thestake, what is open to us?"

"That is true, " said Howard. "There are the all-night saloons and--thelike. "

"And if we wish society, what society is open to us? What sort of youngwomen are waiting to entertain us at one, two, three o'clock in themorning? Why, I have not made a call in a year. And I have not seen arespectable girl of my acquaintance in at least that time, except once ortwice when I happened to have assignments that took me near Fifth Avenue inthe afternoon. "

"Mr. Kittredge, Mr. Bowring wishes to speak to you, " an office boy said andKittredge rose. As he went, he put his hand on Howard's shoulder and said:"No, I am getting out of it as fast as ever I can. I'm writing books. "

"Kittredge, " thought Howard, "I wonder, is this Henry Jennings Kittredge, whose stories are on all the news stands?" He saw an envelope on the floorat his feet. The address was "Henry Jennings Kittredge, Esq. "

When Kittredge came back for his coat, Howard said in a tone of frankadmiration: "Why, I didn't know you were the Kittredge that everybody istalking about. You certainly have no cause for complaint. "

Kittredge shrugged his shoulders. "At fifteen cents a copy, I have to sellten thousand copies before I get enough to live on for four months. Andyou'd be surprised how much reputation and how little money a man can makeout of a book. Don't be distressed because they keep you here with nothingto do but wonder how you'll have the courage to face the cashier on payday. It's the system. Your chance will come. "

It was three days before Howard had a chance. On a Sunday afternoon theAssistant City Editor who was in charge of the City Desk for the day senthim up to the Park to write a descriptive story of the crowds. "Try to geta new point of view, " he said, "and let yourself loose. There's usuallyplenty of room in Monday's paper. "

Howard wandered through the Central Park for two hours, struggling for the"new point of view" of the crowds he saw there--these monotonous millions, he thought, lazily drinking at a vast trough of country air in the heart ofthe city. He planned an article carefully as he dined alone at the Casino. He went down to the office early and wrote diligently--about two thousandwords. When he had finished, the Night City Editor told him that he mightgo as there would be nothing more that night. 

He was in the street at seven the next morning. As he walked along with aNews-Record, bought at the first news-stand, he searched every page: first, the larger "heads"--such a long story would call for a "big head;" then thesmaller "heads"--they may have been crowded and have had to cut it down;then the single-line "heads"--surely they found a "stickful" or so worthprinting. 

At last he found it. A dozen items in the smallest type, agate, weregrouped under the general heading "City Jottings" at the end of an insidecolumn of an inside page. The first of these City Jottings was two lines inlength:

"The millions were in the Central Park yesterday, lazily drinking at thatvast trough of country air in the heart of the city. "

As he entered the office Howard looked appealingly and apologetically atthe boy on guard at the railing and braced himself to receive the sneeringfrown of the City Editor and to bear the covert smiles of his fellowreporters. But he soon saw that no one had observed his mighty spring for afoothold and his ludicrous miss and fall. 

"Had anything in yet?" Kittredge inquired casually, late in the afternoon. 

"I wrote a column and a half yesterday and I found two lines among theCity Jottings, " replied Howard, reddening but laughing. 

"The first story I wrote was cut to three lines but they got a libel suiton it. "

II. 

THE CITY EDITOR RECONSIDERS. 

At the end of six weeks, the City Editor called Howard up to the desk andasked him to seat himself. He talked in a low tone so that the AssistantCity Editor, reading the newspapers at a nearby desk, could not hear. 

"We like you, Mr. Howard. " Mr. Bowring spoke slowly and with a carefulnessin selecting words that indicated embarrassment. "And we have beenimpressed by your earnestness. But we greatly fear that you are not fittedfor this profession. You write well enough, but you do not seem to get thenewspaper--the news--idea. So we feel that in justice to you and toourselves we ought to let you know where you stand. If you wish, we shallbe glad to have you remain with us two weeks longer. Meanwhile you can belooking about you. I am certain that you will succeed somewhere, in someline, sooner or later. But I think that the newspaper profession is a wasteof your time. "

Howard had expected this. Failure after failure, his articles thrown awayor rewritten by the copyreaders, had prepared him for the blow. Yet itcrushed him for the moment. His voice was not steady as he replied:

"No doubt you are right. Thank you for taking the trouble to study my caseand tell me so soon. "

"Don't hesitate to stay on for the two weeks, " Mr. Bowring continued. "Wecan make you useful to us. And you can look about to much better advantagethan if you were out of a place. "

"I'll stay the two weeks, " Howard said, "unless I find something sooner. "

"Don't be more discouraged than you can help, " said Mr. Bowring. "You maybe very grateful before long for finding out so early what many of us--Imyself, I fear--find out after years and--when it is too late. "

Always that note of despair; always that pointing to the motto over thedoor of the profession: "Abandon hope, ye who enter here. " What was theexplanation? Were these men right? Was he wrong in thinking that journalismoffered the most splendid of careers--the development of the mind and thecharacter; the sharpening of all the faculties; the service of truth andright and human betterment, in daily combat with injustice and error andfalsehood; the arousing and stimulating of the drowsy minds of the massesof mankind?

Howard looked about at the men who held on where he was slipping. "Can itbe, " he thought, "that I cannot survive in a profession where the poorestare so poor in intellect and equipment? Why am I so dull that I cannotcatch the trick?"

He set himself to study newspapers, reading them line by line, noting themodes of presenting facts, the arrangement of headlines, the order in whichthe editors put the several hundred items before the eyes of thereader--what they displayed on each page and why; how they apportioned thespace. With the energy of unconquerable resolution he applied himself tosolving for himself the puzzle of the press--the science and art ofcatching the eye and holding the attention of the hurrying, impatientpublic. 

He learned much. He began to develop the news-instinct, that subtle instantrealisation of what is interesting and what is not interesting to thepublic mind. But the time was short; a sense of impending calamity and thelack of self-confidence natural to inexperience made it impossible for himeffectively to use his new knowledge in the few small opportunities whichMr. Bowring gave him. With only six days of his two weeks left, he hadsucceeded in getting into the paper not a single item of a length greaterthan two sticks. He slept little; he despaired not at all; but he washeart-sick and, as he lay in his bed in the little hall-room of thefurnished-room house, he often envied women the relief of tears. What heendured will be appreciated only by those who have been bred in shelteredhomes; who have abruptly and alone struck out for themselves in the oceanof a great city without a single lesson in swimming; who have feltthemselves seized from below and dragged downward toward the deep-lyingfeeding-grounds of Poverty and Failure. 

"Buck up, old man, " said Kittredge to whom he told his bad news afterseveral days of hesitation and after Kittredge had shown him that hestrongly suspected it. "Don't mind old Bowring. You're sure to get on, and, if you insist upon the folly, in this profession. I'll give you a note toMontgomery--he's City Editor over at the _World_-shop--and he'll takeyou on. In some ways you will do better there. You'll rise faster, get awider experience, make more money. In fact, this shop has only oneadvantage. It does give a man peace of mind. It's more like a club than anoffice. But in a sense that is a drawback. I'll give you a note to-night. You will be at work over there to-morrow. "

"I think I'll wait a few days, " said Howard, his tone corresponding to thelook in his eyes and the compression of his resolute mouth. 

The next day but one Mr. Bowring called him up to the City Desk and gavehim a newspaper-clipping which read:

 "Bald Peak, September 29--Willie Dent, the three-year-old baby of John Dent, a farmer living two miles from here, strayed away into the mountains yesterday and has not been seen since. His dog, a cur, went with him. Several hundred men are out searching. It has been storming, and the mountains are full of bears and wild cats. "

"Yes, I saw this in the _Herald_, " said Howard. 

"Will you take the train that leaves at eleven tonight and get us thestory--if it is not a 'fake, ' as I strongly suspect. Telegraph your storyif there is not time for you to get back here by nine to-morrow night. "

"Of course it's a fake, or at least a wild exaggeration, " thought Howard ashe turned away. "If Bowring had not been all but sure there was nothing init, he would never have given it to me. "

He was not well, his sleepless nights having begun to tell even upon hispowerful constitution. The rest of that afternoon and all of a nightwithout sleep in the Pullman he was in a depth of despond. He had been inthe habit of getting much comfort out of an observation his father had madeto him just before he died: "Remember that ninety per cent of thesefourteen hundred million human beings are uncertain where to-morrow's foodis to come from. Be prudent but never be afraid. " But just then he couldget no consolation out of this maxim of grim cheer. He seemed to himselfincompetent and useless, a predestined failure. "What is to become of me?"he kept repeating, his heart like lead and his mind fumbling about in aconfused darkness. 

At Bald Peak he was somewhat revived by the cold mountain air of the earlymorning. As he alighted upon the station platform he spoke to thebaggage-master standing in front of the steps. 

"Was the little boy of a man named Dent lost in the mountains near here?"

"Yes--three days ago, " replied the baggage-man. 

"Have they found him yet?"

"No--nor never will alive--that's my opinion. "

Howard asked for the nearest livery-stable and within twenty minutes was onhis way to Dent's farm. His driver knew all about the lost child. Twohundred men were still searching. "And Mrs. Dent, she's been sittin' by thewindow, list'nin' day and night. She won't speak nor eat and she ain't sheda tear. It was her only child. The men come in sayin' it ain't no use tohunt any more, an' they look at her an' out they goes ag'in. "

Soon the driver pointed to a cottage near the road. The gate was open; thegrass and the flower-beds were trampled into a morass. The door was thrownwide and several women were standing about the threshold. At the windowwithin view of the road and the mountains sat the mother--a young womanwith large brown eyes, and clear-cut features, refined, beautified, exaltedby suffering. Her look was that of one listening for a faint, far awaysound upon which hangs the turn of the balances to joy or to despair. 

 * * * * *

That morning two of the searchers went to the northeast into the dense andtangled swamp woods between Bald Peak and Cloudy Peak--the wildestwilderness in the mountains. The light barely penetrates the foliage on thebrightest days. The ground is rough, sometimes precipitous, closely coveredwith bushes and tangled creepers. 

The two explorers, almost lost themselves, came at last to the edge of aswamp surrounded by cedars. They half-crawled, half-climbed through the lowtrees and festooning creepers to the edge of a clear bit of open, firmground. 

In the middle was a cedar tree. Under it, seated upon the ground, was thelost boy. His bare, brown legs, torn and bleeding, were stretched straightin front of him. His bare feet were bruised and cut. His gingham dress wastorn and wet and stained. His small hands were smears of dirt and blood. Hewas playing with a tin can. He had put a stone into it and was making agreat rattling. The dog was running to and fro, apparently enjoying thenoise. The little boy's face was tear-stained and his eyes were swollen. But he was not crying just then and laughter lurked in his thin, fever-flushed face. 

As the men came into view, the dog began to bark angrily, but the boylooked a solemn welcome. 

"Want mamma, " he said. "I'se hungry. "

One of the men picked him up--the gingham dress was saturated. 

"You're hungry?" asked the man, his voice choking. 

"Yes. An' I'se so wet. It wained and wained. " Then the child began to sob. "It was dark, " he whispered, "an' cold. I want my mamma. "

It was an hour's tedious journey back to Dent's by the shortest route. Atthe top of the hill those near the cottage saw the boy in the arms of theman who had found him. They shouted and the mother sprang out of the houseand came running, stumbling down the path to the gate. She caught at thegate-post and stood there, laughing, screaming, sobbing. 

"Baby! Baby!" she called. 

The little boy turned his head and stretched out his thin, blood-stainedarms. She ran toward him and snatched him from the young farmer. 

"Hungry, mamma, " he sobbed, hiding his face on her shoulder. 

 * * * * *

Howard wrote his story on the train, going down to New York. It was astraightforward chronicle of just what he had seen and heard. He began atthe beginning--the little mountain home, the family of three, thedisappearance of the child. He described the perils of the mountains, thestorm, the search, the wait, the listening mother, scene by scene, endingwith mother and child together again and the dog racing around them, withwagging tail and hanging tongue. He wrote swiftly, making no changes, without a trace of his usual self-consciousness in composition. When he haddone he went into the restaurant car and dined almost gaily. He felt thathe had failed again. How could he hope to tell such a story? But he was notdespondent. He was still under the spell of that intense human drama withits climax of joy. His own concerns seemed secondary, of no consequence. 

He reached the office at half-past nine, handed in his "copy" and wentaway. He was in bed at half-past ten and was at once asleep. At eleven thenext morning a knocking awakened him from a sound sleep that had restoredand refreshed him. "A messenger from the office, " was called through thedoor in answer to his inquiry. He took the note from the boy and tore itopen:

"My dear Mr. Howard: Thank you for the splendid story you gave us lastnight. It is one of the best, if not the best, we have had the pleasure ofpublishing in years. Your salary has been raised to twenty-five dollars aweek. 

"Congratulations. You have 'caught on' at last. I'm glad to take back whatI said the other day. 

"HENRY C. BOWRING. "

III. 

A PARK ROW CELEBRITY. 

Kittredge was the first to congratulate him when he reached the office. "Everybody is talking about your story, " he said. "I must say I wassurprised when I read it. I had begun to fear that you would never catchthe trick--for, with most of us writing is only a trick. But now I see thatyou are a born writer. Your future is in your own hands. "

"You think I can learn to write?"

"That is the sane way to put it. Yes, I know that you can. If you'll onlynot be satisfied with the results that come easy, you will make areputation. Not a mere Park Row reputation, but the real thing. "

Howard got flattery enough in the next few days to turn a stronger headthan was his at twenty-two. But a few partial failures within a fortnightsobered him and steadied him. His natural good sense made him take himselfin hand. He saw that his success had been to a great extent a happyaccident; that to repeat it, to improve upon it he must study life, studythe art of expression. He must keep his senses open to impression. He mustwork at style, enlarge his vocabulary, learn the use of words, the effectof varying combinations of words both as to sound and as to meaning. "Imust learn to write for the people, " he thought, "and that means to writethe most difficult of all styles. "

He was, then and always, one of those who like others and are liked bythem, yet never seek company and so are left to themselves. As he had nomoney to spare and a deep aversion to debt, he was not tempted into joiningin the time-wasting dissipations that were now open to him. He worked hardat his profession and, when he left the office, usually went direct to hisrooms to read until far into the morning. He was often busy sixteen hoursout of the twenty-four. His day at reporting was long--from noon untilmidnight, and frequently until three in the morning. But the work was fardifferent from the grind which is the lot of the young men striving inother professions or in business. It was the most fascinating workimaginable for an intelligent, thirsty mind--the study of human natureunder stress of the great emotions. 

His mode of thought and his style made Mr. Bowring and Mr. King give himmuch of this particular kind of reporting. So he was always observing love, hate, jealousy, revenge, greed. He saw these passions in action in thelives of people of all kinds and conditions. And he saw little else. Thereporter is a historian. And history is, as Gibbon says, for the most part"a record of the crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind. "

For many a man this has been a ruinous, one-sided development. Howard wassaved by his extremely intelligent, sympathetic point of view. He saw thewhole of each character, each conflict that he was sent to study. If thepoint of the story was the good side of human nature--some act ofgenerosity or self-sacrifice--he did not exaggerate it into godlike heroismbut adjusted it in its proper prospective by bringing out its human qualityand its human surroundings. If the main point was violence or sordidness orbaseness, he saw the characteristics which relieved and partially redeemedit. His news-reports were accounts of the doings not of angels or devilsbut of human beings, accounts written from a thoroughly human standpoint. 

Here lay the cause of his success. In all his better stories--for he oftenwrote poor ones--there was the atmosphere of sincerity, of realism, themarks of an acute observer, without prejudice and with a justifiableleaning toward a belief in the fundamental worth of humanity. Where otherswere cynical he was just. Where others were sentimental, he had sincere, healthful sentiment. Where others were hysterical, he calmly and accuratelydescribed, permitting the tragedy to reveal itself instead of burying itbeneath high-heaped adjectives. Simplicity of style was his aim and he wasnever more delighted by any compliment than by one from the chief politicalreporter. 

"That story of yours this morning, " said this reporter whose lack as awriter was more than compensated by his ability to get intimatelyacquainted with public men, "reads as if a child might have written it. I don't see how you get such effects without any style at all. You justlet your story tell itself. "

"Well, you see, " replied Howard, "I am writing for the masses, and finewriting would be wasted upon them. "

"You're right, " said Jackman, "we don't need literature on this paper--longwords, high-sounding phrases and all that sort of thing. What we want isjust plain, simple English that goes straight to the point. "

"Like Shakespeare's and Bunyan's, " suggested Kittredge with a grin. 

"Shakespeare? Fudge!" scoffed Jackman. "Why he couldn't have made a livingas a space-writer on a New York newspaper. "

"No, I don't think he would have staid long in Park Row, " replied Kittredgewith a subtlety of meaning that escaped Jackman. 

A few days before New Year's the Managing Editor looked up and smiled asHoward was passing his desk. 

"How goes it?" he asked. 

"Oh, not so badly, " Howard answered, "but I am a good deal depressed attimes. "

"Depressed? Nonsense! You've got everything--youth, health and freedom. And by the way, you are going on space the first of the year. Our rule is ayear on salary before space. But we felt that it was about time tostrengthen the rule by making an exception. "

Howard stammered thanks and went away. This piece of news, droppedapparently so carelessly by Mr. King, meant a revolution in fortune forhim. It was the transition from close calculation on twenty-five dollars aweek to wealth beyond his most fanciful dreams of six months ago. Nothaving the money-getting instinct and being one of those who compare theirwork with the best instead of with the inferior, Howard never felt that hewas "entitled to a living. " He had a lively sense of gratitude for themoney return for his services which prudence presently taught him toconceal. 

"Space" meant to him eighty dollars a week at least--circumstances of ease. So vast a sum did it seem that he began to consider the problem ofinvestment. "I have been not badly off on twenty-five dollars a week, " hethought. "With, well, say forty dollars a week I shall be able to satisfyall my wants. I can save at least forty a week and that will mean anindependence with a small income by the time I am thirty-four. "

But--a year after he was put "on space" he was still just about even withhis debts. He seemed to himself to be living no better and it was only bycareful counting-up that he could see how that dream of independence hadeluded him. A more extensive wardrobe, a little better food, a morecomfortable suite of rooms, an occasional dinner to some friends, loans tobroken-down reporters, and the mysteriously vanished two thousand dollarswas accounted for. 

Howard tried to retrench, devised small ingenious schemes for saving money, lectured himself severely and frequently for thus trifling away his chanceto be a free man. But all in vain. He remained poor; and, whenever he gavethe matter thought, which was not often, gloomy forebodings as to thefuture oppressed him. "I shall find myself old, " he thought, "with nothingaccomplished, with nothing laid by. I shall be an old drudge. " Heunderstood the pessimistic tone of his profession. All about him were menlike himself--leading this gambler's life of feverish excitement andevanescent achievement, earning comfortable incomes and saving nothing, looking forward to the inevitable time of failing freshness and shatterednerves and declining income. 

He spasmodically tried to write stories for the magazines, contrived plotsfor novels and plays, wrote first chapters, first scenes of first acts. Butthe exactions of newspaper life, the impossibility of continuous effort atany one piece of work and his natural inertia--he was inert but neitheridle nor lazy--combined to make futile his efforts to emancipate himselffrom hand-to-mouth journalism. 

He had been four years a reporter and was almost twenty-six years old. Hewas known throughout his profession in New York, although he had neversigned an article. One remarkable "human interest" story after another hadforced the knowledge of his abilities upon the reporters and editors ofother newspapers. And he was spoken of as one of the best and in somerespects the best "all round reporter" in the city. This meant that he wascapable to any emergency--that, whatever the subject, he could write anaccurate, graphic, consecutive and sustained story and could get it intothe editor's hands quickly. 

Indeed he possessed facility to the perilous degree. What others achievedonly after long toil, he achieved without effort. This was due chiefly tothe fact that he never relaxed but was at all times the journalist, readingvoraciously newspapers, magazines and the best books, and using what heread; observing constantly and ever trying to see something that would make"good copy"; turning over phrases in his mind to test the value of wordsboth as to sound and as to meaning. He was an incessantly active man. Hisgreat weakness was the common weakness--failure to concentrate. In Park Rowthey regarded him as a brilliant success. Brilliant he was. But a successhe was not. He knew that he was a brilliant failure--and not verybrilliant. 

"Why is it?" he asked himself again and again in periods of reaction fromthe nervous strain of some exciting experience. "Shall I never seize any ofthese chances that are always thrusting themselves at me? Shall I alwaysact like a Neapolitan beggar? Will the stimulus to ambition never come?"

IV. 

IN THE EDGE OF BOHEMIA. 

Howard lived in Washington Square, South. He had gone to a "furnished-roomhouse" there because it was cheap. He staid because he was comfortable andwas without a motive for moving. 

It was the centre of the most varied life in New York. To the north layfashion and wealth, to the east and west, respectability and moderatemeans; to the south, poverty and squalor, vice and crime. All could be seenand heard from the windows of his sitting room. In the evenings towardspring he looked out upon a panorama of the human race such as is presentedby no other city in the world and by no other part of that city. Withinview were Americans of all kinds, French and Germans, Italians andAustrians, Spaniards and Moors, Scandinavians and negroes, born New Yorkersand born citizens of most of the capitals of civilisation andsemi-barbarism. There were actresses, dancers, shop girls, cocottes; touts, thieves, confidence-men, mission workers; artists and students from themusty University building, tramps and drunkards from the "barrel-houses"and "stale-beer shops;" and, across the square to the north, representatives of New York's oldest and most noted families. To the westwere apartment houses whence stiff, prim bookkeepers, floor-walkers, clerksand small shop-keepers issued with their families on Sundays, bound forchurch. There were other apartment houses--the most of them to thesouth--whence in the midnight hours came slattern servants and recklesslooking girls in loose wrappers and high-heeled slippers, pitcher in hand, bound for the nearest saloon. 

After dusk from early spring until late fall a multitude of interestingsounds mingled with the roar of the elevated trains to the west and southand the rumble of carriages in "the Avenue" to the north. Howard, readingor writing at his window on his leisure days, heard the young men and youngwomen laughing and shouting and making love under the trees where theWashington Arch glistened in the twilight. Later came the songs--"I wantyou, my honey, yes I do, " or "Lu, Lu, how I love my Lu!", or some other ofthe current concert-hall jingles. Many figures could be seen flitting aboutin the shadows. Usually these figures were in pairs; usually one was inwhite; usually at her waist-line there was a black belt that continued onuntil it was lost in the other and darker figure. 

Scraps of a score of languages--curses, jests, terms of endearment--wouldfloat up to him. Then came the hours of comparative silence, with the citybreathing softly and regularly, with the moon hanging low and the pale archrising above the dark trees like a giant ghost. There would be anoccasional drunken shout or shriek; a riotous roar of song from somestaggering reveller making company for himself on the journey home; theheavy step of the policeman. Or perhaps the only sound to disturb thecity's sleep would be that soft tread, timid as a mouse's, stealthy as ajackal's--the tread of a lonely woman with draggled silk skirt and paintedcheeks and eyes burning into the darkness, and a heart as bitter and as sadas no money, no home, no friends, no hope can make it. 

Once he threw a silver dollar from his window to the sidewalk well in frontof her. She did not see it flash downward but she heard it ring upon thewalk. She rushed forward and twice kicked it away from her in her frenzy toget it. When her bare hand--or was it a claw?--at last closed upon it, shegave a low scream, looked slyly and fearfully about, then ran as if deathwere at her heels. 

Soon after Howard was put "on space" he took the best suite of rooms in thehouse. It was a strange company which Mrs. Sands had gathered under herroof. Except Howard there was no one, not even Mrs. Sands herself, who didnot have so much past that there was little left for future. Indeed, perhaps none of these storm-tossed or wrecked human craft had had more of apast than Mrs. Sands. There was no mistaking the significance of those deepfurrows filled with powder and plastered with paint, those few hairs tintedand frizzed. But like all persons with real pasts Mrs. Sands and herlodgers kept the veil tightly drawn. They confessed to no yesterdays andthey did not dare think of to-morrow. They were incuriously awaiting theimpulse which was sure to come, sure to thrust them on downward. 

A new lodger at Mrs. Sand's usually took the best rooms that were to behad. Then, sometimes slowly, sometimes swiftly, came the retreat upwarduntil a cubby-hole under the eaves was reached. Finally came precipitateand baggageless departure, often with a week or two of lodging unpaid. Thenext pause, if pause there was, would be still nearer the river-bed or theMorgue. 

One morning when he had been living in Washington Square, South, about--three years, Howard was dressing hurriedly, the door of hissitting-room accidentally ajar. Through the crack he saw some one stoopingover the serving tray which he had himself put outside his door when he hadfinished breakfast. He looked more closely. It was "the clergyman" from upunder the eaves--an unfrocked priest, thin to emaciation, misery writtenupon his face even more deeply than weakness. He hastily bundled the bonesof two chops and a bit of bread into a stained and torn handkerchief, andsprang away up the stairs toward his little hole at the roof. 

Howard was in a hurry and so put off for the time action upon the naturalimpulse. When he came back at midnight, there was soon a knock at his door. He opened it and invited in the man at the threshold--a tall, stronglybuilt, erect German, with a dissipated handsome face, heavily scarred fromuniversity duels. 

"Pardon me for disturbing you, " said the German. His speech, his tone, hismanner, left no doubt as to his breeding though they raised the gravestdoubts as to his being willing to give a true account of why he had becomea tenant in that lodging house. 

"Will you have a cigarette and some whiskey?" inquired Howard. 

The German's glance lit and lingered upon the bottle of Scotch on thetable. "Concentrated, double-distilled friendship, " said he as he pouredout his drink. 

"But a friend that drives all others away, " smiled Howard. 

"I have found it of a very jealous disposition, " replied the German with acareless shrug of the shoulders and a lifting of the eyebrows. "But atleast this friend has the grace to stay after it has driven the othersaway. "

"To stay until the last piece of silver is gone. "

"But what more does one expect of a friend? Besides, we are overlooking onefriend--the one who helped our clerical fellow-lodger of the attic out ofhis troubles to-day. "

"His luck has turned?"

"Permanently. He shot himself this afternoon. "

"And only this morning I made up my mind to try to help him, " said Howardregretfully. 

"You could not have hoped to succeed so well. His case needed somethingmore than temporary expedient. But, to come to the point, I had a slightacquaintance with him. He left a note for me--mailed it just before heshot himself. In it he asked that I insert a personal in the Herald. Unfortunately I have not the money. I thought that you as a journalistmight be able to suggest something. "

The German held out a slip of cheap writing paper on which was written:"Helen--when you see this it will be over--L. "

"A good story, " was Howard's first thought, his news-instinct alert. Andthen he remembered that it was not for him to tell. "I will attend to thisfor you to-morrow. "

"Thank you, " said the German, helping himself to the whiskey. "Have youseen the new lodgers?"

"Those in the room behind me? Yes. I saw them at the front door as I camein. "

"They're a queer pair--the youngest I've seen in this house. I've beenwondering what tempest wrecked them on this forlorn coast so early in thevoyage. "

"Why wrecked?"

"My dear sir, we are all--except you--wrecks here, all unseaworthy atleast. "

"One of them was quite pretty, I thought, " said Howard, "the slender onewith the black hair. "

"They are not mates. The other girl is of a different sort. She's more usedto this kind of life, at least to poverty. I fancy Miss Black-Hair looks onit as a lark. But she'll find out the truth by the time she has mountedanother story. "

"Here, to go up means to go down, " Howard said, weary of the conversationand wishing that the German would leave. 

"They say that they're sisters, " the German went on, again helping himselfto the whiskey; "They say they have run away from home because of astepmother and that they are going to earn their own living. But theywon't. They spend the nights racing about with a gang of the young wretchesof this neighbourhood. They won't be able to stand getting up early forwork. And then----"

The German blew out a huge cloud of cigarette smoke, shrugged his shouldersand added: "Miss Black-Hair may get on up town presently. But I doubt it. The Tenderloin rarely recruits from down here. "

The bottle was empty and the German bowed himself out. As the night washot, Howard opened the door a few moments afterward. At the other end ofthe short hall light was streaming through the open door of the room thetwo girls had taken. Before he could turn, there was a shadow and "MissBlack-Hair" was standing in her doorway:

"Oh, " she began, "I thought----"

Howard paused, looking at her. She was above the medium height--tall for awoman--and slender. Her loose wrapper, a little open at her round throat, clung to her, attracting attention to all the lines of her form. Her hairwas indeed black, jet black, waving back from her forehead in a line ofcurving and beautiful irregularity. Her skin was clear and dark. There weredeep circles under her eyes, making them look unnaturally large, pathetically weary. In repose her face was childish and sadly serious. Whenshe smiled she looked older and pert, but no happier. 

"I thought, " she continued with the pert, self-confident smile, "that youwere my sister Nellie. I'm waiting for her. "

"You're in early tonight, " said Howard, the circles under her eyesreminding him of what the German had told him. 

"I haven't slept much for a week, " the girl replied, "I'm nearly dead. ButI won't go to bed till Nellie comes. "

Howard was about to turn when she went on: "We agreed always to staytogether. She broke it tonight. My fellow got too fresh, so I came home. She said she'd come too. That was an hour ago and she isn't here yet. "

"Isn't she rather young to be out alone at this time?"

Howard could hardly have told why he continued the conversation. Hecertainly would not, had she been less beautiful or less lonely andchildish. At his remark about her sister's youth she laughed with anexpression of cunning at once amusing and pitiful. 

"She's a year older than me, " she said, "and I guess I can take care ofmyself. Still she hasn't much sense. She'll get into trouble yet. Shedoesn't understand how to manage the boys when they're too fresh. "

"But you do, I suppose?" suggested Howard. 

"Indeed I do, " with a quick nod of her small graceful head, "I know whatI'm about. _My_ mother taught _me_ a few things. "

"Didn't she teach your sister also?"

"Miss Black-Hair" dropped her eyes and flushed a little, looking like achild caught in a lie. "Of course, " she said after a pause. 

"How long have you been without your mother?"

"I've been away from home four months. But I saw her in the streetyesterday. She didn't see me though. "

"Then you've got a step-father?"

"No, I haven't. Nellie told that to Mrs. Sands. But it's not so. You knowNellie's not my sister?"

"I fancied not from what you said a moment ago. "

"No, she used to be nurse girl in our family. We just say we're sisters. Iwish she'd come. I'm tired of standing. Won't you come in?"

She went into her room, her manner a frank and simple invitation. Howardhesitated, then went just inside the door and half sat, half leaned uponthe high roll of the lounge. The room was cheaply furnished, the lounge anda closed folding bed almost filling it. Upon the mantel, the bureau and thelittle table were a few odds and ends that stamped it a woman's room. Astreet gown of thin pale-blue cloth was thrown over a rocking chair. As thegirl leaned back in this chair with her face framed in the pale-blue of thegown, she looked tired and sad and beautiful and very young. 

"If Nellie doesn't look out, I'll go away and live alone, " she said, andthe accompanying unconscious look of loneliness touched Howard. 

"You might go back home. "

"You don't know my home or you wouldn't say that. You don't know myfather. " She had got upon the subject of herself, and, once in that roadshe kept it with no thought of turning out. "He can't treat me as he treatsmother. Why, he goes away and stays for days. Then he comes home andquarrels with her all the time. They never both sit through a meal. One orthe other flares up and leaves. He generally whipped me when he got verymad--just for spite. "

"But there's your mother. "

"Yes. She doesn't like my going away. But I can't stand it. Papa wouldn'tlet me go anywhere or let anybody come to see me. He says everybody's bad. I guess he's about right. Only he doesn't include himself. "

"You seem to have a poor opinion of people. "

"Well, you can't blame me. " She put on her wise look of experience andcraft. "I've been away, living with Nellie for four months and I've seen nogood to speak of. A girl doesn't get a fair chance. "

"But you've got work?"

"Oh, yes. We both stayed down in a restaurant, Nellie's got a place aswaiter. That's the best she could do. The man said I was good-lookingand would catch trade. So he made me cashier. I get six dollars a weekto Nellie's three. But it's a bad place. The men are always slipping notesin my hand when they give me their checks. Then the boss, he's alwaysbothering around. "

"But you don't have to work hard?"

"From nine till four. We get our lunch free. I pay three dollars on theroom and Nellie pays one. "

If Howard had not seen many such problems in economics before, he wouldhave been astonished at any one even hoping to be able to get two meals aday, clothing and carfare out of two or three dollars a week. As it was, heonly wondered how long a girl who had been used at least to comfort wouldendure this. "It's easy for the other girl, " he thought, "because she'sused to it. But this one--" and he decided that the "trouble" would beginas soon as her clothing was worn out. 

He noticed that she was pulling at the third finger of her right hand whereshe would have worn rings if she had had any. "You've had to pawn yourrings?" he ventured. 

She looked at him startled. "Did Nellie tell you?" she asked. 

"No, " he replied, "I saw that you were missing your rings and suspected therest. "

"Yes; that's so. I've pawned all my jewelry except a bracelet. Nellie can'tget along on her three dollars. She eats too much. "

"I should think you'd rather be at home. "

"As I told you before, " she said impatiently, "anything's better than home. Besides, I'm pretty well off. I go where I please, stay out as late as Iplease and have all the company I want. At home I'd have to be in bed atten o'clock. "

There was a sound at the front door down in the darkness. The girl startedfrom the chair, listened, then exclaimed: "There she comes now. And it'stwo o'clock!"

Howard took the hint, smiled and said: "Well, good-night. I'll see youagain. "

"Good-night, " the girl answered absently. 

From his room Howard heard Nellie coming up the stairs. "You're a niceone!" came in "Miss Black-Hair's" indignant voice, "Where have you been?Where did you and Jack go?"

The answer came in a sob--"Oh, Alice, you'll never forgive me!"

Their door closed upon the two girls but Howard could still hear Nellie'svoice tearful, pleading. There was the sound of some one falling heavilyupon the lounge, then sobs and cries of "Oh! Oh!" As Howard went into hisbedroom, he could hear the voices still more plainly through the thin wall. He caught the words only once. "Miss Black-Hair, " her voice shaking withanger, exclaimed: "Nellie Baker, you are a wicked girl, I shall go away. "

V. 

ALICE. 

Several nights later Howard came upon Alice at the front door, where ayoung man was detaining her in a lingering good-bye. Another night as hewas passing her room he saw her stretched upon the floor, her headsupported by her elbows and an open book in front of her. She looked sochildlike that Howard paused and said: "What is it--a fairy story?"

"No, it's a love story, " she replied, just glancing at him with a faintsmile and showing that she did not wish to be interrupted. The same nightas he was going to bed he heard the angry voices of the two girls. A weeklater, toward the end of July, he found Alice sitting on the front stoop, when he came from dinner. She was obviously in the depths of the "blues. "Her eyes, the droop of the corners of her mouth, even the colour of herskin indicated anxiety and depression. She looked so forlorn that he saidgently: "Wouldn't you like to walk in the Square?"

She rose at once. "Yes, I guess so. " They crossed to the green. She waswearing the pale-blue gown and it fitted her well. Neither in the gown norin the big hat with its coquettish flowers nodding over the brim was theremuch of fashion. But there was a certain distinction in her walk and hermanner of wearing her clothes; and to a pretty face and a graceful form wasadded the charm of youth, magnetic youth. 

"Do you want to walk?" she asked, lassitude in her voice. 

"No, let us sit, " he said, and they went to a bench near the arch. It wastwilight. The children were still romping and shouting. Many fat elderlywomen--mothers and grandmothers--were solemnly marching about, talking infat, elderly voices. 

"You have the blues?" asked Howard, thinking it might make her feel betterto talk of her troubles. "If I were your doctor, I should prescribe aseries of good cries. "

"I don't cry, " said the girl. "Sometimes I wish I could. Nellie cries andgets over things. I feel awful inside and sick and my eyes burn. But Ican't cry. "

"You're too young for that. "

"Oh, in some ways I'm young; again, I'm not. I hate everybody thisevening. "

"What's the matter? Has Nellie deserted you?"

"She? Not much. I had to tell her to go"--this with a joyless littlelaugh--"she quit work and wouldn't behave herself. So now I'm going onalone. " "And you won't go home?"

"Never in the world, " she said with almost fierce energy; then some thoughtmade her laugh in the same way as before. Howard decided that she had nottold him everything about her home life, even though she had rattled on asif there were nothing to conceal. He sat watching her, she looking straightbefore her, her small bare hands clasped in her lap. He was pitying herkeenly--this child, at once stunted and abnormally developed, this strayfrom one of the classes that keeps their women sheltered; and here she wasadrift, without any of those resources of experience which assist the girlsof the tenements. 

Her features were small, sensitive, regular. Her eyes were brown with linesof reddish gold raying from the pupils. Her chin and mouth were firmenough, yet suggested weakness through the passions. Her clear skin had theglow of youth and health upon its smooth surface. She was certainlybeautiful and she certainly had magnetism. 

"What do you think is going to become of you?" he asked. 

"I don't know, " she said, after a deep sigh. "A girl doesn't have a fairchance. I don't seem to be able to have any fun without getting intotrouble. I don't know what to think. It's all so black. I wish I was dead. "

Her dreary tone put the deepest pathos into her words. Howard had seendespondency in youth before--had felt it himself. But there had alwaysbeen a certain lightness in it. Here was a mere child who evidentlythought, and thought with reason, that there was no hope for her; and herdespair was not a passing cloud or storm, but a settled conviction. 

"There doesn't seem to be any chance for a young girl, " she repeated as ifthat phrase summed up all that was weighing upon her. And Howard fearedthat she, was right. Even the readiest of all commodities, advice, failedhim. "What can she do?" he thought. "If she has no home, worth speakingof"--then he went on aloud:

"Haven't you friends?"

She laughed again with that slight moving of the lips and with eyesmirthless. "Who wants me for a friend? Nobody'd think I was respectable. And I guess I'm not so very. There's Nellie and her--friends. Oh, the girlsjoin in with the men to drag other girls down. But I won't do that. I don'tcare what becomes of me--except that. "

"Why?" he asked, curious for her explanation of this aversion. 

"I don't know why, " she replied. "There doesn't seem to be any good reason. I've thought I would several times. And then--well, I just couldn't. "

Howard turned the subject and tried to draw her out of this mood. They satthere for several hours and became well acquainted. He found that she hadan intelligent way of looking at things, that she observed closely, andthat she appreciated and understood far more than he had expected. 

It was the beginning of a series of evenings spent together. He took herwith him on many of his assignments and they often dined together at "LeChat Noir" or the "Restaurant de Paris, " or "The Manhattan" over in SecondAvenue. Late in June she bought a new gown--a pale-grey with ribbons andhat to match. Howard was amused at the anxious expression in her gold-browneyes as she waited for his opinion. And when he said: "Well, well, I neversaw you look so pretty, " she looked much prettier with a slight colourrising to tint the usual pallor of her cheeks. 

One Sunday he came home in the afternoon and found her helping the maid atstraightening his rooms. As he lay on the lounge smoking he watched herlazily. She handled his books with a great deal of awe. She opened one ofthem and sat on the floor in the childlike way she often had. She readseveral sentences aloud. It was a tangle of technical words on the subjectof political economy. 

"What do you have such stupid things around for?" she said, smiling andrising. She began to arrange the books and papers on the table. He waslooking at her but thinking of something else when he became conscious thatshe had got suddenly white to the lips. He jumped to his feet. 

"What's the matter?" he asked, "are you going to faint?"

Her eyes were shining as with fever out of a ghostly face. Her lipstrembled as she answered: "Oh it's nothing. I do this often. " She wentslowly into the back room where the maid was. In a few minutes shereturned, apparently as usual. She flitted about uneasily, taking up nowone thing, now another in a purposeless, nervous way. 

"I never was in here before, " she said. "You've got lots of pretty things. Whose picture is this?"

"That? Oh, my sister-in-law out in Chicago. "

Howard did not then understand why she became so gay, why her eyes dancedwith happiness, why as soon as she went into the hall she began to sing andkept it up in her own room, quieting down only to burst forth again. He didnot even especially note the swift change, the, for her, extraordinary moodof high spirits. It was about this time that their relations began tochange. 

Howard had thought of her, or had thought that he thought of her, only as alonely and desolate child, to be taught so far as he was capable ofteaching and she of learning. He was conscious of her extreme youth and ofthe impassable gulf of thought and taste between them. He did not take herfeelings into account at all. It never occurred to him that this part offriend and patron which he was playing was not safe for him, not just andright toward her. 

One night he took her to a ball at the Terrace Garden--a respectable, amusing affair "under the auspices of the Young-German-American-Shooting-Society. " The next day a reporter for the _Sun_ whom heknew slightly said to him with a grin he did not like: "Mighty prettylittle girl you're taking about with you, Howard. Where'd you pick herup?"

Howard reddened, angry with himself for reddening, angry with the_Sun_ man for his impudence, ashamed that he had put himself and Alicein such a position. But the incident brought the matter of his relationwith her sharply and clearly before his mind and conscience. 

"This must stop, " he said to himself; "it must stop at once. It is unjustto her. And it is dragging me into an entanglement. "

But the mischief had been done. She loved him. And with the confidence ofyouth and inexperience, she was disregarding all the obstacles, was givingherself up to the dream that he would presently love her in return, withthe end as in the story books. Indeed love stories became her constantcompanions. Where she once read them for amusement, she now read them as aChristian reads his Bible--for instruction, inspiration, faith, hope andcourage. 

One evening in July--it was in the week of Independence Day--Howard'swindows and door were thrown wide to get the full benefit of whatever stirthere might be in the air. He was sprawled upon the lounge, the table drawnclose and upon it a lamp shedding a dim light through the room but enoughnear by to let him read. He had dropped his book and was thinking whether astroll in the Square in the moonlight would repay the trouble of moving. There were steps in the hall and then, peeping round the door-frame was theface of his young neighbour. 

"Hello, " he said, "I thought you were out somewhere. Come in. "

"No, I'm going to bed, " she answered, nevertheless gradually edging intothe room. She was wearing a loose wrapper of flowered silk, somewhat wornand never very fine. Her black hair hung in a long thick braid to her waistand she looked even younger than usual. 

"Where have you been all evening?" asked Howard. 

"Oh, I've been up to see a friend. She lives in Harlem, and she wants me tocome and live with her. "

"Are you going?" Howard inquired, noting that he was interested and notpleased. "The house wouldn't seem natural without you. "

She gave him a quick, gratified glance and, advancing further into theroom, sat upon the arm of the big rocking-chair. "She gave me a goodtalking to, " she went on with a smile. "She told me I ought not to livealone at my age. She said I ought to live with her and meet some friends ofhers. She said maybe I'd find a nice fellow to marry. "

Howard thought over this as he smoked and at last said in an ostentatiouslyjudicial tone: "Well, I think she's right. I don't see what else there isto do. You can't live on down here alone always. What's become of Nellie?"

"Nellie's got to be a bad girl, " said Alice with a blush and a dropping ofthe eyes. "She's in Fourteenth Street every night. She says she doesn'tcare what happens to her. I saw her last night and she wanted me to comewith her. She says it's of no use for me to put on airs. She says I've gotno friends and I might as well join her sooner as later. "

"Well?" Howard was keeping his eyes carefully away from hers. 

"Oh, I sha'n't go with her. As long as a girl has got anything at all tolive for, she doesn't want that. Besides I'd rather go to the East River. "

"Drowning's a serious matter, " said Howard with a smile and with banter inhis tone. 

"Yes, it is, " said the girl seriously, "I've thought of it. And I don'tbelieve I could. "

"Then you'd better go with your friend and get married. "

"I don't want to get married, " she replied, shaking her head slowly fromside to side. 

"That's what all the girls say, " laughed Howard. "But of course you will. It's the only thing to do. "

"Then why don't you get married?" asked Alice, tracing one of the flowersin her wrapper with her slim, brown forefinger. 

"I couldn't if I would and I wouldn't if I could. "

"Oh, you could get a nice girl to marry you, I'm sure, " she said, thecolour rising faintly toward her long, downcast lashes. 

"But who would get the money? It takes money to keep a nice girl. "

"Oh, not much, " said Alice earnestly, yet with a queer hesitation in hervoice. "You oughtn't to marry those extravagant girls. I've read about themand I think they don't make very good wives, real wives to save moneyand--and care. "

"You seem to know a good deal about these things for your age, " saidHoward, much amused and showing it. 

"I don't care, " she persisted, "you ought to get married. "

Howard felt that this was the time to clear the girl's mind of any"notions" she might have got. He would be very clever, very adroit. Hewould not let her suspect that he had any idea of her thoughts. Indeed hewas not perfectly certain that he had. But he would gently and frankly tellher the truth. 

"I shall never get married, " he said, sitting up and talking as one who isdiscussing a case which he understands thoroughly yet has no personalinterest in. "I haven't the money and I haven't the desire. I am what theywould call a confirmed bachelor. I wouldn't marry any girl who had not beenbrought up as I have been. We should be unhappy together unsuited each tothe other. She would soon hate me. Besides, I wish to be free. I care morefor freedom than I ever shall for any human being. As I am now, so I shallalways be, a wandering fellow without ties. It is not a pleasant prospectfor old age. But I have made up my mind to it and I shall never marry. "

The girl's hands had dropped limp into her lap; her face was down so thathe could barely see the burning blush which overspread it. 

"You don't mean that, " she said in a voice that was queer and choked. 

"Oh yes, I do, little girl, " he answered, intending to smile when sheshould look up. 

When she did lift her eyes, his smile could not come. For her face was greyand her lips bloodless and from her eyes looked despair. Howard glancedaway instantly. With rude hand he had suddenly toppled into the dust thischild's dream-castle of love and happiness which he had himself helped herbuild. He felt like a criminal. But partly from a sense of duty, chieflyfrom the cowardice of self-preservation, he made no effort to lighten hersuffering. 

"I should only prolong it, " he thought, "only make matters worse. To-morrow--perhaps. "

If she had been worldly wise, even if she had not been so completelyabsorbed in her worship of him that her woman-instincts were dormant, shewould herself have found hope. But she had not a suspicion that thesestrong words of apparent finality were spoken to give himself courage, tokeep him from obeying the impulse to respond to the appeal of her youth tohis, her aloneness to his, her passion to his. She believed him literally. 

There was a long silence. He heard her move, heard a suppressed cry andglanced toward her again. She was darting from the room. A second later herdoor crashed. He started up and after her, hesitated, returned to hisbook--but not to his reading. 

Toward noon the next day, he passed her room on his way out. The door waswide open; none of her belongings was in sight; the maid was sweepingenergetically. She paused when she saw him. 

"Miss Alice left this morning, " she said, "and the room's been let toanother party. "

VI. 

IN A BOHEMIAN QUICKSAND. 

Howard could have got her new address; and for many weeks habit, at firststeadily, afterward intermittently, teased him to look her up. He wasamazed at her hold upon him. At times the longing for her was so intensethat he almost suspected himself of being in love with her. 

"I escaped from that none too soon, " he congratulated himself. "It wasn'tnearly so one-sided as I thought. "

He had never been gregarious. Thus far he had not had a single intimatefriend, man or woman. He knew many people and knew them well. They likedhim and some of them sought his friendship. These were often puzzledbecause it was easy to get acquainted with him, impossible to know himintimately. 

The explanation of this combination of openness and reserve, friendlinessand unapproachableness, was that his boyhood and youth had been spentwholly among books. That life had trained him not to look to others foramusement, sympathy or counsel, but to depend upon himself. As histemperament was open and good-natured and sympathetic, he was as free fromenemies and enmities as he was from friends and friendships. 

Women there had been--several women, a succession of idealizations whichhad dispersed in the strong light of his common sense. He had neverdisturbed himself about morals in what he regarded as the limited sense. Healways insisted that he was free; and he was careful only of his personalpride and of taking no advantage of another. What he had said to Aliceabout marriage was true--as to his intentions, at least. A poor woman, hefelt, he could not marry; a rich woman, he felt, he would not marry. And hecared nothing about marriage because he was never lonely, never leaned orwished to lean upon another, abhorred the idea of any one leaning upon him;because he regarded freedom as the very corner-stone of his scheme of life. 

The nearest he had come to companionship was with Alice. With the otherwomen whom he had known in various degrees from warmth to white-heat, therehad been interruptions, no such constant freedom of access, no suchintermingling of daily life. Her he had seen at all hours and in allcircumstances. She never disturbed him but was ready to talk when he wishedto listen, listened eagerly when he talked, and was silent and beautifuland restful to look at when he wished to indulge in the dissipation ofmental laziness. 

As she loved him, she showed him only the best that there was in her andshowed it in the most attractive of all lights. 

While he was still wavering or fancying that he was wavering, the ManagingEditor sent him to "do" a great strike-riot in the coal regions ofPennsylvania. He was there for three weeks, active day and night, interested in the new phases of life--the mines and the miners, the displayof fierce passions, the excitement, the peril. 

When he returned to New York, Alice had ceased to tempt him. 

 * * * * *

One midnight in the early spring he was in his sitting room, reading and alittle bored. There came a knock at the door. He hoped that it was some onebringing something interesting or coming to propose a search for somethinginteresting. "Come in, " he said with welcome in his voice. The door opened. It was Alice. 

She was dressed much as she had been the first time he talked with her--aloose, clinging wrapper open at the throat. There was a change in herface--a change for the better but also for the worse. She looked moreintelligent, more of a woman. There was more sparkle in her eyes and in hersmile. But--Howard saw instantly the price she had paid. As the German hadsuggested, she had "got on up town. "

She was pulling at the long broad blue ribbons of her negligee. Her handswere whiter and her pink finger nails had had careful attention. Shesmiled, enjoying his astonishment. "I have come back, " she said. 

Howard came forward and took her hand. "I'm glad, very glad to see you. Fora minute I thought I was dreaming. "

"Yes, " she went on, "I'm in my old room. I came this afternoon. I must havebeen asleep, for I didn't hear you come in. "

"I hope it isn't bad luck that has flung you back here. "

"Oh, no. I've been doing very well. I've been saving up to come. And when Ihad enough to last me through the summer, I--I came. "

"You've been at work?"

She dropped her eyes and flushed. And her fingers played more nervouslywith her ribbons. 

"You needn't treat me as a child any longer, " she said at last in a lowvoice; "I'm eighteen now and--well, I'm not a child. "

Again there was a long pause. Howard, watching her downcast face, saw hersteadying her expression to meet his eyes. When she looked, it was straightat him--appeal but also defiance. 

"I don't ask anything of you, " she said, "we are both free. And I wanted tosee you. I was sick of all those others--up there. I've neverhad--had--this out of my mind. And I've come. And I can see you sometimes. I won't be in the way. "

Howard went over to the window and stared out into the lights and shadowsof the leafy Square. When he turned again she had lighted and was smokingone of his cigarettes. 

"Well, " he said smiling down at her, "Why not? Put on a street gown andwe'll go out and get supper and talk it over. "

She sprang up, her face alight. She was almost running toward the door. Midway she stopped, turned and came slowly back. She put one of her armsupon his shoulder--a slender, cool, smooth, white arm with the lace of thewide sleeve slipping away from it. She turned her face up until her mouth, like a rosebud, was very near his lips. There was appeal in her eyes. 

"I'm very, very glad to see you, " Howard said as he kissed her. 

 * * * * *

And so Howard's life was determined for the next four years. 

He worked well at his profession. He read a great deal. He wrote fictionand essays in desultory fashion and got a few things printed in themagazines. He led a life that was a model of regularity. But he knew thetruth--that Alice had ended his career. 

He was content. Ambition had always been vague with him and now his habitof following the line of least resistance had drifted him into thismill-pond. Sometimes, he would give himself up to bitter self-reproach, disgusted that he should be so satisfied, so non-resisting in a lot inevery way the reverse of that which he had marked out for himself. If hehad been chained he might, probably would, have broken away. But Alicenever attempted to control him. His will was her law. She was especiallyshrewd about money matters, so often the source of disputes andestrangements. Two months after she reappeared, she proposed that they takean apartment together. 

"I saw one to-day in West Twelfth Street at seventy dollars a month, " shesaid, "and I'm sure I could manage it so that you would be much better offthan you are now. "

He viewed this plan with suspicion. It definitely committed him to a modeof life which he had always regarded as degrading both to the man and thewoman and as certain of a calamitous ending. So he made excuses for delay, fully intending never to yield. But although Alice did not speak of herplan again, he found himself more and more attracted by it, caught himselfspeculating about various apartments he happened to see as he went aboutthe streets. She must have been conscious of what was going on in his mind;for when, a month after she had spoken, he said abruptly: "Where was thatapartment you saw?" she went straight on discussing the details as if therehad been no interval. She was ready to act. 

The apartment was taken in her name--Mrs. Cammack, the "Mrs. " beingnecessary to account for him. They selected the furniture together, he asinterested as she and very pleased to find that she had the same good tastein those matters that she had in dress. She took all the troubles andannoyances upon herself. When she invited him to assist in the arrangement, it was in matters that amused him and at times when she was sure he hadnothing else to do. It is not strange that he got a wholly false idea ofthe difficulties of setting up an establishment. 

After a month of selecting and discussing, of pleasure in the newexperience, pleasure in Alice's enthusiasm and excitement and happiness, hefound himself master of five attractive and comfortable rooms, hisclothing, his books, all his belongings properly arranged. The door wasopened for him by a cleanlooking coloured maid, with a tiny white cap onher head. 

As he looked around and then at the beautiful face with the wistful, gold-brown eyes so anxiously following his wandering glance, he was verynear to loving her. Indeed, he was like a husband who has left out thatperiod of passionate love which extends into married life until it givesplace to boredom, or to dislike, or to some such sympathetic affection ashe felt for Alice. "It is just this that holds me, " he thought, in hisinfrequent moods of dissatisfaction. "If we quarrelled or if there were anydeep feeling on my side, I should not be in this mess. I should be"--Well, where would he be? "Probably worse off, " he usually added. 

Certainly he could not have been freer, for she never questioned him; and, if she was ever uneasy or jealous when he came in late--for him--withouttelling her where he had been, she never showed it. She had no friends, andhe often wondered how she passed the time when he was not with her. Whenever he inquired he got the same answer: She had been busying herselfwith their home; she had been planning to save money or to make him morecomfortable; she had been reading to improve her mind and to enable herselfto start him talking on subjects that interested him. 

No matter how unexpectedly he looked in upon her life or her mind, hefound--himself. 

One day she said to him--it was after two years of this life: "Somethingis worrying you. Is it about me? You look at me so queerly at times. "

"Yes, " he answered. "It is about you. Tell me, Miss Black-Hair, do younever think of getting old?"

"No, " she smiled. "I shall wait until I am twenty-five before I begin tothink of that. "

"But don't you see that this sort of thing must stop sometime? It is unjustto you. When I think of it, I reproach myself for permitting us to get intoit. "

"I am happy, " she said, looking straight at him, terror in her eyes. 

"But you have no friends?"

"Who has? And what do I want with friends?"

"But don't you see, I can't introduce you to anybody. I can't talk aboutyou to the people I know. I am always having to explain you away, alwayshaving to act as if I were ashamed of this, my real life. At times I amAnglo-Saxon enough to be really ashamed of it. And I ought to be and amashamed of myself. "

"Don't let's talk about it. You and I understand. Why should we botherabout the rest of the world?"

"No, we _must_ talk about it. I have been going over it carefully. Wemust--must be married. "

He laid his hand upon hers. She blushed deeply and lowered her head. A teardropped upon the front of her gown and hung glittering in the meshes of thewhite lace. She crept into his arms and buried her face upon his shoulderand sobbed. He had never seen her even look like tears before. 

"We must be married, " he repeated, patting her on the shoulder. 

She shook her head in negation. 

"Yes, " he said firmly, mentally noting that this was the very first time hehad ever caught her in a pretense. 

"No. " Her tone was as firm as his. She lifted her head and put her cheekagainst his. "It makes me very proud that you ask it. But--I--I do not----"

"Do not--what?"

"I do not want--I will not--risk losing you. "

"But you won't lose me. You will have me more than ever. "

"Some men--yes. But not you. "

"And why not I, O Wisdom?"

"Because--because--do you think I have watched you all this time, withoutlearning something about you? The way to keep you is to leave you free. Ido not want your name. I do not want your friends I do not want to berespectable. I want--just you. "

"But are we not as good as married now?"

"Yes--that's it. And I want it to keep on. I never cared for anybody untilI saw you. I shall never care for anybody else. I never shall try. I wantyou as long as I can have you. And then----"

"And then, " Howard laughed or rather, pretended to laugh, "and then, 'Oh, dig me a grave both wide and deep, wide and deep. ' How liketwenty-years-old that is. "

She seemed not to hear his jest and presently went on: "Do you remember theevening before I left, down there at Mrs. Sands's?"

"The night you proposed to me?" Howard said, pulling her ear. 

She smiled faintly and continued: "I thought it all out that night. Iintended to come back just as I did. I went deliberately. I----"

Howard put his hand over her lips. 

"O, I am not going to tell anything, ", said she, evading his fingers. "Onlythis--that I understood you then, understood just why you would nevermarry. Not so clearly as I understand it now, but still I--understood. Andyou have been teaching me ever since, teaching me manners, teaching me howto read and think and talk. And more than all, you've taught me your way oflooking at life. "

Howard held her away from him and studied her face, surprise in his eyes. "Isn't it strange?" he said. 

"Here I've been seeing you day after day all this time, have had a chanceto know you better than I ever knew any one in my life, have had you verynear to me day and night. And just now, as I look at you, I see the realyou for the first time in two years. "

"I have been wondering when you would look at me again, " said Alice with asmall, sly smile. 

"Why, you are a woman grown. Where is the little girl I knew, the littlegirl who used to look up to me?"

"Oh, she's gone these two years. She proposed to you and, when you refusedher, she--died. "

"Yes--we must be married, " Howard went on. "Why not? It is more convenient, let us say. "

Alice shook her head and put her cheek against his again and clasped hisfingers in hers. "No, my instinct is against it. Some day--perhaps. But notnow, not now. I want you. I want only you. We are together out here--outbeyond the pale. Inside, others would come in and--and surely come betweenus. I want no others--none. "

VII. 

A LITTLE CANDLE GOES OUT. 

Howard was now thirty years old. Park Row had long ceased talking of him asa "coming man. " While his style of writing was steadily improving, he wrotewith no fixed aim, wrote simply for the day, for the newspaper which dieswith the day of its date. Some of his acquaintances wondered why a man ofsuch ability should thus stand still. The less observant spoke of him as animpressive example of the "journalistic blight. " Those who looked deepersaw the truth--a dangerous facility, a perilous inertia, a fatalentanglement. Facility enabled him to earn a good living with ease, workingas he chose. Inertia prevented him from seeking opportunities foradvancement. Entanglement shut him off from the men and women of his ownkind who would have thrust opportunities upon him and compelled him. 

Howard himself saw this clearly in his occasional moods of self-criticism. But as he saw no remedy, he raged intermittently and briefly, andstraightway relapsed. Vanity supplied him with many excuses andconsolations. Was he not one of the best reporters in the profession? Wherewas there another, where indeed in any profession were there many of hisage, making five thousand a year? Was he not always improving his mind? Washe not more and more careful in his personal habits? Was he not respectedby all who knew him; looked upon as a successful man; regarded by thosewith whom he came in daily contact as a leader in the profession, a modelfor style, a marvel for facility and versatility and for the quantity ofgood "copy" he could turn out in a brief time? But with all the soothingsof vanity he never could quite hide from himself that his life was afailure up to that moment. 

"Why try to lie to myself?" he thought. "It's never a question of what onehas done but always of what one could have and should have done. I amthirty and I have been marking time for at least four years. Preparing bystudy and reading? Yes, but not preparing for anything. "

On the whole he was glad that Alice had refused to marry him. Her reasonwas valid. But there was another which he thought she did not see. He wasdeceived as to the depth of her insight because he did not watch herclosely. He had no suspicion how many, many times, in their moments ofdemonstrativeness, she listened for those words which never came, listenedand turned away to hide from him the disappointment in her eyes. 

He did not love her--and she knew it. She did not inspire ambition inhim--and she knew it. She simply kept him comfortable and contented. Shesimply prevented his amatory instincts from gathering strength vigorouslyto renew that search which men and women keep up incessantly until theyfind what they seek. She knew this also but never permitted herself to seeit clearly. 

He was pleased with her but not proud of her. He was not exactly ashamed ofhis relation with her but--well, he never relaxed his precautions forkeeping it conventionally concealed. He still had a room at his club andoccupied it occasionally. He laughed at himself, despised himself ina--gentle, soothing way. But he excused himself to himself with earnestnessdespite his sarcasms at his own expense. And for the most of the time hewas content--so well, so comfortably content that if his mind had not beenso nervously active he would have taken on the form and look of settledmiddle-life. 

There was just the one saving quality--his mental alertness. All his lifehe had had insatiable intellectual curiosity. It had kept him from wastinghis time at play when he was a boy. It had kept him from plunging deeplyinto dissipation when youth was hot in his veins. It was now keeping himfrom the sluggard's fate. 

 * * * * *

On the last day of January--six weeks after his thirtieth birthday--he camehome earlier than usual, as they were going to the theatre and were to dineat seven. He found Alice in bed and the doctor sitting beside her. 

"You'll have to get some one else to go with you, I'm afraid, " she saidwith good-humoured resignation, a trifle over-acted. "My cold is worse andthe doctor says I must stay in bed. "

"Nothing serious?" Howard asked anxiously, for her cheeks were flaming. 

"Oh, no. Just the cold. And I am taking care of myself. "

He accompanied the doctor to the door of the apartment. At the thresholdthe doctor whispered: "Make some excuse and come to my office. I wish tosee you particularly. "

He grew pale. "Don't let her see, " urged the doctor. He went back to Alice, sick at heart. "I must go out and arrange for some one else to do the playfor me, " he said. "I shall spend the evening with you. "

She protested, but faintly. He went to the doctor's office. 

"She must go south at once, " he began, after looking at Howard steadily andkeenly. "Nothing can save her life. That may prolong it. "

Howard seemed not to understand. 

"She must go to-morrow or she'll be gone forever in ten days. "

"Impossible, " Howard said in a dull, dazed tone. 

"At once, I tell you--at once. "

"Impossible, " Howard repeated. He was saying to himself, "And only thisafternoon I wished I were free and wondered how I could free myself. " Helaughed strangely. 

"Impossible, " he said again. And again he laughed. The room swam around. Hestood up. "Impossible!" he said a fourth time, almost shouting it. And hestruck the doctor full in the face, reeled and fell headlong to the floor. When he recovered consciousness he was lying on a lounge, the doctor'sassistant standing beside him. 

"I must go to her, " he exclaimed and sat up. He saw the doctor a few feetaway, holding a cloth odorous of arnica to his cheek. Howard remembered andbegan, "I beg your pardon, "--The doctor interrupted with: "Not at all. I'vehad many queer experiences but never one like that. " But Howard had ceasedto hear. He was staring vacantly at the floor, repeating to himself, "And Iwished to be free. And I am to be free. "

"You must go back to her. Take her south tomorrow. Asheville is the bestplace. "

Howard was on his way to the door. "We shall go by the first train, " hesaid. 

"Pardon me for telling you so abruptly, " said the doctor, following him. "But I saw that you weren't--that is I couldn't help noticing that you andshe were--And usually the man in such cases--well, my sympathy is for thewoman. "

"Do you think a man voluntarily lives with a woman because he hates her?"Howard asked, with an angry sneer. He bowed coldly and was gone. 

As he looked at Alice he saw that it was of no use to try to deceive her. "We must go South in the morning, " he almost whispered, taking her hand andkissing it again and again, slowly and gently. 

The next day but one they were at Asheville and two weeks later Howardcould not hide from himself that she would soon be gone. 

 * * * * *

Her bed was drawn up to the open window and she Was propped with pillows. Amild breeze was flooding the room with the odours of the pine forests andthe gardens. She looked out, dilated her nostrils and her eyes. 

"Beautiful!" she murmured. "It is so easy to die here. "

She put out her hand and laid it in his. 

"I want you, my Alice. " He was looking into her eyes and she into his. "Ineed you. I can't do without you. "

She smiled with an expression of happiness. "Is it wrong, " she asked, "totake pleasure in another's pain? I see that you are in pain, that yousuffer. And, oh, it makes me happy, so happy. "

"Don't, " he begged. "Please don't. "

"But listen, " she went on. "Don't you see why? Because I--because I loveyou. There, " she was smiling again. "I promised myself I never, never wouldsay it first. And I've broken my word. "

"What do you mean?"

"For nearly four years--all the years I've really lived--I have had onlyone thought--my love for you. But I never would say it, never would say 'Ilove you, ' because I knew that you did not love me. "

He was beginning to speak but she lifted her hand to his lips. Then she putit back in his and pushed her fingers up his coat-sleeve until they werehidden, resting upon his bare arm. 

"No, you did not. " Her voice was low and the words came slowly. "But sincewe came here, you have loved me. If I were to get well, were to go back, you would not. Ah, if you knew, if you only knew how I have wanted yourlove, how I have lain awake night after night, hour after hour, whisperingunder my breath 'I love you. I love you. Why do you not love me?'"

Howard put his head down so that his face was hid from her in her lap. 

"After the doctor had talked to me a few minutes, had asked me a fewquestions, " she went on, "I knew. And I was not sorry. It was nearly over, anyhow, dear. Did you know it? I often wondered if you did. Yes, I saw manylittle signs. I wouldn't admit it to myself until this illness came. Then Iconfessed it to myself. And I was not sorry we were to part this way. But Idid not expect"--and she drew a long breath--"happiness!"

"No, no, " he protested, lifting his face and looking at her. She drank inthe expression of his eyes--the love, the longing, the misery--as if it hadbeen a draught of life. 

"Ah, you make me so happy, so happy. How much I owe to you. Four long, long, beautiful years. How much! How much! And at last--love!"

There was silence for several minutes. Then he spoke: "I loved you from thefirst, I believe. Only I never appreciated you. I was so self-absorbed. Andyou--you fed my vanity, never insisted upon yourself. "

"But we have had happiness. And no one, no one, no one will ever be to youwhat I have been. "

"I love you. " Howard's voice had a passionate earnestness in it thatcarried conviction. "The light goes out with you. "

"With this little candle? No, no, dear--_my_ dear. You will be a greatman. You will not forget; but you will go on and do the things that I'mafraid I didn't help, maybe hindered, you in trying to do. And you willkeep a little room in your heart, a very little room. And I shall be inthere. And you'll open the door every once in a while and come in and takeme in your arms and kiss me. And I think--yes, I feel that--that I shallknow and thrill. "

Her voice sank lower and lower and then her eyes closed, and presently hecalled the nurse. 

The next day he rose from his bed, just at the connecting door between hisroom and hers, and looked in at her. The shades were drawn and only a faintlight crept into the room. He thought he saw her stir and went nearer. 

"Why, they've made you very gay this morning, " he laughed, "with the redribbons at your neck. "

There was no answer. He came still nearer. The red ribbons were longstreamers of blood. She was dead. 

VIII. 

A STRUGGLE FOR SELF-CONTROL. 

He left her at Asheville as she wished--"where I have been happiest andwhere I wish you to think of me. " On the train coming north he reviewed hispast and made his plans for the future. 

As to the past he had only one regret--that he had not learned toappreciate Alice until too late. He felt that his failure to advance hadbeen due entirely to himself--to his inertia, his willingness to seize anypretext for refraining from action. As to the future--work, work with apurpose. His mind must be fully and actively occupied. There must be noleisure, for leisure meant paralysis. 

At the Twenty-third Street ferry-house he got into a hansom and gave theaddress of "the flat. " He did not note where he was until the hansom drewup at the curb. He leaned forward and looked at the house--at theirwindows with the curtains which she had draped so gracefully, which she andhe had selected at Vantine's one morning. How often he had seen herstanding between those curtains, looking out for him, her blue-black hairwaving back from her forehead so beautifully and her face ready to smile sosoon as ever she should catch sight of him. 

He leaned back and closed his eyes. The blood was pounding through histemples and his eyeballs seemed to be scalding under the lids. 

"Never again, " he moaned. "How lonely it is. "

The cabman lifted the trap. "Here we are, sir. "

"Yes--in a moment. " Where should he go? But what did it matter? "To ahotel, " he said. "The nearest. "

"The Imperial?"

"That will do--yes--go there. "

He resolved never to return to "the flat. " On the following day he sent forthe maid and arranged the breaking up. He gave her everything except hispersonal belongings and a few of Alice's few possessions--those he couldkeep, and those which he must destroy because he could not endure thethought of any one having them. 

At the office all understood his mourning; but no one, not even Kittredge, knew him well enough to intrude beyond gentler looks and tones. Kittredgehad written a successful novel and was going abroad for two years of traveland writing. Howard took his rooms in the Royalton. They dined together afew nights before he sailed. 

"And now, " said Kittredge, "I'm my own master. Why, I can't begin to fillthe request for 'stuff. ' I can go where I please, do as I please. At last Ishall work. For I don't call the drudgery done under compulsion work. "

"Work!" Howard repeated the word several times absently. Then he leanedforward and said with what was for him an approach to the confidential:"What a mess I have been making of my life! What waste! What folly! I'vebehaved like a child, an impulsive, irresponsible child. And now I must getto work, really to work. "

"With your talents a year or so of work would free you. "

"Oh, I'm free. " Howard hesitated and flushed. "Yes, I'm free, " he repeatedbitterly. "We are all free except for the shackles we fasten upon ourselvesand can unlock for ourselves. I don't agree with you that earning one'sdaily bread is drudgery. "

"Well, let's see you work--work for something definite. Why don't you tryfor some higher place on the paper--correspondent at Washington orLondon--no, not London, for that is a lounging job which would ruin even anenergetic man. Why not try for the editorial staff? They ought to havesomebody upstairs who takes an interest in something besides politics. "

"But doesn't a man have to write what he doesn't believe? You know howSegur is always laughing at the protection editorials he writes, althoughhe is a free-trader. "

"Oh, there must be many directions in which the paper is free to expresshonest opinions. "

Howard began that very night. As soon as he reached his club where he wasliving for a few days he sat down to the file of the _News-Record_ andbegan to study its editorial style and method. He had learned a great dealbefore three o'clock in the morning and had written a short editorial on asubject he took from the news. In the morning he read his article again anddecided that with a few changes--adjectives cut out, long sentences cut up, short sentences made shorter and the introduction and the conclusionomitted--it would be worth handing in. With the corrected article in hishand he knocked at the door of the editor's room. 

It was a small, plainly furnished office--no carpet, three severe chairs, arevolving book case with a battered and dusty bust of Lincoln on it, atable strewn with newspaper cuttings. Newspapers from all parts of theworld were scattered about the floor. At the table sat the editor, Mr. Malcolm, whom Howard had never before seen. 

He was short and slender, with thin white hair and a smooth, satiricalface, deeply wrinkled and unhealthily pale. He was dressed in black butwore a string tie of a peculiarly lively shade of red. His most conspicuousfeature was his nose--long, narrow, pointed, sarcastic. 

"My name is Howard, " began the candidate, all but stammering before Mr. Malcolm's politely uninterested glance, "and I come from downstairs. "

"Oh--so you are Mr. Howard. I've heard of you often. Will you be seated?"

"Thank you--no. I've only brought in a little article I thought I'd submitfor your page. I'd like to write for it and, if you don't mind, I'll bringin an article occasionally. "

"Glad to have it. We like new ideas; and a new pen, a new mind, ought toproduce them. If you don't see your articles in the paper, you'll know whathas happened to them. If you do, paste them on space slips and send them upby the boy on Thursdays. " Mr. Malcolm nodded and smiled and dipped his penin the ink-well. 

The editorial appeared just as Howard wrote it. He read and reread it, admiring the large, handsome editorial type in which it was printed, anddeciding that it was worthy of the excellent place in the column which Mr. Malcolm had given it. He wrote another that very day and sent it up by theboy. He found it in his desk the next noon with "Too abstract--never forgetthat you are writing for a newspaper" scrawled across the last page in bluepencil. 

In the two following months Howard submitted thirty-five articles. Threewere published in the main as he wrote them, six were "cut" to paragraphs, one appeared as a letter to the editor with "H" signed to it. The othersdisappeared. It was not encouraging, but Howard kept on. He knew that if hestopped marching steadily, even though hopelessly, toward a definite goal, a heavy hand would be laid upon his shoulder to drag him away and fling himdown upon a grave. 

As it was, desperately though he fought to refrain from backward glances, he was now and again taken off his guard. A few of her pencil marks on themargin of a leaf in one of his books; a gesture, a little mannerism of somewoman passing him in the street--and he would be ready to sink down withweariness and loneliness, like a tired traveller in a vast desert. 

He completely lost self-control only once. It was a cold, wet May night andeverything had gone against him that day. He looked drearily round hisrooms as he came in. How stiff, how forbidding, how desert they seemed! Hethrew himself into a big chair. 

"No friends, " he thought, "no one that cares a rap whether I live or die, suffer or am happy. Nothing to care for. Why do I go on? What's the use ifone has not an object--a human object?"

And their life together came flooding back--her eyes, her kisses, herattentions, her passionate love for him, so pervasive yet so unobtrusive;the feeling of her smooth, round arm about his neck; her way of pressingclose up to him and locking her fingers in his; the music of her voice, singing her heartsong to him yet never putting it into words----

He stumbled over to the divan and stretched himself out and buried his facein the cushions. "Come back!" he sobbed. "Come back to me, dear. " And thenhe cried, as a man cries--without tears, with sobs choking up into histhroat and issuing in moans. 

"Curious, " he said aloud when the storm was over and he was sitting up, ashamed before himself for his weakness, "who would have suspected me ofthis?"

IX. 

AMBITION AWAKENS. 

Howard was now thirty-two. He was still trying for the editorial staff; butin the last month only five of his articles had been printed totwenty-three thrown away. A national campaign was coming on and the_News-Record_ was taking a political stand that seemed to him soundand right. For the first time he tried political editorials. 

The cause aroused his passion for justice, for democratic equality and theabolition of privilege. He had something to say and he succeeded in sayingit vigorously, effectively, with clearness and moderation of statement. Howto avoid hysteria; how to set others on fire instead of only making ofhimself a fiery spectacle; how to be earnest, yet calm; how to be satiricalyet sincere; how to be interesting, yet direct--these were his objects, pursued with incessant toiling, rewriting again and again, recasting ofsentences, careful balancing of words for exact shades of meaning. 

"I shall never learn to write, " had been his complaint of himself tohimself for years. And in these days it seemed to him that he was fartherfrom a good style than ever. His standards had risen, were rising; hefeared that his power of accomplishment was failing. Therefore his heartsank and his face paled when an office boy told him that Mr. Malcolm wishedto see him. 

"I suppose it's to tell me not to annoy him with any more of my attempts, "he thought. "Well, anyway, I've had the benefit of the work. I'll try anovel next. "

"Take a seat, " said Mr. Malcolm with an absent nod. "Just a moment, if youplease. "

On a chair beside him was the remnant of what had been a huge up-piling ofnewspapers--the exchanges that had come in during the past twenty-fourhours. The Exchange Editor had been through them and Mr. Malcolm wasreading "to feel the pulse of the country" and also to make sure thatnothing of importance had been overlooked. 

On the floor were newspapers by the score, thrown about tumultuously. Mr. Malcolm would seize a paper from the unread heap, whirl it open and sendhis glance and his long pointed nose tearing down one column and upanother, and so from page to page. It took less than a minute for him tofinish and filing away great sixteen page dailies. A few seconds sufficedfor the smaller papers. Occasionally he took his long shears and with askilful twist cut out a piece from the middle of a page and laid it and theshears upon the table with a single motion. 

"Now, Mr. Howard. " Malcolm sent the last paper to increase the chaos on thefloor and faced about in his revolving chair. "How would you like to comeup here?"

Howard looked at him in amazement. "You mean----"

"We want you to join the editorial staff. Mr. Walker has married him a richwife and is going abroad to do literary work, which means that he is goingto do nothing. Will you come?"

"It is what I have been working for. "

"And very hard you have worked. " Mr. Malcolm's cold face relaxed into ahalf-friendly, half-satirical smile. "After you'd been sending up articlesfor a fortnight, I knew you'd make it. You went about it systematically. Anintelligent plan, persisted in, is hard to beat in this world of laggardsand hap-hazard strugglers. "

"And I was on the point of giving up--that is, giving up this particularambition, " Howard confessed. 

"Yes, I saw it in your articles--a certain pessimism and despondency. Youshow your feelings plainly, young man. It is an excellent quality--butdangerous. A man ought to make his mind a machine working evenly withoutregard to his feelings or physical condition. The night my oldest childdied--I was editor of a country newspaper--I wrote my leaders as usual. Inever had written better. You can be absolute master inside, if you will. You can learn to use your feelings when they're helpful and to shut themoff when they hinder. "

"But don't you think that temperament----"

"Temperament--that's one of the subtlest forms of self-excuse. However, theplace is yours. The salary is a hundred and twenty-five a week--an advanceof about twelve hundred a year, I believe, on your average downstairs. Canyou begin soon?"

"Immediately, " said Howard, "if the City Editor is satisfied. "

An office boy showed him to his room--a mere hole-in-the-wall with justspace for a table-desk, a small table, a case of shelves for books ofreference, and two chairs. The one window overlooked the lower end ofManhattan Island--the forest of business buildings peaked with theTitan-tenements of financial New York. Their big, white plumes of smoke andsteam were waving in the wind and reflecting in pale pink the crimson ofthe setting sun. 

Howard had his first taste of the intoxication of triumph, his first deepinspiration of ambition. He recalled his arrival in New York, his timidity, his dread lest he should be unable to make a living--"Poor boy, " they usedto say at home, "he will have to be supported. He is too much of adreamer. " He remembered his explorations of those now familiar streets--howacutely conscious he had been that they were paved with stone, walled withstone, roofed with a stony sky, peopled with faces and hearts of stone. Howmiserably insignificant he had felt!

And all these years he had been almost content to be one of the crowd, likethem exerting himself barely enough to provide himself with the essentialsof existence. Like them, he had given no real thought to the morrow. Andnow, with comparatively little labour, he had put himself in the way tobecome a master, a director of the enormous concentrated energies summed upin the magic word New York. 

The key to the situation was--work, incessant, self-improving, self-developing. "And it is the key to happiness also, " he thought. "Workand sleep--the two periods of unconsciousness of self--are the two periodsof happiness. "

His aloofness freed him from the temptations of distraction. He knew nowomen. He did not put himself in the way of meeting them. He kept away fromtheatres. He sunk himself in a routine of labour which, viewed from theoutside, seemed dull and monotonous. Viewed from his stand-point ofacquisition, of achievement, it was just the reverse. 

The mind soon adapts itself to and enjoys any mental routine whichexercises it. The only difficulty is in forming the habit of the routine. 

Howard was greatly helped by his natural bent toward editorial writing. Theidea of discussing important questions each day with a vast multitude as anaudience stirred his imagination and aroused his instincts for helping onthe great world-task of elevating the race. This enthusiasm pleased andalso amused his cynical chief. 

"You believe in things?" Malcolm said to him after they had become wellacquainted. "Well, it is an admirable quality--but dangerous. You will needcareful editing. Your best plan is to give yourself up to your belief whileyou are writing--then to edit yourself in cold blood. That is the secret ofsuccess, of great success in any line, business, politics, aprofession--enthusiasm, carefully revised and edited. "

"It is difficult to be cold blooded when one is in earnest. "

"True, " Malcolm answered, "and there is the danger. My own enthusiasms areconfined to the important things--food, clothing and shelter. It seems tome that the rest is largely a matter of taste, training and time of life. But don't let me discourage you. I only suggest that you may have to guardagainst believing so intensely that you produce the impression of being animpracticable, a fanatic. Be cautious always; be especially cautious whenyou are cocksure you're right. Unadulterated truth always arouses suspicionin the unaccustomed public. It has the alarming tastelessness of distilledwater. "

Howard was acute enough to separate the wisdom from the cynicism of hischief. He saw the lesson of moderation. "You have failed, my very ablechief, " he said to himself, "because you have never believed intenselyenough to move you to act. You have attached too much importance to theadulteration--the folly and the humbug. And here you are, still only acritic, destructive but never constructive. "

At first his associates were much amused by his intensity. But as helearned to temper and train his enthusiasm they grew to respect both hisability and his character. Before a year had passed they were feeling theinfluence of his force--his trained, informed mind, made vigorous byprinciples and ideals. 

Malcolm had the keen appreciation of a broad mind for this honest, intelligent energy. He used the editorial "blue-pencil" for alteration andcondensation with the hand of a master. He cut away Howard's crudities, toned down and so increased his intensity, and pointed it with the ironyand satire necessary to make it carry far and penetrate easily. 

Malcolm was at once giving Howard a reputation greater than he deserved andtraining him to deserve it. 

 * * * * *

In the office next to Howard's sat Segur, a bachelor of forty-five who tooklife as a good-humoured jest and amused his leisure with the New Yorkerswho devote a life of idleness to a nervous flight from boredom. Howardinterested Segur who resolved to try to draw him out of his seclusion. 

"I'm having some people to dinner at the Waldorf on Thursday, " he said, looking in at the door. "Won't you join us?"

"I'd be glad to, " replied Howard, casting about for an excuse fordeclining. "But I'm afraid I'd ruin your dinner. I haven't been out foryears. I've been too busy to make friends or, rather, acquaintances. "

"A great mistake. You ought to see more of people. "

"Why? Can they tell me anything that I can't learn from newspapers or booksmore accurately and without wasting so much time? I'd like to know theinteresting people and to see them in their interesting moments. But Ican't afford to hunt for them through the wilderness of nonentities andwait for them to become interesting. "

"But you get amusement, relaxation. Then too, it's first-hand study oflife. "

"I'm not sure of that. Yawning is not a very attractive kind of relaxation, is it? And as for study of life, eight years of reporting gave me more ofthat than I could assimilate. And it was study of realities, not ofpretenses. As I remember them, 'respectable' people are all about the same, whether in their vices or in their virtues. They are cut from a fewfamiliar, 'old reliable' patterns. No, I don't think there is much to belearned from respectability on dress parade. "

"You'll be amused on Thursday. You must come. I'm counting on you. "

Howard accepted--cordially as he could not refuse decently. Yet he had apresentiment or a shyness or an impatience at the interruption of hisroutine which reproached him for accepting with insistence and persistence. 

X. 

THE ETERNAL MASCULINE. 

It was the first week in November, and in those days "everybody" did notstay in the country so late as now. There were many New Yorkers in thecrowd of out-of-town people at the Waldorf. Howard was attracted, fascinated by the scene--carefully-groomed men and women, the air of gaietyand ease, the flowers, the music, the lights, the perfumes. At a glance itseemed a dream of life with evil and sorrow and pain banished. 

"No place for a working man, " thought he, "at least not for my kind of aworking man. It appeals too sharply to the instincts for laziness andluxury. "

He was late and stood in the entrance to the palm-garden, looking about forSegur. Soon he saw him waving from a table near the wall under themusic-alcove. 

"The oysters are just coming, " said Segur. "Sit over there between Mrs. Carnarvon and Miss Trevor. They are cousins, Howard, so be cautious whatyou say to one about the other. Oh, here is Mr. Berersford. "

The others knew each other well; Howard knew them only as he had seen theirnames in the "fashionable intelligence" columns of the newspapers. Mrs. Carnarvon was a small thin woman in a black velvet gown which made herthinness obtrusive and attractive or the reverse according as one's tasteis toward or away from attenuation. Her eyes were a dull, greenish grey, her skin brown and smooth and tough from much exposure in the huntingfield. Her cheeks were beginning to hang slightly, so that one said: "Sheis pretty, but she will soon not be. " Her mouth proclaimed strongappetites--not unpleasantly since she was good-looking. 

Miss Trevor was perhaps ten years younger than her cousin, not far fromtwenty-four. She had a critical, almost amused yet not unpleasant way oflooking out of unusually clear blue-green eyes. Her hair was of an ordinaryshade of dark brown, but fine and thick and admirably arranged to set offher long, sensitive, high bred features. Her chin and mouth expresseddecision and strong emotions. 

There was a vacant chair between Segur and Berersford and it was presentlyfilled by a fat, middle-aged woman, neither blonde nor brunette, with alarge, serene face. Upon it was written a frank confession that she hadnever in her life had an original thought capable of creating a ripple ofinterest. She was Mrs. Sidney, rich, of an "old" family--in the New Yorkmeaning of the word "old"--both by marriage and by birth, much courtedbecause of her position and because she entertained a great deal both intown and at a large and hospitable country house. 

The conversation was lively and amused, or seemed to amuse, all. It waspurely personal--about Kittie and Nellie and Jim and Peggie and Amy andBob; about the sayings and doings of a few dozen people who constituted theintimates of these five persons. 

Mrs. Carnarvon turned to the silent Howard at last and began about theweather. 

"Horrible in the city, isn't it?"

"Well, perhaps it is, " replied Howard. "But I fancied it delightful. Yousee I have not lived anywhere but New York for so long that I am hardlycapable to judge. "

"Why everybody says we have the worst climate in the world. "

"Far be it from me to contradict everybody. But for me New York has theideal climate. Isn't it the best of any great city in the world? You see, we have the air of the sea in our streets. And when the sun shines, whichit does more days in the year than in any other great city, the effect islike champagne--or rather, like the effect champagne looks as if it oughtto have. "

"I hate champagne, " said Mrs. Carnarvon. "Marian, you must not drink it;you know you mustn't. " This to Miss Trevor who was lifting the glass to herlips. She drank a little of the champagne, then set the glass down slowly. 

"What you said made me want to drink it, " she said to Howard. "I was gladto hear your lecture on the weather. I had never thought of it before, butNew York really has a fine climate. And only this afternoon I let thatstupid Englishman--Plymouth--you've met him? No?--Well, at any rate, he wasdenouncing our climate and for the moment I forgot about London. "

"Frightful there, isn't it, after October and until May?"

"Yes, and the air is usually stale even in the late spring. When it's warm, it's sticky. And when it's cold, it's raw. "

"You are a New Yorker?"

"Yes, " said Miss Trevor faintly, and for an instant showing surprise at hisignorance. "That is, I spend part of the winter here--like all NewYorkers. "

"All?"

"Oh, all except those who don't count, or rather, who merely count. "

"How do you mean?" Howard was taking advantage of her looking into herplate to smile with a suggestion of irony. She happened to glance up and socaught him. 

"Oh, " she said, smiling with frank irony at him, "I mean all thosepeople--the masses, I think they're called--the people who have to befussed over and reformed and who keep shops and--and all that. "

"The people who work, you mean?"

"No, I mean the people you never meet about anywhere, the people who readthe newspapers and come to the basement door. "

"Oh, yes, I understand. " Howard was laughing. "Well, that's one way oflooking at life. Of course it's not my way. "

"What is your way?"

"Why, being one of those who count only in the census, I naturally take aview rather different from yours. Now I should say that _your_ peopledon't count. You see, I am most deeply interested in people who readnewspapers. "

"Oh, you write for the papers, like Jim Segur? What do you write?"

"What they call editorials. "

"You are an editor?"

"Yes and no. I am one of the editors who does not edit but is edited. "

"It must be interesting, " said Miss Trevor, vaguely. 

"More interesting than you imagine. But then all work is that. In fact workis the only permanently interesting thing in life. The rest producesdissatisfaction and regret. "

"Oh, I'm not so very dissatisfied. Yet I don't work. "

"Are you quite sure? Think how hard you work at being fitted for gowns, atgoing about to dinners and balls and the like, at chasing foxes and aniseseed bags and golf balls. "

"But that is not work. It is amusing myself. "

"Yes, you think so. But you forget that you are doing it in order that allthese people who don't count may read about it in the papers and so get alittle harmless relaxation. "

"But we don't do it to get into the papers. "

"Probably not. Neither did this--what is it here in my plate, a lambchop?--this lamb gambol about and keep itself in condition to form a courseat Segur's dinner. But after all, wasn't that what it was really for? Thenthink how many people you support by your work. "

"You make me feel like a day-labourer. "

"Oh, you're a much harder worker than any day labourer. And the saddestpart of it to me is that you work altogether for others. You give, give andget in return nothing but a few flattering glances, a few careless pats onthe back of your vanity. I should hate to work so hard for so little. "

"But what would you do?" Miss Trevor was looking at him, interested andamused. 

"Well, I'd work for myself. I'd insist on a return, on getting backsomething equivalent or near it. I'd insist on having my mind improved, orhaving my power or my reputation advanced. "

"I was only jesting when I said that about people not counting. "

"Altogether?"

"No, not altogether. I don't care much about the masses. They seem to me tobe underbred, of a different sort. I hate doing things that are useful andI hate people that do useful things--in a general way, I mean. "

"That is doubtless due to defective education, " said Howard, with a smilethat carried off the thrust as a jest. 

"Is that the way you'd describe a horror of contact with--well, withunpleasant things?" Miss Trevor was serious. 

"But is it that? Isn't it just an unconscious affectation, taken up simplybecause all the people about you think that way--if one can call theprocess thinking? You don't think, do you, that it is a sign of superiorityto be narrow, to be ignorant, to be out of touch with the great masses ofone's fellow-beings, to play the part of a harlequin or a ballet-girl onthe stage of life? I understand how a stupid ass can fritter away his onechance to live in saying and hearing and doing silly things. But ought notan intelligent person try to enjoy life, try to get something substantialout of it, try to possess himself of its ideas and emotions? Why should oneplay the fool simply because those about one are incapable of playing anyother part?"

"I'm surprised that you are here to-night. Still, I suppose you'll giveyourself absolution on the plea that one must dine somewhere. "

"But I'm not wasting my time. I'm learning. I'm observing a phase of life. And I'm seeing the latest styles in women's gowns and--"

"Is that important--styles, I mean?"

"Do you suppose that my kind of people, the working classes, would spend somuch time and thought in making anything that was not important? There isnothing more important. "

"Then you don't think we women are wasting time when we talk about dress somuch?"

"On the contrary, it is an evidence of your superior sagacity. Women talktrade, 'shop, ' as soon as they get away from the men. They talk men anddress--fish and nets. "

Berersford heard the word fish and interrupted. 

"Do you go South next month, Marian?"

"Yes--about the fifteenth. " Miss Trevor explained to Howard: "Bobby--Mr. Berersford here--always fishes in Florida in January. "

The conversation again became general and personal. Howard knew none of thepeople of whom they were talking and all that they said was of the natureof gossip. But they talked in a sparkling way, using good English, speakingin agreeable voices with a correct accent, and indulging in a great deal ofmalicious humour. 

As they separated Mrs. Sidney, to whom Howard had not spoken during theevening, said to Segur: "You must bring Mr. Howard on Sunday afternoon. "

"Will you drop Marian at the house for me?" Mrs. Carnarvon asked her. "Iwant to go on to Edith's. "

Segur went with Mrs. Sidney and Marian to their carriage. "Who is Mr. Howard?" Mrs. Sidney said, and Miss Trevor drew nearer to hear the answer. 

"One of the editorial writers down on the paper and a very clever one--nonebetter. He works hard and is desperately serious and a regular hermit. "

"I think he's very handsome--don't you, Marian?"

"I found him interesting, " said Miss Trevor. 

Howard thought a great deal about Miss Trevor that night, and she was stillin his head the next day. "This comes of never seeing women, " he said tohimself. "The first girl I meet seems the most beautiful I ever saw, andthe most intellectual. And, when I think it over, what did she say that wasstartling?"

Nevertheless he went with Segur the next Sunday to Mrs. Sidney's greathouse in the upper Avenue overlooking the Park. 

"Why do I come here?" he asked himself. "It is a sheer waste of time. Mrs. Sidney can do me no good, or I her. It must be the hope of seeing MissTrevor. "

When the gaudy and be-powdered flunkey held back the heavy curtains of thesalon to announce him and Segur, he saw Miss Trevor on a low chair absentlystaring into the fire. Yet when he had spoken to Mrs. Sidney and turnedtoward her she at once stretched out her hand with a slight smile. Someothers came in and Howard was free to talk to her. He sat looking at hersteadily, admiring her almost perfect profile, delicate yet strong. 

"And what have you been doing since I saw you?" Miss Trevor asked. 

"Writing little pieces about politics for the paper, " replied Howard. 

"Politics? I detest it. It is all stealing and calling names, isn't it? Andsomething dreadful is always going to happen if somebody or other isn'telected, or is elected, to something or other. And then, whether he is ornot, nothing happens. I should think the men who have been so excited andangry and alarmed would feel very cheap. But they don't. And the next timethey carry on in just the same ridiculous way. "

"Politics is like everything else--interesting if you understand what it isall about. But like everything else, you can't understand it without alittle study at first. It's a pity women don't take an interest. If theydid the men might become more reasonable and sane about it than they arenow. But you--what have you been doing?"

"I--oh, industriously superintending the making of my new nets. " Marianlaughed and Howard was flattered. "And also, well, riding in the Park everymorning. But I never do anything interesting. I simply drift. "

"That's so much simpler and more satisfactory than threshing and splashingabout as I do. It seems so fussy and foolish and futile. I wish--that is, sometimes I wish--that I had learned to amuse myself in some less violentand exhausting way. "

"Marian--I say, Marian, " called Mrs. Sidney. "Has Teddy come down?"

Miss Trevor coloured slightly as she answered: "No, he comes a weekWednesday. He's still hunting. "

"Hunting, " Howard repeated when Mrs. Sidney was again busy with the others. "Now there is a kind of work that never bothers a man's brains or sets himto worrying. I wish I knew how to amuse myself in some such way. "

"You should go about more. "

"Go--where?"

"To see people. "

"But I do see a great many people. I'm always seeing them--all day long. "

"Yes--but that is in a serious way. I mean go where you will be amused--todinners for instance. "

"I don't dare. I can't work at work and also work at play. I must work atone or the other all the time. I can do nothing without a definite object. I can't be just a little interested in anything or anybody. With me it isno interest at all or else absorption until interest is exhausted. "

"Then if you were interested in a woman, let us say, you'd be absorbeduntil you found out all there was, and then you'd--take to your heels. "

"But she might always be new. She might interest me more and more. Anyhow Ifancy that she would weary of me long before I wearied of her. I thinkwomen usually weary first. Men are very monotonous. We are as vain aswomen, if not vainer, without their capacity for concealing it. And vanitymakes one think he does not need to exert himself to please. "

"But why do people usually say that it is the men that are difficult tohold?"

"Because the men hold the women, not through the kind of interest we aretalking about, but through another kind--quite different. Women are so lazyand so dependent--dependent upon men for homes, for money, for escorteven. "

Miss Trevor was flushing, as if the fire were too hot--at least she moved alittle farther away from it. "Your ideal woman would be a shop-girl, Ishould say from what you've told me. "

"Perhaps--in the abstract. I really do think that if I were going to marry, I should look about for a working-girl, a girl that supported herself. Howcan a man be certain of the love of a woman who is dependent upon him? Ishould be afraid she was only tolerating me as a labour-saving device. "

Miss Trevor laughed. "There certainly is no vanity in that remark, " shesaid. "Now I can't imagine most of the men I know thinking that. "

"It's only theory with me. In practice doubtless I should be asself-complacent as any other man. "

They left Mrs. Sidney's together and Howard walked down the Avenue withher. It seemed a wonderful afternoon--the air dazzling, intoxicating. Hewas filled with the joy of living and was glad this particular tall, slender, distinguished-looking girl was there to make his enjoymentperfect. They were gay with the delight of being young and in health andattractive physically and mentally each to the other. They looked each atthe other a great deal, and more and more frankly. 

"Am I never to see you again?" he asked as he rang the bell for her. 

"I believe Mrs. Carnarvon is going to invite you to dine here Thursdaynight. "

"Thank you, " said Howard. 

Miss Trevor coloured. But she met his glance boldly and laughed. Howardwondered why her laugh was defiant, almost reckless. 

 * * * * *

He saw Segur at the club after dinner that same night. "And how do you likeMiss Trevor?" Segur began as the whiskey and carbonic were set before them. 

"A very attractive girl, " said Howard. 

"Yes--so a good many men have thought in the last five years. She'smarrying Teddy Danvers in the spring, I believe. At any rate it's generallylooked on as settled. Teddy's a good deal of a 'chump. ' But he's a decentfellow--good-looking, good-natured, domestic in his tastes, and nothing butmoney. "

Howard was smiling to himself. He understood Miss Trevor's suddenconsciousness of the nearness of the fire, her flush when Mrs. Sidney askedabout "Teddy, " and the recklessness in her parting laugh. 

"Well, Teddy's in luck, " he said aloud. 

"Not so sure of that. She's quite capable of leading him a dance if hebores her. And bore her he will. But that is nothing new. This town is fullof it. "

"Full of what?"

"Of weary women--weary wives. The men are hobby-riders. They have just oneinterest and that usually small and dull--stocks or iron or real estate orhunting or automobiles. Our women are not like the English women--stupid, sodden. They are alive, acute. They wish to be interested. Their husbandsbore them. So--well, what is the natural temptation to a lazy woman insearch of an interest?"

"It's like Paris--like France?"

"Yes, something. Except that perhaps our women are more sentimental, notfond of intrigue for its own sake--at least, not as a rule. "

"Doesn't interest them deeply enough, I suppose. It's the American bloodcoming out--the passion for achievement. They want a man of whom they canbe proud, a man who is doing something interesting and doing it well. "

"I doubt that, " replied Segur shrugging his shoulders. "When a woman lovesa man, she wants to absorb him. "

Howard soon went away to his rooms for a long evening of undisturbedthought about Teddy Danvers's fiancée--the first temptation that hadentered his loneliness since Alice died. 

In the few weeks of her illness and the few months immediately followingher death, he had been at his very best. He was able to see her as she wasand to appreciate her. He was living in the clear pure air of the Valley ofthe Great Shadow where all things appear in their true relations and trueproportions. But only there was it possible for the gap between him andAlice to close--that gap of which she was more acutely conscious than he, and which she made wider far than it really was by being too humble withhim, too obviously on her knees before him. Such superiority as she thoughthe possessed is not in human nature; but neither is it in human nature torefuse worship, to refuse to pose upon a pedestal if the opportunitypresses. 

In the three years between her death and his meeting Marian, the eternalmasculine had been secretly gaining strength to resume its pursuit of theeternal feminine. And the eternal feminine was certainly most alluringlypersonified in this beautiful, graceful girl, at once appreciative andworthy of appreciation. 

Perhaps she appealed most strongly to Howard in her vivid suggestion of theopen air--of health and strength and nature. He had been leading acloistered existence and his blood had grown sluggish. She gave him thesensation that a prisoner gets when he catches a glimpse from his barredwindow of the fields and the streams radiating the joy of life and freedom. And Marian was of his own kind--like the women among whom he had beenbrought up. She satisfied his idea of what a "lady" should be, but at thesame time she was none the less a woman to him--a woman to love and to beloved; to give him sympathy, companionship; to inspire him to overcome hisweaknesses by striving to be worthy of her; to bring into his life thatfeminine charm without which a man's life must be cold and cheerless. 

He knew that he could not marry her, that he had no right to make love toher, that it was unwise to go near her again. But he had no power to resistthe temptation. And even in those days he had small regard for the meanswhen the end was one upon which he had fixed his mind. "Why not take what Ican get?" he thought, as he dreamed of her. "She's engaged--her futurepractically settled. Yes, I'll be as happy as she'll let me. " And heresumed his idealising. 

At his time of life idealisation is still not a difficult or a longprocess. And in this case there was an ample physical basis for it--and farmore of a mental basis than young imagination demands. He took the draughtshe so frankly offered him; he added a love potion of his own concocting, and drank it off. 

He was in love. 

XI. 

TRESPASSING. 

For the first time since he had been in newspaper work, Howard came to theoffice the next day in a long coat and a top hat. He left early and wentfor a walk in the Avenue. But Miss Trevor was neither driving nor walking. He repeated this excursion the next afternoon with better success. AtFortieth Street he saw her and her cousin half a block ahead of him. Hewalked slowly and examined her. She was satisfactory from the aigrette inher hat to her heels--a long, narrow, graceful figure, dressed with theexpensive simplicity characteristic of the most intelligent class of thewomen of New York and Paris. She walked as if she were accustomed towalking. Mrs. Carnarvon had that slight hesitation, almost stumble, whichindicates the woman who usually drives and never walks if she can avoid it. As they paused at the crowded crossing of Forty-second Street he joinedthem. When Mrs. Carnarvon found that he was "just out for the air" she leftthem, to go home--in Forty-seventh Street, a few doors east of the Avenue. 

"Come back to tea with her, " she said as she nodded to Howard. 

"We have at least an hour. " Howard was looking at Miss Trevor with hishappiness dancing in his eyes. "Why shouldn't we go to the Park?"

"I believe it's not customary, " objected Miss Trevor in a tone that madethe walk in the Park a certainty. 

"I'm glad to hear that. I don't care to do customary things as a rule. "

"I see that you don't. "

"Do you say so because I show what I am thinking so plainly that you can'thelp seeing it--and don't in the least mind?"

"Why shouldn't you be glad to be alive and to be seeing me this fine winterday?"

"Why indeed!" Howard looked at her from head to foot and then into hereyes. 

"We are not in the Park yet. " Miss Trevor accompanied her hint with a laughand added: "I feel reckless to-day. "

"You mean you forget that there is any to-morrow. _I_ have shut outto-morrow ever since I saw you. "

"And yesterday?" She noted that he coloured slightly, but continued to lookat her, his eyes sad. "But there is a to-morrow, " she went on. 

"Yes--my work, my career is my to-morrow and yours is----"

"Well?"

"Your engagement, of course. "

Miss Trevor flushed, but Howard was smiling and she did not long resist thecontagion. 

"My to-morrow, " he continued, "is far more menacing than yours. Yours isjust an ordinary, every-day, cut-and-dried affair. Mine is full of doubtsand uncertainties with the chances for failure and disappointment. If I canturn my back on my to-morrow, surely you can waive yours for the moment?"

"But why are you so certain that I wish to?"

"Instinct. I could not be so happy as I am with you if you were not contentto have me here. "

They spoke little until they were well within the Park. There they turneddown a by-path and took the walk skirting the lower lake. Miss Trevorlooked at Howard with a puzzled expression. 

"I never met any one like you, " she said. "I have always felt so sure ofmyself. You take me off my feet. I feel as if I did not know where I wasgoing and--didn't much care. And that's the worst of it. "

"No, the best of it. You are a star going comfortably through your universein a fixed orbit. You maintain your exact relations with your brother andsister stars. You keep all your engagements, you never wobble in yourpath--everything exact, mathematical. And up darts a wild-haired, impetuouscomet, a hurrying, bustling, irregular wanderer coming from you don't knowwhere, going you don't know whither. We pass very near each to the other. The social astronomers may or may not note a little variation in yourmovement--a very little, and soon over. They probably will not note theinsignificant meteor that darted close up to you--close enough to get hispoor face sadly scorched and his long hair cruelly singed--and then hurriedsadly away. And----"

"And--what? Isn't there any more to the story?" Marian's eyes were shiningwith a light which she was conscious had never been there before. 

"And--and----" Howard stopped and faced her. His hands were thrust deep inthe pockets of his overcoat. He looked at her in a way that made the colourfly from her face and then leap back again. "And--I love you. "

"Oh"--Marian said, hiding her face in her white muff. "Oh. "

"I don't wish to touch you, " he went on, "I just wish to look at you--sotall, so straight, so--so alive, and to love you and be happy. " Then helaughed and turned. "But you'll catch cold. Let us walk on. "

"So you are trying to make a career?" she asked after a few minutes'silence. 

"Yes--trying--or, rather, I was. And shall again when you have gone yourway and I mine. "

Marian was amazed at herself. Every tradition, every instinct of her lifewas being trampled by this unknown whom she had just met. And she wasassisting in the trampling. In fact it was difficult for her to restrainherself from leading in the iconoclasm. She looked at him in wonder anddelighted terror. 

"Why do you look at me in that way?" he said, turning his head suddenly. 

"Because you are stronger than I--and I am afraid--yet I--well--I like it. "

"It is not I that is stronger than you, nor you that are stronger than I. It is a third that is stronger than both of us. I need not mention thegentleman's name?"

"It is not necessary. But I'd like to hear you pronounce it. At least I dida moment ago. "

"I'll not risk repetition. I've been thinking of what might have been. "

"What?" Marian laughed a little, rather satirically. "A commonplaceengagement and a commonplace wedding and a commonplace honeymoon leadinginto a land of commonplace disillusion and yawning--or worse?"

"Not unlikely. But since we're only dreaming why not dream more to ourtaste? Now as I look at your strong, clear, ambitious profile, I can dreamof a career made by two working as one, working cheerfully day in and dayout, fair and foul weather, working with the certainty of success as thecrown. "

"But failure might come. "

"It couldn't. We wouldn't work for fame or for riches or for any outsidething. We would work to make ourselves wiser and better and more worthyeach of the other and both of our great love. "

Again they were walking in silence. 

"I am so sad, " Marian said at last. "But I am so happy too. What has comeover me? But--you will work on, won't you? And you will accomplisheverything. Yes, I am sure you will. "

"Oh, I'll work--in my own way. And I'll get a good deal of what I want. Butnot everything. You say you can't understand yourself. No more can Iunderstand myself. I thought my purpose fixed. I knew that I had nothing todo with marrying and giving in marriage, so I kept away from danger. Andhere, as miraculously as if a thunderbolt had dropped from this open wintersky, here is--you. "

They were in the Avenue again--"the awakening, " Howard said as the flood ofcarriages rolled about them. 

"You will win, " she repeated, when they were almost at Forty-seventhStreet. "You will be famous. "

"Probably not. The price for fame may be too big. "

"The price? But you are willing to work?"

"Work--yes. But not to lie, not to cheat, not to exchange self-respect forself-contempt--at least, I think, I hope not. "

"But why should that be necessary?"

"It may not be if I am free--free to meet every situation as it arises, with no responsibility for others resting upon me in the decision. If I hada wife, how could I be free? I might be forced to sell myself--not for famebut for a bare living. Suppose choice between freedom with poverty andcomfort with self-contempt were put squarely at me, and I a married man. She would decide, wouldn't she?"

"Yes, and if she were the right sort of a woman, decide instantly forself-respect. "

"Of course--if I asked her. But do you imagine that when a man loves awoman he lets her know?"

"It would be a crime not to let her know. "

"It would be a greater crime to put her to the test--if she were a womanbrought up, say, as you have been. "

"How can you say that? How can you so overestimate the value of mereincidentals?"

"How can I? Because I have known poverty--have known what it was to lookwant in the face. Because I have seen women, brought up as you have been, crawling miserably about in the sloughs of poverty. Because I have seen theweaknesses of human nature and know that they exist in me--yes, and in you, for all your standing there so strong and arrogant and self-reliant. It iseasy to talk of misery when one does not understand it. It is easy to bethe martyr of an hour or a day. But to drag into a sordid and squalidmartyrdom the woman one loves--well, the man does not live who would do it, if he knew what I know, had seen what I have seen. No, love is a luxury ofthe rich and the poor and the steady-going. It is not for my kind, not forme. "

They were pausing at Mrs. Carnarvon's door. 

"I shall not come in this afternoon, " he said. "But to-morrow--if I don'tcome in to-day, don't you think it will be all right for me to come then?"

"I shall expect you, " she said. 

The talk of those who had come in for tea seemed artificial and flat. Shesoon went up-stairs, eager to be alone. Mechanically she went to her deskto write her customary daily letter to Danvers. She looked vacantly at thepen and paper, and then she remembered why she was sitting there. 

"You are a traitor, " she said to her reflection in the mirror over thedesk. "But you will pay for your treason. Has not one a right to that forwhich she is willing to pay?"

XII. 

MAKING THE MOST OF A MONTH. 

To be sure of a woman a man must be confident either of his own powers orof her absolute frankness and honesty. It was self-assurance that madeEdward Danvers blindly confident of Marian. 

His father, a man with none but selfish uses for his fellow men, had givenhim a pains-taking training as a vigilant guard for a great fortune. Hisfavourite maxim was, "Always look for motives. " And he once summed up hisown character and idea of life by saying: "I often wake at night and laughas I think how many men are lying awake in their beds, scheming to getsomething out of me for nothing. "

There could be but one result of such an education by such an educator. Danvers was acutely suspicious, saved from cynicism and misanthropy by hisvanity only. He was the familiar combination of credulity and incredulity, now trusting not at all and again trusting with an utter incapacity tojudge. Had he been far more attractive personally, he might still havefailed to find genuine affection. To be liked for one's self alone or evenchiefly is rarely the lot of any human being who has a possession that isall but universally coveted--wealth or position or power or beauty. 

Danvers and Marian had known each the other from childhood. And she perhapscame nearer to liking him for himself than did any one else of hisacquaintance. She was used to his conceit, his selfishness, his meannessand smallness in suspicion, his arrogance, his narrow-mindedness. She knewhis good qualities--his kindness of heart, his shamed-face generosity, hishonesty, the strong if limited sense of justice which made him a goodemployer and a good landlord. They had much in common--the same companions, the same idea of the agreeable and the proper, the same passion forout-door life, especially for hunting. He fell in love with her when shecame back from two years in England and France, and she thought that shewas in love with him. She undoubtedly was fond of him, proud of hishandsome, athletic look and bearing, proud of his skill and daring in thehunting field. 

One day--it was in the autumn a year before Howard met her--they were "inat the death" together after a run across a stiff country that includedseveral dangerous jumps. "You're the only one that can keep up with me, " hesaid, admiring her glowing face and star-like eyes, her graceful, assuredseat on a hunter that no one else either cared or dared to ride. 

"You mean you are the only one who can keep up with _me, _" shelaughed, preparing for what his face warned her was coming. 

"No I don't, Marian dear. I mean that we ought to go right on keeping upwith each other. You won't say no, will you?"

Marian was liking him that day--he was looking his best. She particularlyliked his expression as he proposed to her. She had intended to pretend torefuse him; instead her colour rose and she said: "No--which means yes. Everybody expects it of us, Teddy. So I suppose we mustn't disappointthem. "

The fact that "everybody" did expect it, the fact that he was the great"catch" in their set, with his two hundred and fifty thousand a year, hisgood looks and his good character--these were her real reasons, with thefirst dominant. But she did not admit it to herself then. At twenty-foureven the mercenary instinct tricks itself out in a most deceptive romanticdisguise if there is the ghost of an opportunity. Besides, there was noreason, and no sign of an approaching reason, for the shadow of a suspicionthat life with Teddy Danvers would not be full of all that she and herfriends regarded as happiness. 

But she would not marry immediately. She was tenacious of her freedom. Shewas restless, dissatisfied with herself and not elated by her prospects. She had an excellent mind, reasonable, appreciative, ambitious. Until she"came out" she had spent much time among books; but as she had had nocapable director of her reading, she got from it only a vague sense, thatthere was somewhere something in the way of achievement which she mightpossibly like to attain if she knew what it was or where to look for it. Asshe became settled in her place in the routine of social life, as herhorizon narrowed to the conventional ideas of her set, this sense ofpossible and attractive achievement became vaguer. But her restlessness didnot diminish. 

"I never saw such an ungrateful girl, " was Mrs. Carnarvon's comment uponone of Marian's outbursts of almost peevish fretting. "What do you want?"

"That's just it, " exclaimed Marian, half-laughing. "What _do_ I want?I look all about me and I can't see it. Yet I know that there must besomething. I think I ought to have been a man. Sometimes I feel likerunning away--away off somewhere. I feel as if I were getting second-bests, paste substitutes for the real jewels. I feel as I did when I was a childand demanded the moon. They gave me a little gilt crescent and said: 'Hereis a nice little moon for baby;' and it made me furious. "

Mrs. Carnarvon looked irritated. "I don't understand it. You are gettingthe best of everything. Of course you can't expect to be happy. I don'tsuppose that any one is happy. But all the solid things of life are yours, and you can and should be comfortable and contented. "

"That's just it, " answered Marian indignantly. "I have always been swaddledin cotton wool. I have never been allowed really to feel. I think it is thespirit of revolt in me. Yes, I ought to have been a man. I'm sure that thenI could have made life a little less tiresome. "

It was this dissatisfaction that postponed the announcement of theengagement from month to month until a year had slipped away. 

Instead of coming to New York, Danvers went off to Montana for amountain-lion hunt with two Englishmen who had been staying with him in"The Valley. " He would join Marian for the trip South, the engagement wouldbe announced, and the wedding would be in May--such was the arrangementwhich Marian succeeded in making. It settled everything and at the sametime it gave her a month of freedom in New York. She hinted enough of thisprogramme to Howard to enable him to grasp its essential points. 

"A month's holiday, " was his comment. They were alone on the second seat ofGeorge Browning's coach, driving through the Park. "If we were like thosepeople"--he was looking at a young man and young woman, side by side upon aPark bench, blue with cold but absorbed in themselves and obviouslyecstatic. Marian glanced at them with slightly supercilious amusement andbecame so interested that she turned her head to follow them with her eyesafter the coach had passed. 

"Is he kissing her?" asked Howard. 

"No--not yet. But I'm sure he will as soon as we have turned the corner. "She said nothing for a moment or two, her glance straight ahead and uponvacancy, he admiring the curve of her cheek at the edge of its effectiveframing of fur. 

"But we are not----" She spoke in a low tone, regretful, pensive, almostsad. "We are not like them. "

"Oh, yes we are. But--we fancy we are not. We've sold our birthright, ourfreedom, our independence for--for----"

"Well--what?"

"Baubles--childish toys--vanities--shadows. Doesn't it show what ridiculouslittle creatures we human beings are that we regard the most valuelessthings as of the highest value, and think least of the true valuables. For, tell me, Lady-Whom-I-Love, what is most valuable in the few minutes of thislittle journey among the stars on the good ship Mother Earth?"

"But you would not care always as you care now? It would not, could not, last. If we--if we were like those people on the bench back there, we'd goon and--and spoil it all. "

"Perhaps--who can say? But in some circumstances couldn't I make you justas happy as--as some one else could?"

"Not if you had made me infinitely happier at one time than even you couldhope to make me all the time. At least I think not. It would always be--beracing against a record; we both would be, wouldn't we?"

Howard looked at her with an expression which transfigured his face andsent the colour flaming to her cheeks. "That being the case, " he said, "letus--let us make the record one that will not be forgotten--soon. "

During the month he saw her almost every day. She was most ingenious inarranging these meetings. They were together afternoons and evenings. Theywere often alone. Yet she was careful not to violate any convention, alwaysto keep, or seem to be keeping, one foot "on the line. " Howard threwhimself into his infatuation with all his power of concentration Hepractically took a month's holiday from the office. He thought about herincessantly. He used all his skill with words in making love to her. Andshe abandoned herself to an equal infatuation with equal absorption. Neither of them spoke of the past or the future. They lived in the present, talked of the present. 

One day she spoke of herself as an orphan. 

"I did not know that, " he said. "But then what do I know about you inrelation to the rest of the world? To me you are an isolated act ofcreation. "

"You must tell me about yourself. " She was looking at him, surprised. "Why, I know nothing at all about you. "

"Oh, yes, you do. You know all that there is to know--all that isimportant. "

"What?" She was asking for the pleasure of hearing him say it. 

"That I love you--you--all of you--all of you, with all of me. "

Her eyes answered for her lips, which only said smilingly: "No, we haven'ttime to get acquainted--at least not to-day. "

 * * * * *

She was to start for Florida at ten the next morning. Mrs. Carnarvon wasgoing away to the opera, giving them the last evening alone. Marian hadasked this of her point-blank. 

"You are an extraordinarily sensible as well as strong-willed girl, Marian, " Mrs. Carnarvon replied. 

"I can't find it in my heart to blame you for what you're doing. The factthat I haven't even hinted a protest, but have lent myself to your littleplots, shows that that young man has hypnotized me also. "

"You needn't disturb yourself, as you know, " Marian said gaily. "I'm nothypnotized. I shall not see Mr. Howard again until--after it's all over. Perhaps not then. "

He came to dinner and they were not alone until almost nine. She sat nearthe open fire among the cushions heaped high upon the little sofa. She hadnever been more beautiful, and apparently never in a happier mood. Theyboth laughed and talked as if it were the first instead of the last day oftheir month. Neither spoke of the parting; each avoided all subjects thatpointed in direction of the one subject of which both thought whenevertheir minds left the immediate present. As the little clock on the mantlebegan to intimate in a faint, polite voice the quarter before eleven, hesaid abruptly, almost brusquely:

"I feel like a coward, giving you up in this way. Yes--giving you up; foryou have a traitor in your fortress who has offered me the keys, who offersthem to me now. But I do not trust you; and I can't trust myself. The curseof luxury is on you, the curse of ambition on me. If we had found each theother younger; if I had lived less alone, more in the ordinary habit ofdependence upon others; if you had been brought up to live instead of tohave all the machinery of living provided and conducted for you--well, itmight have been different. "

"You are wrong as to me, right as to yourself. But yours is not the curseof ambition. It is the passion for freedom. It would be madness for you, thinking as you do, even if you could--and you can't. "

He stood up and held out his hand. She did not rise or look at him. 

"Good night, " she said at last, putting her hand in his. "Of course I amthinking I shall see you tomorrow. One does not come out of such a dream, "--she looked up at him smiling--"all in a moment. "

"Good night, " he smiled back at her. "I shall not open 'the fiddler's bill'until--until I have to. " At the door he turned. She had risen and waskneeling on the sofa, her elbow on its low arm, her chin upon her hand, hereyes staring into the fire. He came toward her. 

"May I kiss you?" he said. 

"Yes. " Her voice was expressionless. 

He bent over and just touched his lips to the back of her neck at the edgeof her hair. He thought that she trembled slightly, but her face was setand she did not look toward him. He turned and left her. Half an hour latershe heard the bell ring--it was Mrs. Carnarvon. She wished to see no one, so she fled through the rear door of the reception room and up the greatstairway to lock herself in her boudoir. She sank slowly upon the lounge infront of the fire and closed her eyes. The fire died out and the room grewcold. A warning chilliness made her rise to get ready for bed. 

"No, " she said aloud. "It isn't ambition and it isn't lack of love. It's aqueer sort of cowardice; but it's cowardice for all that. He's a coward orhe wouldn't have given up. But--I wonder--how am I going to live withouthim? I need him--more than he needs me, I'm afraid. "

She was standing before her dressing table. On it was a picture ofDanvers--handsome, self-satisfied, healthy, unintellectual. She looked atit, gave a little shiver, and with the end of her comb toppled it over uponits face. 

XIII. 

RECKONING WITH DANVERS. 

On that journey south Marian for the first time studied Danvers as ahusband in prospect. 

The morning after they left New York, their private car arrived atSavannah. At dark the night before they were rushing through a snow stormraging in a wintry landscape. Now they were looking out upon spring fromthe open windows. As soon as the train stopped, all except Marian andDanvers left the car to walk up and down the platform. Danvers, standingbehind Marian, looked around to make sure that none of the servants wasabout, then rubbed his hand caressingly and familiarly upon her cheek. 

"Did you miss me?" he asked. 

Marian could not prevent her head from shrinking from his touch. 

"There's nobody about, " Danvers said, reassuringly. But he acted upon thehint and, taking his hand away, came around and sat beside her. 

"Did you miss me?" he repeated, looking at her with an expression in hisfrank, manly blue eyes that made her flush at the thought of "treason" pastand to come. 

"Did _you_ miss _me_?" she evaded. 

"I would have returned long ago if I had not been ashamed, " he answered, smiling. "I never thought that I should come not to care for as goodshooting as that. You almost cost me my life. "

"Yes?" Marian spoke absently. She was absorbed in her mental comparison ofthe two men. 

"I got away from the others and was looking at your picture. They startedup a lion and he came straight at me from behind. If he hadn't made amisstep in his hurry and loosened a stone, I guess he would have got me. Asit was, I got him. "

"You mean your gun got him. "

"Of course. You don't suppose I tackled him bare-handed. "

"It might have been fairer. I don't see how you can boast of having killeda creature that never bothered you, that you had to go thousands of milesout of your way to find, and that you attacked with a gun, giving him nochance to escape. "

"What nonsense!" laughed Danvers. "I never expected to hear you sayanything like that. Who's been putting such stuff into your head?"

Marian coloured. She did not like his tone. She resented the suggestion ofthe truth that her speech was borrowed. It made her uncomfortable to findherself thus unexpectedly on the dangerous ground. 

"I suppose it must have been that newspaper fellow Mrs. Carnarvon has takenup. She talked about him for an hour after you left us to go to bed lastnight. "

"Yes, it was--was Mr. Howard. " Marian had recovered herself. "I want you tomeet him some time. You'll like him, I'm sure. "

"I doubt it. Mrs. Carnarvon seemed not to know much about him. I supposehe's more or less of an adventurer. "

Marian wondered if this obvious dislike was the result of one of thosestrange instincts that sometimes enable men to scent danger before any signof it appears. 

"Perhaps he is an adventurer, " she replied. "I'm sure I don't know. Whyshould one bother to find out about a passing acquaintance? It is enough toknow that he is amusing. "

"I'm not so sure of that. He might make off with the jewels when you hadyour back turned. "

As soon as she had made her jesting denial of her real lover Marian wasashamed of herself. And Danvers' remark, though a jest, cut her. "What Isaid about a passing acquaintance was not just or true, " she saidimpulsively and too warmly. "Mr. Howard is not an adventurer. I admire andlike him very much indeed. I'm proud of his friendship. "

Danvers shrugged his shoulders and looked at her suspiciously. 

"You saw a good deal of this--this friend of yours?" he demanded, his mouthstraightening into a dictatorial line. 

At this Marian grew haughty and her eyes flashed: "Why do you ask?" sheinquired, her tone dangerously calm. 

"Because I have the right to know. " He pointed to the diamond on her thirdfinger. 

"Oh--that is soon settled. " Marian drew off the ring and held it out tohim. "Really, Teddy, I think you ought to have waited a little longerbefore insisting so fiercely on your rights. "

"Don't be absurd, Marian. " Danvers did not take the ring but fixed his eyesupon her face and changed his tone to friendly remonstrance. "You know thering doesn't mean anything. It's your promise that counts. And honestlydon't you think your promise does give me the right to ask you about yournew friends when you speak of them, of one of them, in--in such a way?"

"I don't intend to deceive you, " she said, turning the ring around slowlyon her finger. "I didn't know how to tell you. I suppose the only way tospeak is just to speak. "

"Do you think you are in love with this man, Marian?"

She nodded, then after a long pause, said, "Yes, Teddy, I love him. "

"But I thought----"

"And so did I, Teddy. But he came, and I--well I couldn't help it. "

As he did not speak, she looked at him. His face was haggard and white andin his eyes which met hers frankly there was suffering. 

"It wasn't my fault, Teddy, " Marian laid her hand on his arm, "at least, not altogether. I might have kept away and I didn't. "

"Oh, I don't blame you. I blame him. "

"But it wasn't his fault. I--I--encouraged him. "

"Did he know that we were engaged?"

"Yes, " reluctantly. 

"The scoundrel! I suspected that he was rotten somewhere. "

"You are unjust to him. I have not told you properly. "

"Did he tell you that he cared for you?"

"Yes--but he didn't try to get me to break my engagement. "

"So much the more a scoundrel, he. Tell me, Marian--come to your senses andtell me--what in the devil did he hang about you for and make love to you, if he didn't want to marry you? Would an honest man, a decent man, dothat?"

Marian's face confessed assent. 

"I should think you would have seen what sort of a fellow he is. I shouldthink you would despise him. "

"Sometimes it seems to me that I ought to. But I always end by despisingmyself--and--and--it makes no difference in the way I feel toward him. "

"I think I would do well to look him up and give him a horse-whipping. Butyou'll get over him, Marian. I am astonished at your cousin. How could shelet this go on? But then, she's crazy about him too. "

Marian smiled miserably. "I've owned up and you ought to congratulateyourself on so luckily getting rid of such an untrustworthy person as I. "

"Getting rid of you?" Danvers looked at her defiantly. "Do you think I'mgoing to let you go on and ruin yourself on an impulse? Not much! I holdyou to your promise. You'll come round all right after you've been awayfrom this fellow for a few days. You'll be amazed at yourself a week fromnow. "

"You don't understand, Teddy. " Marian wished him to see once for all that, whatever might be the future for her and Howard, there was no future forher and him. "Don't make it so hard for me to tell you. "

"I don't want to hear any more about it now, Marian. I can't stand it--Ihardly know what I'm saying--wait a few days--let's go on as we havebeen--here they come. "

The others of the party came bustling into the car and the train started. For the rest of the journey Danvers avoided her, keeping to the smokingroom and the game of poker there. Marian could neither read nor watch thelandscape. She did not know whether to be glad or sorry that she had toldhim. She hated to think that she had inflicted pain and she could notbelieve, in spite of what she had seen in his eyes, that his feeling in thematter was more than jealousy and wounded vanity. 

"He doesn't really care for me, " she thought. "It's his pride that is hurt. He will flare out at me and break it off. I do hope he'll get angry. Itwill make it so much easier for me. "

Late in the afternoon she took Mrs. Carnarvon into her confidence. "I'vetold Teddy, " she said. 

"I might have known!" exclaimed her cousin. "What on earth made you dothat?"

"I don't know--perhaps shame. "

"Shame--trash! Your life is going to be a fine turmoil if you run to Teddywith an account of every little mild flirtation you happen to have. Of allthe imbeciles, the most imbecile is the woman who confesses. "

"But how could I marry him when----"

"When you don't love him?"

"No--I might have done that. I like him. But, when I love another man. "

"It does make a difference. But you ought to be able to foresee that you'llget over Howard in a few weeks----"

"Precisely what Teddy said. "

"Did he? I'm surprised at his having so much sense. For, if you'll forgiveme, I don't think Teddy will ever set New York on fire--at least, he's--well, he has the makings of an ideal husband. And has he broken itoff?"

"No. He wouldn't have it. "

"Really? Well he _is_ in love. Most men in his position--able to getany girl he wants--would have thrown up the whole business. Yes, he must beawfully in love. "

"Do you think that?" Marian's voice spoke distress but she felt onlysatisfaction. "Oh, I hope not--that is, I'd like to think he cared a greatdeal and at the same time I don't want to hurt him. "

"Don't fret yourself about these two men. Just go on thinking as youplease. You'll be surprised how soon Howard will fade. " Mrs. Carnarvonsmiled satirically at some thought--perhaps a memory. "You're a good dealof a goose, my dear, but you are a great deal more of a woman. That's why Ifeel sure that Teddy will win. "

With such an opportunity--with the field clear and the womanhalf-remorseful over her treachery, half-indignant at the man who had shownhimself so weak and spiritless--a cleverer or a less vain man than Danverswould have triumphed easily. And for the first week he did make progress. He acted upon the theory that Marian had been hypnotized and that theproper treatment was to ignore her delusion and to treat her with assiduousbut not annoying consideration. He did not pose as an injured or jealouslover. He was the friend, always at her service, always thinking out plansfor her amusement. He made no reference to their engagement or to Howard. 

Several people of their set were at the hotel and Marian was soon driftingback into her accustomed modes of thought. The wider horizon which shefancied Howard had shown her was growing dim and hazy. The horizon which hehad made her think narrow was beginning again to seem the only one. Thismeant Danvers; but he was not acute enough to understand her and to followup his advantage. 

One morning as he was walking up and down under the palms, waiting for Mrs. Carnarvon and Marian, Mrs. Fortescue called him. She was a cold, ratherhandsome woman. In her eyes was the expression that always betrays the wifeor the mistress who loathes the man she lives with, enduring him onlybecause he gives her that which she most wants--money. She had one fixedidea--to marry her daughter "well, " that is, to money. 

"Can you join us to-day, Teddy?" she asked. "We need one more man. "

"I'm waiting for Mrs. Carnarvon and Marian, " he explained. 

"Oh, of course. " Mrs. Fortescue smiled. "What a nice girl she is--soclever, so--so independent. I admired her immensely for deciding to marrythat poor, obscure young fellow. I like to see the young people romantic. "

Danvers flushed angrily and pulled at his mustache. He tried to smile. "We've teased her about it a good deal, " he said, "but she denies it. "

"I suppose they aren't ready to announce the engagement yet, " Mrs. Fortescue suggested. "I suppose they are waiting until he betters hisposition a little. It's never a good idea to have too long a time betweenthe announcement and the marriage. "

"Perhaps that is it. " Danvers tried to look indifferent but his eyes weresullen with jealousy. 

"I always rather thought that you and Marian were going to make a match ofit, " continued Mrs. Fortescue. Just then her daughter came down the walk. She was fashionably dressed in white and blue that brought out all theloveliness of her golden hair and violet eyes and faintly-coloured, smoothfair skin. Danvers had not seen her since she "came out, " and was dazzledby her radiance. 

They say that every man must be a little in love with every pretty woman hesees. And Danvers at once gave Ellen Fortescue her due. She sat silentbeside her mother, looking the personification of innocence, purity andpoetry. Her mother continued subtly to poison Danvers against Marian, tomake him feel that she had not appreciated him, that she had trifled withhim, that she had not treated him as his dignity and importance merited. When she and Mrs. Carnarvon appeared, he joined them tardily, after havingmade an arrangement with the Fortescues for the next day. 

That evening he danced several times with Ellen Fortescue and adopted thefamiliar lover's tactics--he set about making Marian jealous. He scored thecustomary success. When she went to bed she lay for several hours lookingout into the moonlight, raging against the Fortescues and against Danvers. The mere fact that a man whom she regarded as hers was permitting himselfto show marked attention to another woman would have been sufficient. Butin addition, Marian was perfectly aware of the material advantages of thisparticular man. She did not want to marry him; at least she was of thatmind at the moment. But she might change her mind. Certainly, if there wasto be any breaking off, she wished it to be of her doing. She did not fancythe idea of him departing joyfully. 

She was far too wise to show that she saw what was going on. She praisedMiss Fortescue to Danvers with apparent frankness and insisted on himdevoting more time to her. Danvers persisted in his scheme boldly for aweek and then, just as Marian was despairing and was casting about foranother plan of campaign, he gave in. They were sitting apart in the shadownear one of the windows of the ball-room. He had been sullen all theevening, almost rude. 

"How much longer are you going to keep me in suspense?" he burst outangrily. 

"In suspense?"

"You know what I mean. I think I've been very patient. "

"You mean our engagement?" Marian was looking at him, repelled by hisexpression, his manner, the tone of his voice, his whole mood. 

"Yes--I want your decision. "

"I have not changed. "

"You still love that--that newspaper fellow?"

"No, I don't mean that. " Marian felt her irritation against Danverssuddenly vanish and in its place a Sense of relief and of calmness. "I meantoward you. It won't do, Teddy. We shall get on well as friends. But Ican't think of you in--in that way. "

Mrs. Fortescue had so swollen his vanity that he was astounded at Marian'sdecision. He rapidly went over in his mind all the advantages he offered asa husband, and then looked at her as if he thought her beside herself. 

"Look here, Marian, " he protested. "You can't mean it. Why, it's allsettled that we are to marry. It would be madness for you to break it off. I can give you everything--everything. And he can't give you anything. "Then with fatal tactlessness: "He won't even give you the little that hecan, according to your own story. "

"Yes, it's madness, isn't it, Teddy, to refuse you--fascinating you, whocan give everything. But that's just it. You have too much. You overwhelmme. I should feel like a cheat, taking so much and giving so little. "

"Don't, " he begged, his self-complacence and superiority all gone. "Don'tmind my blundering, please, dear. I want you. I can't say it. I haven't anygift of words. But you've known me all my life and you know that I loveyou. I've set my heart on it, Mary Ann, "--it was the name he used to teaseher with when they were children playing together--"You won't go back on menow, will you?"

"I wish I could do as you wish, Teddy. " Marian was forgetful of everythingbut the unhappiness she was causing this friend of so many, many years andof so many, many memories. "But I can't--I can't. "

"Marry me, dear, anyhow. You will care afterward. " Marian was silent andDanvers hoped. "You know all about me. I'll not give you any surprises. Ishan't bother you. And I'll make you happy. "

"No, " she said firmly. "You mustn't ask it. I'll tell you why. I havethought of marrying you regardless of this. Only last night I thought ofit--finally, went over the whole thing. Listen, Teddy--if I were married toyou--and if he should come--and he would come sooner or later--if he shouldcome and say 'Come with me, '--I'd go--yes, I'm sure I'd go. I can't explainwhy. But I know that nothing would stand in the way--nothing. "

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself. " Marian shrank from him. She washorrified by the malignant fury that sparkled in his eyes and raged in hisvoice. "That damned scoundrel is worthy of you and you of him. But I'll getyou yet. I never was crossed in anything in my life and I'll not be beatenhere. "

"And I thought you were my friend!" Marian was looking at him, pale, hereyes wide with amazement. "Is it really you?"

He laughed insolently. "Yes--you'll see. And he'll see. I'll crush him asif he were an egg shell. And as for you--you perjurer--you liar!"

He looked at her with coarse contempt, rose and stalked away. Marian satrigid. She was conscious of the insult. But even that humiliation was notso strong in her mind as the astounding revelation of Danvers. Sheremembered that even as his eyes blazed hatred at her, he looked at her, ather neck, her bare arms, with the baffled desire of brute passion. She didnot fully understand the look, but she felt that it was a degradation fargreater than his insulting words. 

She slipped, almost skulked to her room, her eyes down, her face in aburning flush, her scarf drawn tightly about her neck. As her door closedbehind her, she fell upon her bed and began to sob hysterically. Shestarted up with a scream to find her cousin standing beside her. 

"I'm so sorry. Forgive me. " Mrs. Carnarvon's voice had lost its wontedlevity. "I saw that you were in trouble and followed. I knocked and Ithought I heard you answer. What is it, Marie? May I ask? Can I doanything?"

Marian drew her down to the bed and buried her face in her lap. "Oh, I feelso unclean, " she said. "It was--Teddy. Would you believe it, Jessie, Teddy!I looked on him as a brother. And he showed me that he was not myfriend--that he didn't even love me--that he--oh, I shall never forget thelook in his eyes. He made me feel like a--like a _thing_. "

Mrs. Carnarvon smothered a smile. "Of course Teddy's a brute, " she said. "Ithought you knew. He's a domesticated brute, like most of the men and someof the women. You'll have to get used to that. "

By refusing to fall in with her mood, Mrs. Carnarvon had gone far towardcuring it. Marian stopped sobbing and presently said:

"Oh, I know all that. But I didn't expect it from Teddy--and toward me. And--" she shuddered--"I was thinking, actually thinking of marrying him. Iwish never to see him again. And he pretended to be my friend!"

"And he was, no doubt, until he got you on the brain in another way, in theway he calls love. There isn't any love that has friendship in it. "

"We must go away at once. "

"Unless Teddy saves us the trouble by going first, as I suspect he will. "

"Jessie, he hates me and--and--Mr. Howard. "

"So you talked to him about Howard again, did you?" Mrs. Carnarvon wasindignant. "You are old enough to know better, Marian. You carry franknessentirely too far. There is such a thing as truth running amuck. "

"He said he would crush Howard. And I believe he really meant it. "

"Teddy is a man who believes in revenges--or thinks he does. His fathertaught him to keep accounts in grievances, and no doubt he has opened anaccount with Howard. But don't be disturbed about it. His father would haveinsisted on balancing the account. Teddy will just keep on hating, butwon't do anything. He's not underhanded. "

"He's everything that is vile and low. "

"You're quite mistaken, my dear. He's what they call a manly fellow--alittle too masculine perhaps, but----"

A knock interrupted and Mrs. Carnarvon, answering it, took from thebell-boy a note for Marian who read it, then handed it to her. Mrs. Carnarvon read: "I apologise for the way I said what I did this evening, not for what I said. Because you had forgotten yourself, had played thetraitor and the cheat was, perhaps, no excuse for my rudeness. You havefallen under an evil influence. I hope no harm will come to you, for Ican't get over my feeling for you. But I have done my best and have notbeen able to save you. I am going away early in the morning. 

"E. D. "

"Melodramatic, isn't it?" laughed Mrs. Carnarvon. "So he's off. How furiousMartha Fortescue and Ellen will be. But they'll go in pursuit, and they'llget him. A man is never so susceptible as when he's broken-hearted. Well, Imust go. Good-night, dear. Don't mope and whine. Take your punishmentsensibly. You've learned something--if it's only not to tell one man howmuch you love another. "

"I think I'll go abroad with Aunt Retta next month. "

"A good idea--you'll forget both these men. Good-night. "

"Good-night, " answered Marian dolefully, expecting to resume her thoughtsof Danvers. But, instead, he straightway disappeared from her mind and shecould think only of Howard. She was free now. The one barrier between himand her of which she had been really conscious was gone. And her heartbegan to ache with longing for him. Why had he not written? What was hedoing? Did he really love her or was his passion for her only a flash of astrong and swift imagination?

No, he loved her--she could not doubt that. But she could not understandhis conduct. She felt that she ought to be very unhappy, yet she was not. The longer she thought of him and the more she weighed his words and looks, the stronger became her trust in him. "He loves me, " she said. "He willcome when he can. It may be even harder for him than for me. "

And so, explanation failing--for she rejected every explanation thatreflected upon him--she hid and excused him behind that familiar refuge ofthe doubting, mystery. 

XIV. 

THE NEWS-RECORD GETS A NEW EDITOR. 

A few minutes after leaving Marian that last night at Mrs. Carnarvon's, Howard was deep in a mood of self-contempt. He felt that he had faced thecrisis like a coward. He despised the weakness which enfeebled him foreffort to win her and at the same time made it impossible for him to thrusther from his mind. 

In the working hours his will conquered with the aid of fixed habit and hewas able to concentrate upon his editorials. But in his rooms, andespecially after the lights were out, his imagination became master, deprived him of sleep and occasionally lifted him to a height of hope inorder that it might dash him down the more cruelly upon the rocks of fact. 

At last he was forced to face the situation--in his own evasive fashion. Itwas impossible to go back. That loneliness which often threatened him afterAlice's death had become the permanent condition of his life. "I will workfor her, " he said. "Until I have made a place for her I dare not claim her. So much I will concede to my weakness. But when I have won a position whichreasonably assures the future, I shall claim her--no matter what hashappened in the meanwhile. "

He would have smiled at this wild resolution had he been in a lessdistracted state of mind or had he been dealing with any other than amatter of love. But in the circumstances it gave him heart and set him towork with an energy and effectiveness which still further increased Mr. Malcolm's esteem for him. 

"Will you dine with me at the Union Club on Wednesday?" Mr. Malcolm askedone morning in mid-February. "Mr. Coulter and Mr. Stokely are coming. Iwant you to know them better. "

Howard accepted and wondered that he took so little interest. For Stokelyand Coulter were the principal stockholders of the _News-Record_, andwith Malcolm formed the triumvirate which directed it in all itsdepartments. Mr. Malcolm held only a few shares of stock, but received whatwas in the newspaper-world an immense salary--thirty thousand a year. Hewas at once an able editor and an able diplomatist. He knew how to make theplans of his two associates conform to conditions of news and policy--whento let them use the paper, or, rather, when to use the paper himself fortheir personal interests; when and how to induce them to let the paperalone. Through a quarter of a century of changing ownerships Malcolm hadpersisted, chiefly because he had but one conviction--that the post ofeditor of the _News-Record_ exactly suited him and must remain his atany sacrifice of personal character. 

Howard had met Stokely and Coulter. He liked Stokely who was owner of a fewshares more than one-third; he disliked Coulter who owned just underone-half. 

Stokely was a frank, coarse, dollar-hunter, cheerfully unscrupulous in alarge way, acute, caring not at all for principles of any kind, letting thepaper alone most of the time because he was astute enough to know that inhis ignorance of journalism he would surely injure it as a property. 

Coulter was a hypocrite and a snob. Also he fancied he knew how to conducta newspaper. He was as unscrupulous as Stokely but tried to mask it. 

When Stokely wished the _News-Record to advocate a "job, " or steal, orthe election of some disreputable who would work in his interest, he toldMalcolm precisely what he wanted and left the details of the stultificationto his experienced adroitness. When Coulter wished to "poison the fountainof publicity, " as Malcolm called the paper's departures from honesty andright, he approached the subject by stealth, trying to convince Malcolmthat the wrong was not really wrong, but was right unfortunately disguised. 

He would take Malcolm into his confidence by slow and roundabout steps, thus multiplying his difficulties in discharging his "duty. " If Coulter'sson had not been married to Malcolm's daughter, it is probable that noteven his complete subserviency would have enabled him to keep his place. 

"If you had told me frankly what you wanted in the first place, Mr. Coulter, " he said after an exasperating episode in which Coulter'sPharisaic sensitiveness had resulted in Malcolm's having to "flop" thepaper both editorially and in its news columns twice in three days, "wewould not have made ourselves ridiculous and contemptible. The public is anass, but it is an ass with a memory at least three days long. Yourstealthiness has made the ass bray at us instead of with and for us. Andthat is dangerous when you consider that running a newspaper is likerunning a restaurant--you must please your customers every day afresh. "

Coulter was further difficult because of his anxieties about socialposition for himself and his family. He was disturbed whenever the_News-Record_ published an item that might offend any of the peoplewhose acquaintance he had gained with so much difficulty, and for whosegood will he was willing to sacrifice even considerable money. Personally, but very privately, he edited the _News-Record's_ "fashionableintelligence" columns on Sunday and made them an exhibit of his ownsycophancy and snobbishness which excited the amused disgust of all whowere in the secret. 

Malcolm liked Howard, admired him, in a way envied his fearlessness, hisearnestness for principles. For years he had had it in mind to retire andwrite a history of the Civil War period which had been his own period ofgreatest activity and most intimate acquaintance with the behind-the-scenesof statecraft. Howard's energy, steady application, enthusiasm forjournalism and intelligence both as to editorials and as to news madeMalcolm look upon him as his natural successor. 

"I think Howard is the man we want, " he said to his two associates when hewas arranging the dinner. "He has new ideas--just what the paper needs. Heis in touch with these recent developments. And above all he has judgment. He knows what not to print, where and how to print what ought to beprinted. He is still young and is over-enthusiastic. He has limitations, but he knows them and he is eager and capable to learn. "

It was a "shop" dinner, Howard doing most of the talking, led on byMalcolm. The main point was the "new journalism, " as it was called, and howto adapt it to the _News-Record_ and the _News-Record_ to it. 

Malcolm kept the conversation closely to news and news-ideas, fearing that, if editorial policies were brought in, Howard would make "breaks. " He soonsaw that his associates were much impressed with Howard, with his judgment, with his knowledge of the details of every important newspaper in the city, with his analysis of the good and bad points in each. 

"I'll drop you at your corner, " said he to Howard at the end of the dinner. As they drove up the Avenue he began: "How would you like to be the editorof the _News-Record_? My place, I mean. "

"I don't understand, " Howard answered, bewildered. 

"I am going to retire at once, " Malcolm went on. "I've been at it nearlyfifty years--ever since I was a boy of eighteen and I've been in chargethere almost a quarter of a century. I think I've earned a few years ofleisure to work for my own amusement. I'm pretty sure they'll want you totake my place. Would you like it?"

"I'm not fit for it, " Howard said, and he meant it. "I'm only anapprentice. I'm always making blunders--but I needn't tell you about that. "

"You can't say that you are not fit until you have tried. Besides, thequestion is not, are _you_ fit? but, is there any one more fit thanyou? I confess I don't see any one so well equipped, so certain to give thepaper all of the best that there is in him. "

"Of course I'd like to try. I can only fail. "

"Oh, you won't fail. But you may quarrel with Stokely andCoulter--especially Coulter. In fact, I'm sure you'll quarrel with them. But if you make yourself valuable enough, you'll probably win out. Only----"

Malcolm hesitated, then went on:

"I stopped giving advice years ago. But I'll venture a suggestion. Wheneveryour principles run counter to the policy of the paper, it would be wise tothink the matter over carefully before making an issue. Usually there istruth on both sides, much that can be said fairly and honestly for eitherside. Often devotion to principle is a mere prejudice. Often the crowd, themob, can be better controlled to right ends by conceding or seeming toconcede a principle for the time. Don't strike a mortal blow at your ownusefulness to good causes by making yourself a hasty martyr to some fanciedvital principle that will seem of no consequence the next morning but oneafter the election. "

"I know, Mr. Malcolm, judgment is all but impossible. And I have beentrying to learn what you have been teaching me with your blue pencil, whatyou now put into words. But there is something in me--an instinct, perhaps--that forces me on in spite of myself. I've learned to curb andguide it to a certain extent, but as long as I am I, I shall never learn tocontrol it. Every man must work out his own salvation along his own lines. And with my limitations of judgment, it would be fatal to me, I feel, tostudy the art of compromise. Where another, broader, stronger, more masterof himself and of others, would succeed by compromising, I should failmiserably. I should be lost, compassless, rudderless. I have often enviedyou your calmness, your ability to see not only to-morrow but the dayafter. But, if I ever try to imitate you, I shall make a sad mess of mycareer. "

As he ended Howard looked uneasily at the old editor, expecting to see thatcaustic smile with which he preceded and accompanied his sarcasms at"sentimental bosh. " But instead, Malcolm's face was melancholy; and hisvoice was sad and weary as he answered the young man who was just startingwhere he had started so many years ago:

"No doubt you are right. I'm not intending to try to dissuade youfrom--from the best there is in you. All I mean is that caution, self-examination, self-doubt, calm consideration of the other side--theseare as necessary to success as energy and resolute action. All I suggest isthat its splendour does not redeem a splendid folly. Its folly remains itsessential characteristic. "

Three weeks later Howard became editor-in-chief of the _News-Record_. His salary was fifteen thousand a year; and Stokely and Coulter, actingupon Malcolm's advice, gave him a "free hand" for one year. They agreed notto interfere during that time unless the circulation or the profits showeda decrease at the end of a quarter. 

The next morning Howard, in the Madison Avenue car on his way to theoffice, read among the "Incidents in Society:"

Mrs. George Alexander Provost and her niece, Miss Marion Trevor, sailed inthe _Campania_ yesterday. They will return in July for the Newportseason. 

XV. 

YELLOW JOURNALISM. 

While several of the New York dailies were circulating from two to threehundred thousand copies, the _News-Record_--the best-written, the mostcomplete, and, where the interests of the owners did not interfere, themost accurate--circulated less than one hundred thousand. The Sundayedition had a circulation of one hundred and fifty thousand where two othernewspapers had almost half a million. 

The theory of the _News-Record_ staff was that their journal was too"respectable, " too intelligent, to be widely read; that the "yellowjournals" grovelled, "appealed to the mob, " drew their vast crowds by themethods of the fakir and the freak. They professed pride in the_News-Record's_ smaller circulation as proof of its freedom fromvulgarity and debasement. They looked down upon the journalists of thepopular newspapers and posed as the aristocracy of the profession. 

Howard did not assent to these self-complacent excuses. He was democraticand modern, and the aristocratic pose appealed only to his sense of humourand his suspicions. He believed that the success of the "yellow journals"with the most intelligent, alert and progressive public in the world mustbe based upon solid reasons of desert, must be in spite of, not because of, their follies and exhibitions of bad taste. He resolved upon a radicaldeparture, a revolution from the policy of satisfying petty vanity andtradition within the office to a policy of satisfying the demands of thepublic. 

He gave Segur temporary charge of the editorial page, and, taking a desk inthe news-room, centred his attention upon news and the news-staff. But hewas careful not to agitate and antagonise those whose coöperation wasnecessary to success. He made only one change in the management; he retiredold Bowring on a pension and appointed to the city editorship one of theyoung reporters--Frank Cumnock. 

He chose Cumnock for this position, in many respects the most important onthe staff of a New York daily, because he wrote well, was a judge of goodwriting, had a minute knowledge of New York and its neighbourhood and, finally and chiefly, because he had a "news-sense, " keener than that of anyother man on the paper. 

For instance, there was the murder of old Thayer, the rich miser in EastSixteenth Street. It was the sensation in all the newspapers for two weeks. Then they dropped it as an unsolvable mystery. Cumnock persuaded Mr. Bowring to let him keep on. After five days' work he heard of a deaf anddumb woman who sat every afternoon at a back window of her flat overlookingthe back windows of Thayer's house. He had a trying struggle with herinfirmity and stupidity, but finally was rewarded. On the afternoon of themurder, in its very hour (which the police had been able to discover), shehad seen a man and woman in the bathroom of the Thayer house. Both wereagitated and the man washed his hands again and again, carefully rinsingthe bowl afterward. From her description Cumnock got upon the track ofThayer's niece and her husband, found the proof of their guilt, had themwatched until the _News-Record_ came out with the "beat, " then turnedthem over to the police. 

Also, Cumnock was keen at taking hints of good news-items concealed inobscure paragraphs. The Morris Prison scandal was an example of this. Hefound in the New England edition of _The World_ a six-line item givingan astonishing death rate for the Morris Prison. He asked the City Editorto assign him to go there; and within a week the press of the entirecountry was discussing the _News-Record's_ exposure of the barbaritiesof torture and starvation practised by Warden Johnson and his keepers. 

"We are going to print the news, all the news and nothing but the news, "Howard said to Cumnock. "They've put you here because, so they tell me, youknow news no matter how thoroughly it is concealed or disguised. And Iassure you that no one shall interfere with you. No favours to anybody; nouse of the news-columns for revenge or exploitation. The only questions anews-item need raise in your mind are: Is it true? Is it interesting? Is itprintable in a newspaper that will publish anything which a healthy-mindedgrown-person wishes to read?"

"Is that 'straight'?" asked Cumnock. "No favourites? No suppressions? Noexploitations?"

"'Straight'--'dead straight'! And if I were you I'd make this particularlyclear to the Wall Street and political men. If anybody"--with stress uponthe anybody--"comes to you about this, send him to me. "

Howard was uneasy about the managing editor, Mr. King. But he soon foundthat his fears were groundless. Mr. King was without petty vanity, andcordially and sincerely welcomed his control. 

"We look too dull, " King began when Howard asked him if he had any changesto suggest. "We need more and bigger headlines, and we need pictures. "

"That is it!" Howard was delighted to find that King and he were in perfectaccord. "But we must not have pictures unless we can have the best. Just atpresent we can't increase expenses by any great amount. What do you say totrying what we can do with all the news, larger headlines and plenty ofleads?"

"I'm sure we can do better with our class of readers by livening up theappearance of our headlines than we could with second-rate pictures. "

"I hope, " Howard said earnestly, "that we won't have to use thatphrase--'our class of readers'--much longer. Our paper should interestevery man and woman able to read. It seems to me that a newspaper'saudience should be like that of a good play--the orchestra chairs full andthe last seat in the gallery taken. I suppose you know we're not an 'organ'any longer?"

"No, I didn't. " Mr. King looked surprised. "Do you mean to say that we'refree to print the news?"

"Free as freedom. In our news columns we're neither Democrat nor Republicannor Mugwump nor Reform. We have no Wall Street or social connections. Weare going to print a newspaper--all the news and nothing but the news. "

Mr. King drummed on his desk softly with the tips of his outstretchedfingers. "Hum--hum, " he said. "This _is_ news. Well--thecirculation'll go up. And that's all I'm interested in. "

Howard went about his plans quietly. He avoided every appearance ofexerting authority, disturbed not a wheel in the great machine. He made hischanges so subtly that those who received the suggestions often came to hima few days afterward, proposing as their own the very plans he had hinted. He was thus cautious partly because of his experience of the vanity of men, their sensitiveness to criticism, their instinctive opposition toimprovement from without; partly from his knowledge of the hysteria whichraged in the offices of the "yellow journals. " He wished to avoid anepidemic of that hysteria--the mad rush for sensation and novelty; thestrife of opposing ambitions; the plotting and counter-plotting of rivalheads of departments; the chaos out of which the craziest ideas oftenemerged triumphant, making the pages of the paper look like a series ofdisordered dreams. 

He was indifferent to the semblance of authority, to the shadows for whichsmall men are forever struggling. What he wanted, all he wanted, was--results. 

The first opposition came from the night editor, who for twenty-six years, his weekly "night off" and his two weeks' vacation in summer excepted, had"made up" the paper--that is to say, had defined, with the advice andconsent of the managing editor, the position and order of the various newsitems. This night editor, Mr. Vroom, was a strenuous conservative. Hebelieved that an editor's duty was done when he had intelligently arrangedhis paper so that the news was placed before the reader in the order of itsimportance. Big headlines, attempts at effect with varying sizes of largetype and varying column-widths he held to be crowd-catching devices, vulgarand debasing. He had no sympathy with Howard's theory that the first objectof a newspaper published in a democratic republic is to catch the crowd, tointerest it, to compel it to read, and so to lead it to think. 

"We're on the way to scuffling in the gutter with the 'yellow journals' forthe pennies of the mob, " he was saying sarcastically to Mr. King, oneafternoon just as Howard joined them. 

Howard laughed. "Not on the way to the gutter, Mr. Vroom. Actually in thegutter, actually scuffling. "

"Well, I'm frank to say that I don't like it. A newspaper ought to appealto the intelligent. "

"To intelligence, yes; to the intelligent, no. At least in my opinion, thatis the right theory. We want people to read us because we're intelligentenough to know how to please them, not because they're intelligent enoughto overcome the difficulties we put in their way. But let's go out todinner this evening and talk it over. "

They dined together at Mouquin's every night for a week. At the end of thattime Vroom, still sarcastic and grumbling, was a convert. And a greataccession Howard found him. He had sound judgment as to the value ofnews-items--what demanded first page, the "show-window, " because it wouldinterest everybody; what was worth a line on an inside page because itwould interest only a few thousands. He was the most skillful of the_News-Record's_ many good writers of headlines, a master of that, forthe newspaper, art of arts--condensed and interesting statement, alluringthe glancing reader to read on. Also he had an eye for effects with type. "You make every page a picture, " Howard said to him. "It is wonderful howyou balance your headlines, emphasising the important news yet saving theminor items from obscurity. I should like to see the paper you would makeif you had the right sort of illustrations to put in. "

Vroom was amazed at himself. He who had opposed any "head" which broke thecolumn rule was now so far degenerated into a "yellow journalist" that, when Howard spoke of illustrations, he actually longed to test his skill atdistributing them effectively. 

 * * * * *

Two months of hard work, tedious, because necessarily so indirect, produceda newspaper which was "on the right lines, " as Howard understood rightlines. And he felt that the time had come to make the necessary radicalchanges in the editorial page. 

The _News-Record_ had long posed as independent because it supportednow one political party and now the other, or divided its support. But thissuperficial independence was in reality subservience to the financialinterests of the two principal owners. They made their newspaper assailRepublican or Democratic corruption and misgovernment in city, state ornation, according as their personal interests lay. They used the editorialpage and, to even better advantage, the news-columns, in revengingthemselves for too heavy levies of blackmail upon their corrupt interestsor in securing unjust legislation and privileges. 

Obedient and cynical Mr. Malcolm had made the editorial page corrupt andbrilliant--never so effective as when assailing a good cause. The greatmisfortune of good causes is that they attract so many fatal friends--thesuperciliously conscientious; the well-meaning but feeble-minded andblundering; the most offensive because least deceptive kinds of hypocrites. Mr. Malcolm, as acute as he was intellectually unscrupulous, wellunderstood how to weaken or to ruin a just cause through these supporters. Sometimes he stood afar off, showering the poisoned arrows of raillery andsatire. Again he was the plain-spoken friend of the cause and warned itshonest supporters against these "fool friends" whom he pretended to regardas its leaders. Again he played the part of a blind enthusiast and praisedfolly as wisdom and urged it on to more damaging activities. 

"We abhor humbug here, " he used to say; and perhaps he did in a measureexcuse himself to his conscience with the phrase. But in fact his editorialpage was usually a succession of humbugs, of brilliant hypocrisies andcheats perpetrated under the guise of exposing humbug. 

Just as Howard was ready to reverse Malcolm's editorial programme, New Yorkwas seized with one of its "periodic spasms of virtue. " The city governmentwas, as usual, in the hands of the two bosses who owned the two politicalmachines. One was taking the responsibility and the larger share of thespoils; the other was maintaining him in power and getting the smaller buta satisfactory share. The alliance between the police and criminal vice hadbecome so open and aggressive under this bi-boss patronage that the peoplewere aroused and indignant. But as they had no capable leaders and no wayof selecting leaders, there arose a self-constituted leadership of uptownPhariseeism and sentimentality, planning the "purification" of the city. 

Every man of sense knowing human nature and the conditions of city lifeknew that this plan was foredoomed to ridiculous failure, and that theevent would be a popular revulsion against "reform. "

"Why not speak the truth about these vice-hunters?" Howard was discussingthe situation with three of his editorial writers--Segur, Huntington andMontgomery. 

"It's mighty dangerous, " Montgomery objected. "You will be sticking knivesinto a sacred Anglo-Saxon hypocrisy. "

"Yes, we'll have all the good people about our ears, " said Segur. "We'll bedenounced as a defender of depravity, a foe of purity. They'll thunder awayat us from every pulpit. The other newspapers will take it up, especiallythose that expect to sell millions of papers containing accounts of the'exposure' of the dives and dens. "

"That's good. I hope we shall, " said Howard cheerfully. "It will advertiseus tremendously. "

The three were better pleased than they would have admitted to themselvesby the seeming certainty of Howard's impending undoing. 

"No, gentlemen, " Howard said, as they were about to go to their rooms forthe day's work. "There's no danger in attacking any hypocrisy. Don't attackbeliefs that are universal or nearly universal--at least not openly. Butdon't be afraid of a hypocrisy because it is universal. People know thatthey are hypocrites in respect of it. They may not have the couragepublicly to applaud you. But they'll be privately delighted and will admireyour courage. We'll try to be discreet and we'll be careful to be truthful. And we'll begin by making these gentlemen show themselves up. "

The next morning the _News-Record_ published a double-leadededitorial. It described the importance of improving political and socialconditions in New York; it went on to note the distinguished names on thecommittee for the destruction of vice; it closed with the announcement thaton the following day the _News-Record_ would publish the views ofthese eminent reformers upon conditions and remedies. 

The next day he printed the interviews--a collection of curiosities inutopianism, cant, ignorant fanaticism, provincialism, hypocrisy. Theseappeared strictly as news; for the cardinal principle of Howard's theory ofa newspaper was that it had no right to intrude its own views into itsnews-columns. On the editorial page he riddled the interviews. By adroitquotations, by contrasting one with another, he showed, or rather made theso-called reformers themselves show, that where they were sincere they werein the main silly, and where they were plausible they were in the maininsincere; that every man of them had his own pet scheme for the salvationof wicked New York; and that they could not possibly accomplish anythingmore valuable than leading the people on the familiar, aimless, demoralizing excursion through the slums. 

On the following day he frankly laughed at them as a lot of impracticableswho either did not know the patent facts of city life or refused to admitthose facts. And he turned his attention to the real problem, a respectableadministration for the city--a practical end which could easily beaccomplished by practical action. From day to day he kept this up, publishing a splendid series of articles, humorous, witty, satirical, eloquent, bold, with a dominant strain of sincerity and plain common sense. As his associates had predicted, a storm gathered and burst in fury aboutthe _News-Record_. It was denounced by "leading citizens, " includingmany of the clergy. Its "esteemed" contemporaries published and endorsedand amplified the abuse. And its circulation went up at the rate of fivethousand a day. 

When the storm was at its height, when the whole town seemed to be agreeingwith the angry reformers but was quietly laughing at their folly andhypocrisy, Howard threw his bomb. On a Saturday morning he gave half of hisfirst page with big but severely impartial headlines to an analysis of themembers of the vice committee--a broadside of facts often hinted but neverbefore verified and published. First came those who owned property andsub-let it for vicious purposes, the property and purpose specified indetail; then those who were directors in corporations which had got corruptprivileges from the local boss, the privileges being carefully specified, and also the amounts of which they had robbed the city. Last came those whowere directors in corporations which had bought from the State-bossinjustices and licenses to rob, the specifications given in damning detail. 

His leading editorial was entitled "Why We Don't Have Decent Government. "It was powerful in its simplicity, its merciless raillery and irony; andonly at the very end did it contain passion. There, in a few eloquentsentences he arraigned these professed reformers who were growing richthrough the boss-system, who were trafficking with the bosses and were nowengaged in wrecking the hopes of honesty and decency. On that day the_News-Record's_ circulation went up thirty thousand. The town rangwith its "exposure" and the attention of the whole country was arrested. Itwas one of the historic "beats" of New York journalism. The reputation ofthe _News-Record_ for fearlessness and truth-telling andnews-enterprise was established. At abound it had become the mostconspicuous and one of the most powerful journals in New York. 

XVI. 

MR. STOKELY IS TACTLESS. 

Howard, riding in the Park one morning late in the spring, came upon Mrs. Carnarvon. She gave him no chance to evade her, but joined him andaccommodated her horse's pace to his. 

"And are you still on the _News-Record?_" she said. "I hope not. "

"Why?" Howard was smiling, glad to get an outside view of what he had beendoing. 

"Because it's become so sensational. It used to be such a nice paper. Andnow--gracious, what headlines! What attacks on the very best people in thetown!"

"Dreadful, isn't it?" laughed Howard. "We've become so depraved that we areactually telling the truth about somebodies instead of only aboutnobodies. "

"I might have known that you would sympathise with that sort of thing. "Mrs. Carnarvon was teasing, yet reproachful. "You always were ananarchist. "

"Is it anarchistic to be no respecter of persons and to put big headlinesover big items and little headlines over little items?"

"Oh, you know what I mean. You are encouraging the unruly classes. "

"Dear me! And we thought we were fighting the unruly class. We thought thatit was our friends--or rather, your friends--the franchise grabbers andlegislature-buyers who won't obey the laws unless the laws happen to suittheir convenience. They're the only unruly class I know anything about. I've heard of another kind but I've never been able to find it. And I neverhear much about it except when a lot of big rascals are making off weighteddown with plunder. They always shout back over their shoulders: 'Don'traise a disturbance or you'll arouse the unruly classes. '"

Mrs. Carnarvon was laughing. "You put it well, " she said, "and I'm notclever enough to answer you. But they all tell me the _News-Record_has become a dangerous paper, that it's attacking everybody who hasanything. "

"Anything he has stolen, yes. But that's all. "

"You can't get me to sympathise with you. I like well-dressed, well-mannered people who speak good English. "

"So do I. That's why I'm doing all in my power to improve the conditionsfor making more and more people of the sort one likes to talk to and dinewith. "

"Why, I thought you sympathised with the lower classes. "

"Not a bit of it. Who has been maligning me to you? I abhor the lowerclasses--so much so that I wish to see them abolished. "

"Well, you'll have to blame Marian for misleading me. "

"Miss Trevor? How is she?" Mrs. Carnarvon was looking closely at him, andhe was not sure that he succeeded in showing nothing more than friendlyinterest. 

"Haven't you heard from her? She's in England, visiting in Lancashire. Youknow her cousin married Lord Cranmore. "

"I saw in the papers several months ago that she was going abroad. Ihaven't heard a word since. "

Mrs. Carnarvon started to say something, but changed her mind. 

"When is she coming home?"

"Not until July. You must come to see us at Newport. "

"Nothing could please me better--if I can get away. "

"I'll send you an invitation, although you have treated me very badly oflate. But I suppose you are busy. "

"Busy? Isn't a galley slave always busy?"

"Are you still writing editorials?"

"Yes--and on the fallen _News-Record_. In fact----"

"Well--what?"

Howard laughed. "Don't faint, " he said. "I'll leave you at once if you wishme to, and I'll never give it away that you once knew me. I'm theeditor--the responsible devil for the depravity. "

"How interesting!" Mrs. Carnarvon was evidently not disturbed. Then theAmerican adoration of success came out. "I'm so glad you're getting on. Ialways knew you would. Really, you must come to dinner. I'll invite some ofthe people you've been attacking. They'll like to look at you, and you willbe amused by them. And I don't in the least mind your giving it to them ifthey bait you, as I did this morning. Will you come?"

"If I may leave by ten o'clock. I go down town every night. "

"Why, when do you sleep?"

"Not much, these days. Life's too interesting to permit of much sleep. I'llmake up when it slackens a bit. "

As he was turning his horse, she said: "Marian's address is Claridge's, Brooke Street, Mayfair. If she isn't there, they forward her mail. "

Howard was puzzled. "What made her give me that address?" he thought. "Iknow she didn't like my seeing so much of Marian. And here she ispractically inviting me to write to her. " He could not understand it. "If Iwere not a 'yellow' editor and if Marian were not engaged to one of therichest men in New York, I'd say that this lady was encouraging me. " Hesmiled. "Not yet--not just yet. " And he cheerfully urged his horse into acanter. 

Mrs. Carnarvon's opinion of the _News-Record_ and its recentperformances fairly represented that of the fashionable and the very rich. They read it, as they never did before, because it interested them. Theycould not deny that what it said was true; that is, they could not deny itto their own minds, although they did vigorously deny it publicly. Thosewho were attacked directly or indirectly, or expected to be attacked, denounced the paper as an "outrage, " a "disgrace to the city, " a "specimenof the journalism of the gutter. " Many who were not in sympathy with themen or the methods assailed thought that its course was "inexpedient, ""tended to increase discontent among the lower classes, " "weakened theinfluence of the better classes. " Only a few of the "triumphant classes"saw the real value and benefit of the _News-Record's_ frank attacksupon greed and hypocrisy, saw that these attacks were not dangerous ordemagogical because they were just and were combined with a carefulavoidance of encouragement to the lazy, the envious, the incompetent andthe ignorant. 

Fortunately for Howard's peace, that eminent New York "multi, " SamuelJocelyn, for whom Coulter had the highest respect, was of this last class. When Howard began, Coulter was at Aiken where Jocelyn had a cottage. He hadnever been able to make headway with Jocelyn, and Mrs. Jocelyn deigned togive him and Mrs. Coulter only the coldest of cold nods. Just as Coulterhad become so agitated by Howard's radical course that he was preparing togo to New York to remonstrate with him, Jocelyn called. 

"I came to thank you for what you are doing with your paper, " he saidcordially. "It seems to me that all intelligent men who are not blind totheir own ultimate interests ought to stand by you. I can't tell you howmuch I admire your frankness and honesty. And you draw the line just right. You attack plunder, you defend property. Will your wife and you dine withus this evening?"

Coulter postponed his trip to New York. 

On the last day of the first three months the circulation of the_News-Record_ was 147, 253--an increase of 42, 150 over what it was onthe day Howard took charge; its advertising had increased twelve per cent;its net profits for the quarter were seventy-five thousand dollars asagainst fifty-seven thousand for the preceding quarter. 

"Very good indeed, " was Stokely's comment. 

"Another quarter like this, " said Howard, "and I'm going to ask you to letme increase expenses a thousand dollars a week to illustrate the paper. "

"We'll talk that over with Coulter. Personally I like this'yellow-journalism'--when it's done intelligently. I always told Coulterwe'd have to come to it. It's only common sense to make a paper easyreading. Then, too, we can have a great deal more influence--in fact, wehave already. I'm getting what I want up at Albany this winter muchcheaper. "

Howard winced. "He made me feel like a blackmailer, " he said to himselfwhen Stokely had gone. "And I suppose these fellows do look on me as a newMalcolm with up-to-date tricks. Well, they will see, they will see. "

He tried to go on with his work, but Stokely's cynical words persistentlyinterrupted him. Why had he not squarely challenged Stokely then and there?Why had he only winced where a year ago he would have demanded anexplanation?

He hated to confess it to himself, he made every effort to smother it, butthe thought still stared him in the face--"I am not so strong in my idealsof personal character as I was a year ago. "

The fact that his present course was profitable gave him, he felt, morepleasure than the fact that it was right. If the alternative of wealth andpower with self-abasement or poverty, obscurity with self-respect were putto him now, what would he decide? Would he give up his prospects, his hopesof Marian and of an easy career? He was afraid to answer. He contentedhimself with one of his habitual evasions--"I will settle that when thetime comes. No, Stokely's remark did not make a crisis. If the crisis everdoes come, surely I will act like a man. I'll be securer then, morenecessary to this pair of plunderers, able to make better terms for myself. In practical life, it is necessary to sacrifice something in order tosucceed. "

But Stokely's words and his own silence and the real reasons for hischanging ideals and for his cowardice continued to annoy him. 

Every day he came down town planning for a better newspaper the nextmorning than they had ever made before. And his vigour, his enthusiasmpermeated the entire office. He went from one news department to another, suggesting, asking for suggestions, praising, criticising judiciously andwith the greatest consideration for vanity. He talked with the reporters, urging them on by showing keen interest in them and their work, andintimate knowledge of what they were doing. And he dictated every daytelegrams to correspondents, thanking them for any conspicuously goodstories they had telegraphed in, adding something to the compensation ofthose who were paid by space and made little. 

If his work had not been his amusement the long hours, the constantapplication, would have broken him down. But he had no interests outsidethe office and he got his mental recreation by shifting his mind from onedepartment to another. 

In June his salary was increased to twenty-five thousand a year and hislast lingering feeling of financial insecurity disappeared. For the firsttime in his life he felt strong enough to undertake a seriousresponsibility, to give hostages to fortune without fear of being unable tokeep faith. He learned from Mrs. Carnarvon that Marian was returning on the_Oceanic_ on the ninth of July, and he accepted a Saturday-to-Mondayinvitation to Newport for the twelfth of July. It was from Segur that hegot the news that Danvers was in Japan and was not returning until theautumn. 

On the ninth of July, from the window of his office, he saw the_Oceanic_ steam up the bay and up the river to her pier. He sent downa request that the ship-news reporter be sent up as soon as he returned. "Is it a good story?" he asked when the reporter, Blackwell, entered. "Wasthere anybody on board?"

"A lot of swell people, " the young man answered; "all the women got up inthe latest Paris gowns. "

"Did you notice whether Mrs. Provost came?"

"Came? Well, rather, with two French maids chattering and chasing afterher. And there was a tall girl with her, a stunner, a girl she called'Marian, my dear. '"

Howard stopped him with "Thank you. Don't write anything about them. "

"It was the best thing I saw--the funniest. "

"Well--don't use the names. "

Young Blackwell turned to go. "Oh, I see--friends of yours, " he smiled. "Very well. I'll keep 'em out. "

Howard flushed and called him back. "Go ahead, " he said. "Write just whatyou were going to. Of course you wouldn't write anything that was not fairand truthful. We don't 'play favourites' here. Forget what I said. "

And so it came to pass that Mrs. Provost, half pleased, half indignant, said to Miss Trevor as they sat in the drawing room of the Pullman on theway to Newport the next day: "Just look at this, Marian dear, in the horrid_News-Record_. And it used to be such a nice paper with that slimyCoulter bowing and scraping to everybody. "

"This" was Mrs. Provost and her dogs and her maids and her asides to"Marian dear, " described with accuracy and a keen sense of the ludicrous. 

"It's too dreadful, " she continued. "There is no such thing as privacy inthis country. The newspapers are making us, " with a slight accent on thepronoun, "as common and public as tenement-house people. "

"Yes, " Miss Trevor answered absently. "But why read the newspapers? I nevercould get interested in them, though I've tried. "

XVII. 

A WOMAN AND A WARNING. 

On the evening of Howard's arrival at Newport, Mrs. Carnarvon was having afew people in to dine. He had just time to dress and so saw no one until hedescended to the reception room. 

"You are to take in Marian, " said his hostess, going with him to where MissTrevor was sitting, her back to the door and her attention apparentlyabsorbed by the man facing her. 

"Here's Mr. Howard, Marian, " Mrs. Carnarvon interrupted. "Come with me, Willie. Your lady is over here and we're going in directly. "

Marian saw that Howard was looking at her in the straight, frank fashionshe remembered and liked so well. "I've come for you, " he said. 

"Yes, you are to take me in, " she evaded, her look even lamer than herwords. 

"You know what I mean. " He was smiling, his heart in his eyes, as if thedozen people were not about them. 

"I see you have not changed, " she laughed, answering his look in kind. 

"Changed? I'm revolutionized. I was blind and now I see. I was paralyzedand behold, I walk. I was weak and lo, I am strong--strong enough for two, if necessary. "

"Now, hasn't it occurred to you that I might possibly have something to sayabout my own fate?"

"You? Why, you had everything to say. I reasoned it all out with you. Yousimply can't add anything to the case I made you make out for yourself whenI talked it over with you. I made you protest very vigorously. "

"Well, what did I say--that is, what did you make me say?"

"You said you were engaged--pledged to another--that you could not drawback without dishonour. And I answered that no engagement could bind you tobecome the wife of a man you did not love; that no moral code could holdyou to such a sin; that no code of honour could command you to permit a manto degrade himself and you. Then you pleaded that you were not sure youliked my kind of a life, that you feared you wanted wealth and a greatestablishment and social leadership and--and all that. "

"Did I?" Marian said with exaggerated astonishment. 

"You did indeed. You were perfectly open with me. You let me see all thatpart of you which we try to keep concealed and fancy we are concealing--allthat one really feels and wishes and thinks as distinguished from what onefancies he ought to feel and wish and think. "

"I wonder that you cared, after a glance behind that curtain. "

"Oh, but I like what is behind that curtain best of all. The very humanthings are there. They make me feel so at home. "

Dinner was announced and it was not until the second course that he had achance to resume. Then he began as if there had been no interval:

"You said--"

Marian laughed and looked at him--a flash of her luminous blue-greeneyes--and was looking away again with her usual expression. "You needn'ttell me the rest. It doesn't matter what I said. I've had you with mewherever I went. You never doubted my--my caring, did you?"

"No. I couldn't doubt you. If you were the sort of woman a man could doubt, you wouldn't be the sort of woman I could love. And you know it isn'tvanity that makes me sure. I often wonder how you happened to care for sucha--but I must not attack any one whom you like so well. No, I knew youcared by the same instinct that makes you know that I care for you. "

"But why did you come?"

"Because I have won a position for myself, have enough to enable us to livewithout eternally fretting over money-matters. I feel that I have the rightto come. And then I could not be interested to live on, without you; andI'm willing to face, willing to have you face, whatever may come to usthrough me. I know that you and I together----"

"Not now--don't--please. " Marian was pale and she was obviously under agreat strain. "You see, you knew all about this. But I didn't until youlooked at me when Jessie brought you. It makes me--happy--I am so happy. But I must--I can't control myself here. " She leaned over as if her napkinhad slipped to the floor. "I love you, " she murmured. 

It was Howard's turn to struggle for self-control. "I understand, " he said, "why you wished me not to go on. You never said those words to mebefore--and----"

"Oh, yes I have--many and many a time. "

"With your eyes, but not with your voice--at least not so that I couldhear. And--well, it is not easy to look calm and only friendly when everynerve in one's body is vibrating like a violin string under the bow. Yes, let us talk of something else. I've never been acutely conscious of thepresence of others when I've been with you. To-night I'm in great danger offorgetting them altogether. "

"That would be so like you. " Marian laughed, then raised her voice a littleand went on. "Yes, your little restaurant in the Rue Louis le Grand wasgone. There was a dressmaker in its place--Raudinitz. She made this. How doyou like it?"

"It has the air of--of belonging to you. "

Marian looked amused. Howard shrugged his shoulders. "All roads lead toRome, " he said. 

 * * * * *

Carnarvon hung about until the women went to bed, so Howard and Marian hadno opportunity to be alone. As soon as he saw his last chance vanish, hewent to his own room, to the solitude of its balcony in the shadow of theprojecting facade with the moonlight flooding the rocks and the sea. 

As he sat smoking, the recession came, the reaction from weeks of nervoustension. And with the ebb of the tide entered that Visitor who alone hasthe privilege of the innermost chamber where lives the man himself, unmasked of all vanity and show and pretense. The visit was not unexpected;for at every such crisis every one is certain of a call from this Visitor, this merciless critic, plain and rude of speech, rare and reluctant inpraise, so mocking in our moments of elation, so cruelly frank about ourfollies and self-excuses when he comes in our moments of depression. 

"So you are going to marry?" the Visitor said abruptly. "I thought you hadmade up your mind on that subject long ago. "

"Love changes a man's point of view, " Howard replied, timid and apologeticbefore this quiet, relentless other-self. 

"But it doesn't change the facts of life, does it? It doesn't changecharacter, does it?"

"I think so. For instance, it has changed me. It has made a man of me. Ithas been the inspiration of the past year, strengthening me, making meambitious, energetic. Have I not thought of her all the time, worked forher?"

"You have been uncommonly persistent--as you always are when you arethwarted. " The Visitor wore a satirical smile. "But a spurt of inspirationis one thing. A wife--responsibility--fetters----"

"Not when one loves. "

"That depends upon the kind of love--and the kind of woman--and the kind ofman. "

"Could there be any higher kind of love than ours?"

"Most romantic, most high-minded--quite idyllic. " The Visitor's tone wasgently mocking. "And I don't deny that you may go on loving each the other. But--how does she fit in with your scheme of life? What does she reallyknow of or care about your ambitions? Why, you had so little confidence inher that you didn't dare to think of marrying her until you had an incomewhich you once would have thought wealth--an income which, by the way, already begins to seem small to you. "

"No, it wasn't lack of confidence in her, " protested Howard. "It was lackof confidence in myself. "

"True, that did have something to do with it, I grant you. And that remindsme--what has become of all your cowardice about responsibility?"

"Oh, I'm changed there. "

"Are you sure? Are you not deceived by this sudden and maybe momentarystreak of good luck in your affairs? You have fixed your ambitionhigh--very high. You wish to make an honest and a useful and adistinguished career. You know you have weaknesses. I needn't remindyou--need I--that you have had to fight those weaknesses? How could youhave won thus far if you had been responsible for others instead of beingalone, and certain that the consequences would fall upon yourself only? Iwant to see you continue to win. I don't want to see you dragged down byextravagance, by love for this woman, by ambition of the kind her friendsapprove. I don't want to see you--You were silent when Stokely insultedyou!"

"Love--such love as mine--and for such a woman--and with such love inreturn--drag down? Impossible!"

"Not so--not exactly so, though I must say you are plausible. But don'tforget that you and she are not starting out to make a career. Don't forgetthat she is already fixed--her tastes, habits, friendships, associations, ideals already formed. Don't forget that your love is the only bond betweenyou--and that it may drag you toward her mode of life instead of drawingher towards yours. Don't forget that your own associations and temptationsare becoming more and more difficult. I repeat, you cringed--yes, cringed--when Stokely insulted you. Why?"

Howard was silent. 

"And, " the Visitor went on relentlessly, "let me remind you that not onlydid you give her up without a struggle a few months ago but also she gaveyou up without a word. "

"But what could she have said?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. I'm not familiar with ways feminine. But Iknow--we know--that, if there had not been some reservation in her love, some hesitation about you--unconscious, perhaps, but powerful enough tomake her yield--she would not have let you go as she did. "

"But she did not realise, as I did not, how much our love meant to us. "

"Perhaps--that sounds well. All I ask is, will she help you? Are you reallyso much stronger than you were only four months ago? Or are you stimulatedby success? Suppose that days of disaster, of peril, come? What then?"

"But they will not. I have won a position. I can always command a largesalary--perhaps not quite so much but still a large salary. "

"Perhaps--if you don't trouble yourself about principles. But how would itbe if you would do nothing, write nothing, except what you think is honest?Would you ask her to face it? Tell me, tell yourself honestly, have you theright to assume a responsibility you may not be able to bear, to invitetemptations you may not be able to resist?"

There was a long silence. At last Howard stood up and flung his cigar intothe sea. His face was drawn and his eyes burned. 

"God in heaven!" he cried, "am I not human? May I not have companionshipand sympathy and love? Must I be alone and friendless and loveless always?That is not life; that is not just. I will not; I will not. I loveher--love her--love her. With the best that there is in me, I love her. AmI such a coward that I cannot face even my own weaknesses?"

XVIII. 

HOWARD EXPLAINS HIS MACHINE. 

In August Marian and Mrs. Carnarvon came to the Waldorf for two days. Howard had offered to show them how a newspaper is made; and Mrs. Carnarvon, finding herself bored by too many days of the same few peopleevery day, herself proposed the trip. The three dined in the open air onSherry's piazza and at eleven o'clock drove down the Avenue, to the east atWashington Square, and through the Bowery. 

"I never saw it before, " said Marian, "and I must say I shall not care if Inever see it again. Why do people make so much fuss about slums, I wonder?"

"Oh, they're so queer, so like another world, " suggested Mrs. Carnarvon. "It gives you such a delightful sensation of sadness. It's just like anot-too-melancholy play, only better because it's real. Then, too, it makesone feel so much more comfortable and clean and contented in one's ownsurroundings. "

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Jessie. " Marian spoke in mockindignation. "The next thing we know you'll sink to being a patron of thepoor and go about enjoying yourself at making them self-conscious andenvious. "

"They're not at all sad down this way, " said Howard, "except in the usualinescapable human ways. When they're not hit too hard, they bear upwonderfully. You see, living on the verge of ruin and tumbling over everyfew weeks get one used to it. It ceases to give the sensation of event. "

Their automobile had turned into Park Row and so reached the_News-Record_ building in Printing House Square. Howard took the twowomen to the elevator and they shot upward in a car crowded with telegraphmessengers, each carrying one or more envelopes, some of them bearing inbold black type the words: "News!--Rush!"

"I suppose that is the news for the paper?" Mrs. Carnarvon asked. 

"A little of it. Our special cable and special news from towns to which wehave no direct wire and also the _Associated Press_ reports come thisway. But we don't use much _Associated Press_ matter, as it is thesame for all the papers. "

"What do you do with it?"

"Throw it away. A New York newspaper throws away every night enough to filltwo papers and often enough to fill five or six. "

"Isn't that very wasteful?"

"Yes, but it's necessary. Every editor has his own idea of what to printand what not to print and how much space each news event calls for. It isthere that editors show their judgment or lack of it. To print the thingsthe people wish to read in the quantities the people like and in the formthe most people can most easily understand--that is success as an editor. "

"No doubt, " said Marian, thinking of the low view all her friends took ofHoward's newspaper, "if you were making a newspaper to please yourself, youwould make a very different one. "

"Oh, no, " laughed Howard, "I print what I myself like; that is, what I liketo find in a newspaper. We print human news made by human beings andinteresting to human beings. And we don't pretend to be anything more thanhuman. We try never to think of our own idea of what the people ought toread, but always to get at what the people themselves think they ought toread. We are journalists, not news-censors. "

"I must say newspapers do not interest me. " Marian confessed it a littlediffidently. 

"You are probably not interested, " Howard answered, "because you don't carefor news. It is a queer passion--the passion for news. The public has it ina way. But to see it in its delirium you must come here. "

"This seems quiet enough. " Marian looked about Howard's upstairs office. Itwas silent, and from the windows one could see New York and its rivers andharbour, vast, vague, mysterious, animated yet quiet. 

"Oh, I rarely come here--a few hours a week, " Howard replied. "On thisfloor the editorial writers work. " He opened a door leading to a privatehall. There were five small rooms. In each sat a coatless man, smoking andwriting. One was Segur, and Howard called to him. 

"Are you too busy to look after Mrs. Carnarvon and Miss Trevor for a fewminutes? I must go downstairs. "

Segur gave some "copy" to a boy who handed him a bundle of proofs andrushed away down a narrow staircase. Howard descended in the elevator, andSegur, who had put on his coat, sat talking to the two women as he lookedthrough the proofs, glancing at each narrow strip, then letting it drop tothe floor. 

"You don't mind my working?" he asked. "I have to look at these things tosee if there is any news that calls for editional attention. If I findanything and can think an editorial thought about it, I write it; and ifHoward is in the humour, perhaps the public is permitted to read it. "

"Is he severe?" asked Mrs. Carnarvon. 

"The 'worst ever, '" laughed Segur. "He is very positive and likes only acertain style and won't have anything that doesn't exactly fit his ideas. He's easy to get along with but difficult to work for. "

"I imagine his positiveness is the secret of his success. " Marian knew thatSegur was half in jest and was fond of Howard. But she couldn't endurehearing him criticised. 

"No. I think he succeeds because he works, pushes straight on, never stopsto repair blunders but never makes the same kind of a blunder the secondtime. "

Segur's eye caught an item that suggested an editorial paragraph. He sat atHoward's desk, thought a moment, scrawled half a dozen lines in a largeragged hand on a sheet of ruled yellow paper, and pressed an electricbutton. The boy came, handed him another thick bundle of proofs, took the"copy" and withdrew. Just then Howard returned. 

"We'll go down to the news-room, " he said. 

The windows of the great news-room were thrown wide. Scores of electriclights made it bright. At the various desks or in the aisles were perhapsfifty men, most of them young, none of them beyond middle age. They were inevery kind of clothing from the most fashionable summer attire to an oldpair of cheap and stained duck trousers, collarless negligee shirt open allthe way down the front and suspenders hanging about the hips. 

Some were writing long-hand; others were pounding away at the typewriter;others were talking in undertones to "typists" taking dictation to themachine; others were reading "copy" and altering it with huge blue pencilswhich made apparently unreadable smears wherever they touched the paper. Inand out skurried a dozen office-boys, responding to calls from variousdesks, bringing bundles of proofs, thrusting copy into boxes whichinstantly and noisily shot up through the ceiling. 

It was a scene of confusion and furious activity. The face of eachindividual was calm and his motions by themselves were not excited. Buttaking all together and adding the tense, strained expression underneaththe calm--the expression of the professional gambler--there was a total ofactive energy that was oppressive. 

"We had a fire below us one night, " said Howard. "We are two hundred feetfrom the street and there were no fire escapes. We all thought it wasgood-bye. It was nearly half an hour before we found out that the smokebooming up the stairways and into this room had no danger behind it. "

"Gracious!" Mrs. Carnarvon shuddered and looked uneasily about. 

"It's perfectly safe, " Howard reassured her. "We've arranged things bettersince then. Besides, that fire demonstrated that the building wasfireproof. "

"And what happened?" asked Miss Trevor. 

"Why, just what you see now. The Managing Editor, Mr. King over there--I'llintroduce him to you presently--went up to a group of men standing at oneof the windows. They were pretending indifference as they looked down atthe crowd which was shouting and tossing its arms in a way that more thansuggested pity for us poor devils up here. Well, King said: 'Boys, boys, this isn't getting out a paper. ' Every one went back to his work and--andthat was all. "

They went on to the room behind the newsroom. As Howard opened its heavydoor a sound, almost a roar, of clicking instruments and typewriters burstout. Here again were scores of desks with men seated at them, every manwith a typewriter and a telegraph instrument before him. 

"These are our direct wires, " Howard explained. "Our correspondents in allthe big cities, east, west, north and south and in London, are at the otherend of these wires. Let me show you. "

Howard spoke to the operator nearest them. "Whom have you got?"

"I'm taking three thousand words from Kansas City, " he replied. "Washingtonis on the next wire. "

"Ask Mr. Simpson how the President is to-night, " Howard said to theWashington operator. 

His instrument clicked a few times and was silent. Almost immediately thereceiver began to click and, as the operator dashed the message off on histypewriter the two women read over his shoulder: "Just came from WhiteHouse. He is no better, probably a little worse because weaker. Simpson. "

"And can you hear just as quickly from London?" Marian asked. 

"Almost. I'll try. There is always a little delay in transmission from theland systems to the cable system; and messages have to be telephonedbetween our office in Trafalgar Square and the cable office down in thecity. Let's see, it's five o'clock in the morning in London now. They'vebeen having it hot there. I'll ask about the weather. "

Howard dictated to the man at the London wire: "Roberts, London. How is theweather? Howard. "

In less than ten minutes the cable-man handed Howard a typewritten slipreading: "_News-Record_, New York, Howard: Thermometer 97 our officenow. Promises hottest day yet. Roberts. "

"I never before realised how we have destroyed distance, " said Mrs. Carnarvon. 

"I don't think any one but a newspaper editor completely realises it, "Howard answered. "As one sits here night after night, sending messages farand wide and receiving immediate answers, he loses all sense of space. Thewhole world seems to be in his anteroom. "

"I begin to see fascination in this life of yours. " Marian's face showedinterest to enthusiasm. "This atmosphere tightens one's nerves. It seems tome that in the next moment I shall hear of some thrilling happening. "

"It's listening for the first rumour of the 'about to happen' that makesnewspaper-men so old and yet so young, so worn and yet so eager. Everynight, every moment of every night, we are expecting it, hoping for someastounding news which it will test our resources to the utmost to presentadequately. "

From the news-room they went up to the composing room--a vast hall ofconfusion, filled with strange-looking machines and half-dressed men andboys. Some were hurrying about with galleys of type, with large metalframes; some were wheeling tables here and there; scores of men and a fewwomen were seated at the machines. These responded to touches upon theirkey-boards by going through uncanny internal agitations. Then out from amysterious somewhere would come a small thin strip of almost hot metal, thewidth of a newspaper column and marked along one edge with letters printedbackwards. 

Up through the floor of this room burst boxes filled with "copy. " Boyssnatched the scrawled, ragged-looking sheets and tossed them upon a desk. Aman seated there cut them into little strips, hanging each strip upon ahook. A line of men filed rapidly past these hooks, snatching each man asingle strip and darting away to a machine. 

"It is getting late, " said Howard. "The final rush for the first edition ison. They are setting the last 'copy. '"

"But, " Mrs. Carnarvon asked, "how do they ever get the different parts ofthe different news-items together straight?"

"The man who is cutting copy there--don't you see him make little marks oneach piece? Those marks tell them just where their 'take, ' as they call it, belongs. "

They went over to the part of the great room where there were many tables, on each a metal frame about the size of a page of the newspaper. Some ofthe frames were filled with type, others were partly empty. And men werelifting into them the galleys of type under the direction of the NightEditor and his staff. As soon as a frame was filled two men began to eventhe ends of the columns and then to screw up an inside framework which heldthe type firmly in place. Then a man laid a great sheet of what looked likeblotting-paper upon the page of type and pounded it down with a mallet andscraped it with a stiff brush. 

"That is the matrix, " said Howard. "See him putting it on the elevator. "They looked down the shaft. "It has dropped to the sub-basement, " saidHoward, "two hundred and fifty feet below us. They are already bending itinto a casting-box of the shape of the cylinders on the presses; metal willbe poured in and when it is cool, you will have the metal form, the metalimpression of the page. It will be fastened upon the press to print from. "

They walked back through the room which was now in almost lunaticconfusion--forms being locked; galleys being lifted in; editors, compositors, boys, rushing to and fro in a fury of activity. Again thephenomenon of the news-room, the individual faces calm but their tenseexpressions and their swift motions making an impression of almostirrational excitement. 

"Why such haste?" asked Marian. 

"Because the paper must be put to press. It must contain the very latestnews and it must also catch the mails; and the mail-trains do not wait. "

They descended in the main elevator to the ground floor and then went downa dark and winding staircase until they faced an iron door. Howard pushedit open and they entered the press-room. Its temperature was blood-heat, its air heavy and nauseating with the odours of ink, moist paper and oil, its lights dim. They were in a gallery and below them on all sides were thehuge presses, silent, motionless, waiting. 

Suddenly a small army of men leaped upon the mighty machines, scrambledover them, then sprang back. With a tremendous roar that shook the entirebuilding the presses began to revolve, to hurl out great heaps ofnewspapers. 

"Those presses eat six hundred thousand pounds of paper and four tons ofink a week, " Howard shouted. "They can throw out two hundred thousandcomplete papers an hour--papers that are cut, folded, pasted, and ready tosend away. Let us go before you are stifled. This air is horrible. "

They returned in the elevator to his lofty office. Even there a slightvibration from the press-room could be felt. But it was calm and still, afit place from which to view the panorama of sleeping city and drowsyharbour tranquil in the moonlight. 

"Look. " Howard was leaning over the railing just outside his window. 

They looked straight down three hundred feet to the street made bright byelectric lights. Scores of wagons loaded with newspapers were rushing awayfrom the several newspaper buildings. The shouts, the clash of hoofs andheavy tires on the granite blocks, the whirr of automobiles, were bornefaintly upward. 

"It is the race to the railway stations to catch the mail-trains, " Howardexplained. "The first editions go to the country. These wagons are hurryingin order that tens of thousands of people hundreds of miles away, atBoston, Philadelphia, Washington and scores on scores of towns between andbeyond, may find the New York newspapers on their breakfast-tables. "

The office-boy came with a bundle of papers, warm, moist, the inkbrilliant. 

"And now for the inquest, " said Howard. 

"The inquest?" Marian looked at him inquiringly. 

"Yes--viewing the corpse. It was to give birth to this that there was allthat intensity and fury--that and a thousand times more. For, remember, this paper is the work of perhaps twenty thousand brains, in every part ofthe world, throughout civilisation and far into the depths of barbarism. Look at these date lines--cities and towns everywhere in our own country, Canada, Mexico, Central America, South America. You'll find most of thecapitals of Europe represented; and Africa, north, south and central, eastand west coast. Here's India and here the heart of Siberia. 

"There is China and there Japan and there Australia. Think of these scoresof newspaper correspondents telegraphing news of the doings of their fellowbeings--not what they did last month or last year, but what they did a fewhours ago--some of it what they were doing while we were dining up atSherry's. Then think of the thousands on thousands of these newspaper-men, eager, watchful agents of publicity, who were on duty but had nothing toreport to-day. And----"

Howard shrugged his shoulders and tossed the paper from him. 

"There it lies, " he said, "a corpse. Already a corpse, its life endedbefore it was fairly born. There it is, dead and done for--writ in water, and by anonymous hands. Who knows who did it? Who cares?"

He caught Marian's eyes, looking wonder and reproach. 

"I don't like to hear you say that, " she said, forgetting Mrs. Carnarvon. "Other men--yes, the little men who work for the cheap rewards. But notyou, who work for the sake of work. This night's experience has thrilledme. I understand your profession now. I see what it means to us all, tocivilisation, what a splendid force for good, for enlightenment, foruplifting it is. I can see a great flood of light radiating from thisbuilding, pouring into the dark places, driving away ignorance. And thethunder of those presses seems to me to fill the world with some mightycommand--what is it?--oh, yes--I can hear it distinctly. It is, 'Let therebe light!'"

Mrs. Carnarvon's back was toward them and she was looking out at theharbour. Howard put his hands upon Marian's shoulders and they looked eachthe other straight in the eyes. 

"Lovers and comrades, " he said, "always. And how strong we are--together!"

XIX. 

"I MUST BE RICH. "

"While I don't feel dependent upon the owners of the _News-Record_, still I am not exactly independent of them either. And if I left them itwould only be to become dependent in the same way upon somebody else. A manwho makes his living by the advocacy of principles should be wholly free. If he isn't, the principles are sure sooner or later to become incidentalto the living, instead of the living being incidental to the principles. "

"But you see--perhaps I ought to have told you before--that is, there maybe"--Marian was stammering and blushing. 

"What's the matter? Don't frighten me by looking so--so criminal, " Howardlaughed. 

It was late in August. Marian was visiting Mrs. Brandon atIrvington-on-the-Hudson and she and Howard were driving. 

"I never told you. But the fact is"--she hesitated again. 

"Is it about your other engagement? You never told me about that--how youbroke it off. I don't want you to tell me unless you wish to. You know Inever meddle in past matters. I'm simply trying to help you out. "

"Instead, you're making it worse. I'd rather not tell you that if----"

"We'll never speak of it again. And now, what is it that is troubling you?"

"I have been trying to tell you--I wish you wouldn't look at me--I've got asmall income--it's really very small. "

"I'm glad to hear it. "

"I was afraid you wouldn't like it. It isn't very big--only about eightthousand a year--some years not so much. But then, if anything happened--wecould be--we could live. "

Howard smiled as he looked at her--but not with his eyes. 

"I'm glad, " he said. "It makes me feel safer in several ways. And I'mespecially glad that it is not larger than mine. I know it's stupid, as somany of our instincts are; but I should not like to marry a woman who had alarger income than I could earn. I think it is the only remnant I have ofthe 'lord and master' idea that makes so many men ridiculous. But we neednot let that bother us. Fate has made us about equal in this respect, sounimportant yet so important; and we are each independent of the other. Each will always know that love is the only bond that holds us together. "

They decided that they would live at the rate of about fifteen thousand ayear and would put by the rest of their income. She was to undertake theentire management of their home, he transferring his share by check eachmonth. 

"And so, " she said, "we shall never have to discuss money matters. "

"We couldn't, " laughed Howard. "I don't know anything about them and couldnot take part in a discussion. "

As they were to be married in November, they planned to take an apartmentwhen Marian came back to town--in late September. She was to attend to thefurnishing and all was to be in readiness by the time they were married. Howard was to get a six weeks' vacation and, as soon as they returned, theywere to go to housekeeping. 

Her visit to the _News-Record_ office had made a change in her. Untilshe met Howard, she had known only the world-that-idles and theworld-that-drudges. Howard brought her the first real news of theworld-that-works. Of course she knew that there was such a world, but shehad confused it with the world-that-drudges. She liked to hear Howard talkabout his world, but she thought that his enthusiasm blinded him to thetruth of its drudgery; and she often caught herself half regretting that hehad to work. 

But that vast machine for the swift collecting and distributing of the newsof the world had opened her eyes, had made her see her lover and, throughhim, his life, in a different aspect. She had accepted the supercilious, thoughtless opinion of those about her that the newspaper is a merepurveyor of inaccurate gossip. And while Howard had tried to show her hisprofession as it was, he had only succeeded in convincing her that hehimself had an exalted view of it; a view which she thought creditable tohim but wide of the disagreeable truth. 

On that trip down-town she had seen "the press" with the flaws reduced andthe merits looming. She had looked into those all-seeing eyes that watchthe councils of statesmen and the movements of nations and peoples, yetalso note the swing of a murderous knife in an alley of the slums. She hadheard that stentorian voice of Publicity, arousing the people of the earthto apprehend, to reflect, to progress. 

She had been proud of Howard for his appearance, for what he said and theway he said it. Now she was proud of him for the part he was taking in thiswonderful world-that-works. And she would not have confessed to him howinsignificant she felt, how weak and worthless. 

She thought she was impatient for the time to come when she could learn howto help him in his work, could begin to feel that she too had a real sharein it. With what seemed to her most creditable energy and self-sacrificeshe tried again to interest herself in newspapers. But the trivial partsbored her; the chronicles of crime repelled her; and the politics and mostof the other serious articles were beyond the range of her knowledge or ofher interest. "I shall wait until we are married, " she said, "then he willteach me. " And she did not suspect how significant, how ominous herpostponement was. 

She asked him if he would not teach her and he replied: "Why, certainly, ifyou are interested. But I don't intend to trouble you with the details ofmy profession. I want you to lead your own life--to do what interests you. "

She did not stop to analyse her feeling of relief at this release, and wenton to protest: "But I want your life to be my life. I want there to be onlyone life--our life. "

"And there shall be--each contributing his share, at least I'll try tocontribute mine. But you have your own individuality, dear; and a verystrong one it is. And I don't want you to change. "

At the time he was deep in his plans for illustrating the_News-Record_. Early in that fall's campaign they had secured the bestcartoonist in America. Cartoons are rarely the work of one man but are gotup by consultations. Howard spent never less than an hour each day with thecartoonist, Wickham, wrestling with the problem of the next day's picture. For he insisted upon having a striking cartoon each day, and gave it themost conspicuous place in the paper--the top-centre of the first page. 

"If a cartoon is worth printing at all, " he said, "it is worth printinglarge and conspicuous. And to be worth printing it must be like an idealeditorial--one point sharply and swiftly made and so clear that the mostcareless glance-of-the-eye is enough. "

Wickham had made a series of cartoons on the campaign, humorous andsatirical, which had the distinction of being reproduced on lantern slidesfor use in all parts of the town. It was an admirable beginning of the newpolicy of illustration. Howard had been making a careful study of all theillustrators in the country, not overlooking those toiling in obscurity onthe big western dailies. He had selected a staff of twenty; as soon asCoulter and Stokely assented, he engaged them by telegraph. Five weredeveloped artists, the rest beginners with talent. He gave all of hisattention for two weeks to organising this staff. He infected it with hisenthusiasm. He impressed upon it his ideas of newspaper illustration--thedash and energy of the French illustrators adapted to American publictaste. He insisted upon the artists studying the French illustrated papersand applying what they learned. It was not until the first Sunday inDecember that he felt ready to submit the results of these labours to thepublic. 

Again he scored over the "contemporaries" of the _News-Record_. Theyprinted many more illustrations than it did. It had only one illustrationon a page, but there was one on every page and a good one. All the subjectswere well chosen--either action or character--and as many good lookingwomen as possible. 

"Never publish a commonplace face, " he said. "There is no such thing inlife as an uninteresting face. Always find the element of interest andbring it out. "

The result of this policy, interpreted by a carefully trained andenthusiastic staff, was what the out-of-town press was soon praising as "arevelation in newspaper-illustration. " Howard himself was surprised. He hadmentally insured against a long period of disappointment. 

"This shows, " he remarked to King and Vroom, "how much more competent menare than we usually think--if they get a chance, if they are pointed in theright direction and are left free. "

"He certainly knows his business. " Vroom was looking after Howardadmiringly. "I never saw anybody who so well understood when to lead andwhen to let alone. What results he does get!"

"A pity to waste such talents on this thankless business, " said King. "Ifhe'd gone into real business, he would have a salary of a hundred thousanda year, would be rich and secure for life. Why, a business man could andwould make a whole career on the ideas he has in a single week. As itis----"

King shrugged his shoulders and Vroom finished the sentence for him:"Coulter and Stokely could kick him out to-morrow and the_News-Record_ would go straight on living upon his ideas for ten yearsat least. "

Howard needed no one to make this truth clear to him to the full. Often, ashe thought of his expanding tastes, his expanding expenditures and hisexpanding plans both for his private life and for his career, he felt anawful sinking at the heart and a sense of fundamental weakness. 

"I am building upon sand, " he said to himself. "In business, in the law, inalmost any other career to-day's work would be to-morrow's capital. As itis, I am ever more and more a slave. To be free I ought to be poor or rich. And I cannot endure the thought of poverty again. I must be rich. "

The idea allured him to a degree that made him ashamed of himself. Sometimes, when he was talking to Marian or writing editorials, all in thestrain of high principle and contempt for sordidness, he would flush at thethought that he was in reality a good deal of a hypocrite. "I'm expressingthe ideals I ought to have, the ideals I used to have, not the ideals Ihave. "

But the clearer this discrepancy became to him and the wider the gapbetween what he ought to think and what he really did think, the morestrenuously he protested to himself against himself, and the more fiercelyhe denounced in public the very poison he was himself taking. 

"I am living in a tainted atmosphere, " he said to Marian. "We all are. Ifight against the taint but how can I hope to avoid the consequences if Ipersist in breathing it, in absorbing it at every pore of my body?"

"I don't understand you. " Marian was used to his moods of self-criticismand did not attach much importance to them. 

He thought a moment. "Oh, nothing, " he said. "What's the use of discussingwhat can't be helped?" How could he tell her that the greatest factor inhis enervating environment was herself; that the strongest chains whichheld him in it were the chains which bound him to her? Indeed, was he notindulging in cowardly self-excuse in thinking that this was true? Had nothis success, rather than his love, made ambition unfettered by principlethe mainspring of his life?

XX. 

ILLUSION. 

"How shall we be married?" Howard asked her in the late Autumn. 

"I know it will not be in a church with ushers and bridesmaids and a crowdgaping at us. I suppose there is a public side to marriage since the statemakes one enter into a formal contract. But that can be done privately. Ishould as soon think of driving down the Avenue with my arms about yourneck as of a public wedding. "

"Thank you, " he laughed. "I was afraid--well, women are usually so fondof--but you're not usual. Let us see. The minister is absolutely necessary, I suppose. Would one feel married if there were not a minister?"

"I don't know--I feel--"

She hesitated and blushed but looked straight at him with that expressionin her eyes which always made him think of their love as their religion. 

"Feel--go on. I want to hear that very, very much. "

"I feel as if I were just as much married to you now as I ever could be. "

"And that is how I have felt ever since the day, when I hardly knew you, when you suddenly came into my life--my real, inner life where no one hadbeen before--and sat down and at once made it look as if it were your home. And the place that had been lonely was lonely no more, and has not beensince. "

She put her hand in his and he saw that there were tears in her eyes. 

"What is it?" he asked. 

"Only that--that I am so happy. It--it frightens me. It seems so like adream. "

"It's going to be a long, long dream, isn't it?" He lifted her hand andkissed it, then put it down in her lap again gently as if he feared asudden movement might awaken them. "Perhaps it had better be at Mrs. Carnarvon's house--some morning just before luncheon and we could goquietly away afterward. "

"Yes--and--tell me, " she said, "wouldn't it be better for us not to go faraway--and not to stay long? It seems to me that I most want to begin--beginour life together just as it will be. "

"Are you afraid you wouldn't know what to do with me if I were idling aboutall day long?"

"Not exactly that. But I'd rather not take a vacation until we had earnedit together. "

"What a beautiful idea! I'll see what I can do. "

They postponed the wedding until Howard had the "art-department" of the_News-Record_ well established. It was on a bright winter day in thesecond week of January that they stood up together and were married by theMayor whom Howard had helped to elect. Only Mr. And Mrs. Carnarvon andMarian's brother were there. Then the six sat down to luncheon, and atthree o'clock Howard and his wife started for Lakewood. 

When they arrived a victoria was waiting. As soon as they were seated, Howard said "Home. " The coachman touched his hat and the horses set out ata swift trot. The sun was setting and the dry, still air was saturated withthe perfume of the snow-draped pines. Within five minutes the carriage wasat a pretty little cottage with wide, glass-enclosed porches. They enteredthe hall. In the rooms on either side open fires were blazing an ecstaticwelcome. 

"How do you like 'home'?" asked Howard. 

"I don't quite understand. "

"You remember your plan of beginning at once. Well--this is the compromise. Stokely has let me have his house here for a month--we may keep it two ifwe like it. There is a telephone. The office isn't two hours away by rail. The newspapers are here early. We can combine work and play. "

The manservant had left the room, a sort of library-reception room. Marianwas seated in a big chair drawn near the fire. She had thrown back herwraps and was slowly drawing off her gloves. Howard stood at the side ofthe fire, leaning against the mantel and looking down at her. 

"Before you definitely decide to stay--" he paused. 

"Yes, " she said, her colour heightening as she slowly lifted her eyes tohis, "yes--why this solemn tone?"

"If ever--in the days that come--one never knows what may happen--if everyou should find that you had changed toward me----"

"Yes?"

"I ask you--don't promise--I never want you to promise me anything--I wantyou always--at every moment--to be perfectly free. So I just ask that youwill let me see it. Then we can talk about it frankly, and we can decidewhat is best to do. "

"But--suppose--you see I might still not wish to wound you--" shesuggested, half teasing, half in earnest. 

"It seems to me now that it is impossible that we can ever change. It seemsto me--" he sat on the wide arm of her chair, and leaned over until hishead touched hers, "that if you were to change it would break my heart. Butif you were to change and were to hide it from me, I should find it outsome day and----" "And what----"

"It would be worse--a broken heart, a horror of myself, a--a contempt foryou. "

"Whatever comes, I'll be myself or try to be. Is that what you mean?"

"Exactly. "

"And if you change?"

"But I shall not!"

"Why do you say that so positively?"

"Because--well, there are some things that we wish to believe and halfbelieve, and some things that we believe that we believe, and somethingsthat we _know_. I _know_ about you--about my love for you. "

"It is strange in a way, isn't it?" Marian was gently drawing her fingersthrough his. "This is all so different from what I used to think love wouldbe. I used to picture to myself a man, something like you in appearance, only taller and fair, who would be my master, who would make me do what hewished. I think a woman always dreams of a lover who will be strong enoughto be her ruler. And here----"

"So I am not the strong man that you look up to and tremble before? Weshall see. "

"Don't laugh at me. I mean that instead I have a man who makes me rulemyself. You make me feel strong, not weak, and proud, not humble. You makeme respect myself so. "

"The democracy of love--freedom, equality, fraternity. Don't you like it?"

"Madame is served. " It was the servant holding back one of the portières, his face expressionless, his eyes down. 

 * * * * *

Happiness evades description or analysis. We can only say that it reachesits highest point when a man and a woman, intelligent, appreciative, sympathetic, endowed with youth, health and freedom, are devoting theirenergies solely and determinedly to verifying each a preconceived idea ofthe other. 

"And what do you think of it by this time?"

Marian asked the question in the pause after a twenty minutes' canter overa straightaway stretch through the pines. 

"Of what?" Howard inquired. "I mean of what phase of it. Of you?"

"Well, --yes, of me--after a week. "

"As I expected, only more so--more than I could have imagined. And you, what do you think?"

"It's very different from what I expected. It seemed to me beforehand thatyou, even you, would 'get on my nerves' just a little at times. I didn'texpect you to appreciate--to feel my moods and to avoid doing--or is itthat you simply cannot do--anything jarring. You have amazing instincts orelse--" Marian looked at him and smiled mischievously, "or else you havebeen well educated. Oh, I don't mind--not in the least. No matter what thecause, I'm glad--glad--glad that you have been taught how to treat awoman. "

"I see you are determined to destroy me, " Howard was in jest, yet inearnest. "I am not used to being flattered. I have never had but onecritic, and I have trained him to be severe and uncharitable. Now if youset me up on a high altar and wave the censers and cry 'glory, glory, glory, ' I'll lose my head. You have a terrible responsibility. I trust youand I believe everything you say. "

"I'll begin my duties as critic as soon as we go back to--to earth. But atpresent I'm going to be selfish. You see it makes me happier to blindmyself to your faults. "

They rode in silence for a few moments and then she said:

"I wish I had your feeling about--about democracy. I see your point of viewbut I can't take it. I know that you are right but I'm afraid my educationis too strong for me. I don't believe in the people as you do. It'sbeautiful when you say it. I like to hear you. And I would not wish you tofeel as I do. I'd hate it if you did. It would be stooping, grovelling foryou to make distinctions among people. But----"

"Oh, but I do make distinctions among people--so much so that I have neverhad a friend in my life until you came. I have been on intimate terms withmany, but no one except you has been on intimate terms with me. Oh, yes, I'm one of the most exclusive persons in the world. "

"That sounds like autocracy, doesn't it?" laughed Marian. "But you know Idon't mean that. You think all the others are just as good as you are, onlyin different ways, whereas I feel that they're not. You don't mindvulgarity and underbreeding because you are perfectly indifferent to peopleso long as they don't try to jump the fence about your own little privateenclosure. "

"Oh, I believe in letting other people alone, and I insist upon being letalone myself. You see you make the whole world revolve about socialdistinctions. The fact is, isn't it, that social distinctions are meretrifles--"

"You oughtn't to waste time arguing with a prejudice. I admit that what Ibelieve and feel is unreasonable. But I can't change an instinct. To mesome people are better than others and are entitled to more, and ought tobe looked up to and respected. "

Howard had an answer on the tip of his tongue. His passion for highprinciple seemed to have been rekindled for the time by his love and inthis tranquillising environment. He felt strongly tempted to reason withher unreasonableness, thus practically boasted as a virtue. It seemed sounworthy, this streak of snobbery, so senseless in an American at mostthree generations away from manual labour. But he had made up his mind longago to trust to new surroundings, new interests to create in her a spiritmore in sympathy with his career. 

"She is too intelligent, too high-minded, " he often reassured himself, "tocling to this stupidity of class-feeling. She has heard nothing butclass-distinction all her life. Now that she is away from those people, with their petty routine of petty ideas, she will begin to see things asthey are. "

So he suppressed the argument and, instead, said in a tone of mock-pity:"Poor fallen queen--to marry beneath her. How she must have fought againstthe idea of such a plebeian partner. "

"Plebeian--you?" Marian looked at him proudly. "Why, one has only to seeyou to know. "

"Yes, plebeian. I shall conceal it no longer. My ancestors were plain, ordinary, common, untitled Americans. "

"Why, so were mine, " she laughed. 

"Don't! You distress me. I should never have married you had I known that. "

"I _am_ absurd, am I not?" Marian said gaily. "But let me have mycraze for well-mannered people and I'll leave you your craze for the--themasses. "

They began to canter. Howard was smiling in spite of his irritation; for italways irritated him to have her refuse to see his point in thismatter--his distinction between a person as a friend and a person as asociological unit. 

He worked for an hour or two every morning and sometimes in the evening, Marian not far from his desk, so seated that when she turned the page ofher book she could lift her eyes and look at him. She read the papersdiligently every day for the first week. At the outset she thought she wasinterested. But she knew so little about newspaper details that she soonhad to confess to herself that she was in fact interested in Howard as herhusband and lover, and that his career interested her only in a broad, general way. What he talked about, that she understood and liked and wasable to discuss. But the newspapers and the news direct suggested nothingto her, bored her. 

"Just read that, " he would say, pointing to an item. She would read it andwonder what he meant. 

"It seems to me, " she would think, "that it wouldn't in the least matter ifthat had not been printed. " Then she would ask evasively but with anassumption of interest, "What are you going to do about it?"

And he would explain the meaning between the lines; the hinted facts thatought to be brought out; the possibilities of getting a piece of news thatwould attract wide attention. And she would see it, sometimes clearly, usually vaguely; and she would admire him, but resume her unconquerableindifference to news. 

She was soon looking at the paper only to read what he wrote; and she oftenthought how much more interesting he was as a talker than as a writer. "I'll start right when we get to town, " she was constantly promisingherself. "It must, must, must be _our_ work. "

Howard was, as she had told him, acutely sensitive to her moods. He did notformulate it to himself but simply obeyed an instinct which defined for himthe limits of her interest. Before they had been at Lakewood a month, hewas working alone without any expectation of sympathy or interest from herand without the slightest sense of loss in not getting it. Why should hemiss that which he had never had, had never counted upon getting? He hadalways been mentally alone, most alone in the plans and actions bearingdirectly upon his own career. He was perfectly content to have her as thecompanion of his leisure. 

Possibly, if he had been insistent, or if they had been in real sympathyinstead of in only surface sympathy in most respects, she might have becomeinterested in his work, might have impelled him to right development. Buther distaste and inertia and his habit of debating and deciding questionsas to the paper in his own mind, the fear of boring her, the dread ofintruding upon her rights to her own individual tastes and feelings, restrained him without his having a sense of restraint. 

When, after two months, they went up to town to stay, their course of lifewas settled, though Marian was protesting that it was not and Howard wasunconscious of there having been any settlement, or anything to settle. 

XXI. 

WAVERING. 

Their home was an apartment at Twenty-ninth Street and Madison Avenue--justlarge enough for two with its eleven rooms, all bearing the stamp ofMarian's individuality. She had a keen sense of the beautiful and she hadgiven her thought and most of her time between the early autumn and thewedding to making an attractive home. He had not seen her work until theycame together in the late afternoon of a day in the last week of February. 

"You--everywhere you, " he said, as they inspected room after room. "I don'tsee how I could add anything to that. It is beautiful--the things you havebrought together, I mean, the furniture, curtains, carpets, pictures, allbeautiful in themselves, but--"

He was looking at her in that way which made her feel his great love forher even more deeply than when he put his arms about her and kissed her. "It reminds me of what I so often think about you. Nature gave you beautybut you make it wonderful because _you_ shine through it, give it theforce, the expression of your individuality. Other women have noses, eyes, chins, mouths as beautiful as yours. But only you produce such effects withthe materials. I don't express it very well but--you understand?"

"Yes, I understand. " She was leaning against him, her head resting upon hisshoulder. "And you like your home?"

"We shall be happy here. I feel it in the air. This is a temple of thethree great gods--Freedom, Love and Happiness. And--we'll keep the fires onthe altars blazing, won't we?"

His hours were most irregular. Sometimes he was off to work early in themorning. Again he would not rise until noon. Sometimes he did not go to theoffice after dinner, and again he came hurriedly to dinner, not having thetime to dress, and left immediately afterward to be gone until two, threeor even four in the morning. At first Marian tried to follow hisirregularities; but she was soon compelled to give up. As he most oftenbreakfasted about ten o'clock, she arranged to breakfast regularly at thathour. If he was not yet up, she waited about the house until she had seenhim, listened while he talked of those "everlasting newspapers, " praisedhis work a great deal, criticised it little and that gently. She made fewand feeble struggles to interest herself in newspapers as newspapers. Buthe did not encourage her; other interests, domestic and social, clamouredfor her time; and the idea of being directly useful to him in his workfaded from her mind. 

If she had loved him more sympathetically, if she had not been sosuper-sensitive to his passion for complete freedom, she would haveresented what in another kind of man would have seemed frank neglect ofher. But she thought she understood him and was deceived by hisself-deceiving conviction that his work was her service and that thehighest proof of his devotion to her was devotion to "our" career. Thusthere was no bitterness or reproach of him, rarely much intensity, in herregret that they were together so little. 

"Good morning, stranger!" she said, as he came into the dining room one dayin early June. 

He kissed her hand and then the "topknot" as he called the point into whichher hair was gathered at the crown of her head. "It has been four dayssince I saw you, " he said. And he sat opposite her looking at her with anexpression of sadness which she had not seen since the first days of theiracquaintance. 

"I have missed you--you know, " she was trying to look cheerful, "but Iunderstand--"

"Yes, " he interrupted. "You understand what I intend, understand that Imean my life to be for _us_. But sometimes--this morning--I think I ammistaken. It seems to me that I am letting this--" he threw his handcontemptuously toward the heap of morning newspapers beside him, "thistrash comes between us. You are my real career, not these, and under thepretense of working for us I am spending my whole life, my one life, my onechance to help to make us happy, upon these. " And he pushed the bundle ofpapers off the table. 

"Something has depressed you. " She was leaning her elbow upon the table andher chin upon her hand and was looking at him wistfully. "I wouldn't haveyou any different. You must follow the law of your nature. You must work atyour ideal of being useful and influential in the world. You would not besatisfied to take my hand and trudge off with me through Arcadia to pickflowers and weave them into crowns for me. Nor should I, " she laughed, "orI try to think I shouldn't. "

"Let us go abroad for two months, " he said. "I am tired, so tired. I am soweary of all these others, men and things. "

"Can you spare the time?"

"I"--he corrected himself--"we have earned a vacation. It will be for methe first real vacation since I left Yale--thirteen years ago. I am growingnarrow and stale. Let us get away and forget. Shall we?"

"The sooner the better--if this is not a passing mood. What has depressedyou?" she persisted. 

"What seems to be a piece of very good luck. " He laughed almost sneeringly. "They have given me a share in the paper, twenty thousand in stock--whichmeans a fixed income of five thousand a year so long as the paper pays whatit does now--twenty-five per cent. And they offer me twenty thousand moreat par to be paid for within two years. We are in a fair way to be rich. "

"They don't want to lose you, evidently, " she said. "But why does this makeyou sad? We are independent now--absolutely independent, both of us. "

"Yes--we are rich. Together we have more than thirty-five thousand a year. But it is not what I wanted. I wanted to be free. Can a man be free who isrich, and rich in the way we are? Will my mind be open? Shall I dare to actand speak the truth? Or will our property, our environment, speak for me?"

"I can't imagine you a slave to mere dollars. "

"Can't you? Well, I am afraid--I'm really afraid. I have always said thatif I wished to--enslave a people I would make them prosperous, would givethem property, make them dependent upon their dollars. Then the fear oflosing their dollars, their investments, would make them endure anyoppression. Freedom's battles were never fought by men with full stomachsand full purses. "

"But rich men have given up everything for freedom--Washington was a richman. "

"Ah, but how many Washingtons has the world produced? I see the time comingwhen I shall have to choose. I see it and--I dread it. "

She rose and stood behind him leaning over with her arms about his neck andher check against his. 

"You are brave. You are strong, " she whispered. "You will meet that crisisif it comes and I have no fear, Mr. Valiant-for-Truth, as to how the battlewill go. "

He was glad that he did not have to face her eyes just then. "We will goabroad next Wednesday week, " he whispered, "and we'll be happy inFrance--in Switzerland--in Holland--I want to see the park at the Hagueagain; and the tall trees with their straight big trunks green with moss;and the boughs meeting over the canals and making the clear water so black;and the snow-white swans sailing statelily about. "

 * * * * *

With the Atlantic between him and his work, he was able to suspend thehabit of so many years. You would have fancied them just married, atwhatever stage of their wanderings you might have met them. They werealways laughing and talking--an endless flow of high spirits, absorptioneach in the other. They rose when they pleased, went to bed when it suitedthem. They had a manservant and a maid with them to relieve them of all thedetails. They travelled only in the afternoons, and then not far. If theymissed one train, they cheerfully waited for another. 

"I think we are achieving my ideal of vacation, " he said. 

"What is that--perfect idleness? We certainly are idle. I shouldn't havebelieved you could be so idle. "

"Perfect idleness--yes. But more than that. I aimed far higher. My idealwas perfect irresponsibility. We have become like the wind that blowethwhere it listeth. "

And again, she said: "Let me see, what day is this?"

"I think it is Thursday or Friday, " he replied. "But it may be Sunday. Ican assure you that it is afternoon, late afternoon, and I think we oughtto dress for dinner soon. After dinner, if you still care to know, and willremind me, I'll try to find out the day. But I'm sure we shall haveforgotten before to-morrow. "

Howard got an extension of his leave of absence and they roamed aboutEngland in August, reaching New York on the first day of September. Marianwent on to Mrs. Carnarvon at Newport and Howard took rooms at the Waldorf. She stayed away a full week, then came to town, opened their apartment, andsurprised him with a formal invitation to dinner. 

He came like a guest and they went through all the formalities of meetingfor the first time, of increasing intimacy--condensing a complete courtshipinto one evening. 

"I thought you had had enough of me for the time, " he said, as they sat inthe wide window-seat, he tracing with his forefinger the line of the strapsover her bare shoulders. 

"And I thought that I would give you a chance to forget how nice I am andso give you the pleasure of learning all over again. But it was so lonelyand miserable up there. 'Who can come after the king?'"

"Sometimes I think I ought to stir about more--meet the men who lead in thecity. But it seems such a waste of time when I can come and call upon you. "

"But might it not be better in the long run if you did meet these men?Mightn't it make your getting on quicker and easier?"

"Perhaps--if I were a gregarious animal, but I'm not. I'm shy and solitaryand hard to get acquainted with. And it takes time to make friends. Besides, in making friends you also make enemies, and one enemy can do youmore harm than all your friends can do you good. Then too, friends take uptoo much time. We have so little time and--we can spend it to so muchbetter advantage--can't we?"

Marian pushed herself closer against him and presently said dreamily: "Somuch happiness, such utter happiness which no one, nothing can take away. Iwonder when and how the first storm will come?"

"It needn't come at all--not for a long, long time. And when it does--wecan weather it, don't you think?"

 * * * * *

During the next two months they were together more than they had been inthe spring. He imposed day office hours upon himself and did no work in theevenings except the correcting of editorial proofs which he had sent to himat the house, at the theatre, or at whatever restaurant they were dining. And at midnight he called up the office on the telephone and talked withMr. King or Mr. Vroom about the news in hand and the programme forpresenting it in the next morning's paper. 

But as "people"--meaning Marian's friends--returned to town, they fell intothe former routine. It was in part his doing, in part hers. He was nowthirty-seven years old and his mind, always of a serious cast, wasintolerant of trifles and triflers. 

Marian's range of interests was shallower but much wider than his. Herbeauty, her cleverness, her tact caused her to be sought. She invited manyto their house and accepted more and more invitations. At first she neverwent without him. But he was sometimes compelled by his work to send heralone. He rarely went except for her sake--because he thought going aboutamused her. And he was glad and relieved when she began to go without him, instead of spending the evenings in solitude. 

"There is no reason why you should punish yourself and punish me becauseyou had the ill luck to marry a working-man, " he said. "It cannot beagreeable to sit here all by yourself evening after evening. And itdepresses me when I am at the office at night to think of you as lonely. Itmakes me happier in my work--my pleasure, you know--to think of youenjoying yourself. "

"But aren't you afraid that some one will steal me?" she asked, laughingly. 

"Not I. " He was smiling proudly at her. "If you could be stolen, if youcould be happier anywhere than with me, you have only to let me into theplot. "

"There are some women who would not like that. "

"And there are men who wouldn't feel as I do. But you and I, we belong to aclass all by ourselves, don't we?"

Apparently they were as devoted each to the other as ever. But each nowsought a separate happiness--he perforce in his work, she perforce in theonly way left open to her. When they were together, which meant severalhours every day and usually one whole day in the week, they were at onceseemingly absorbed each in the other with all the rest as background. Butnone the less, they were leading separate lives, with separate interests, separate tastes, separate modes of thinking. The "bourgeois" life whichthey had planned--both standing behind the counter and both adding up theresults of the day's business after they had put up the shutters, two asone in all the interests of life--became a dead and forgotten dream. 

XXII. 

THE SHENSTONE EPISODE. 

On the way to or from the opera or a party, she would peep in on him, watching the back of his head as he bent over his desk or read away at somedull-looking book, wishing that he would feel her presence and turn withthat smile which was always hers from him, yet fearing to make a sound andcompel his attention. 

"At times I think, " she said one day when he caught her in his arms on asudden impulse and kissed her, "that the reason you don't try to rule me isbecause you don't care enough. "

"That's precisely it. " He was smoothing her eyebrows with his forefinger. "I don't care enough about ruling. I don't care enough for the sort of lovethat responds to 'must. '"

"But a woman likes to have 'must' said to her sometimes. "

"Does she? Do you? Well--I'll say 'must' to you. You must love me freelyand voluntarily, or not at all. You must do as you please. "

"But don't you see that that drives me from you often, keeps us apart inmany ways. Now if you compelled me to think as you do, to like what youlike--"

"But I couldn't. Then you would no longer be _you_. And I like you sowell just as you are that I would not change an idea in your head. "

Marian sighed and went away to her dinner party. She felt that she was indanger. "Not of falling in love with some other man, " she thought, "forthat's impossible. But if a man were to come along who invited me to beinterested in his work, to keep him at whatever he was doing, I'd acceptand that would lead on and on--where?"

She soon had an opportunity to answer that question. Howard went away toWashington to assist the party leaders in putting through a difficulttariff-reform bill which all the protected interests were fighting. Heexpected to be gone a week; but week after week passed and he was still atthe capital, directing the paper by telegraph and sending Marian hurriednotes postponing his return. She was going about daily, early and late, herlife vacant, her mind restlessly seeking occupation, interest. 

After he had been gone three weeks she found herself at dinner at Mrs. Provost's next to a tall, fair-haired athletic young man of about her ownage. Something in his expression--perhaps the amused way in which hestudied the faces of the others--attracted her to him. She glanced over athis card. It read "Mr. Shenstone. "

"It doesn't add much to your information, does it?" he smiled, as he caughther glance rising from the card. 

"Nothing, " she confessed candidly. "I never heard of you before. "

"And yet I've been splashing about, trying to attract attention to myself, for twelve years. "

"Perhaps not in this particular pond. "

"No, that is true. "

"I was wondering what you do--lawyer, doctor, journalist, business man orwhat. 

"And what did you conclude?"

"I concluded that you did nothing. "

"You are right. But I try--I paint. "

"Portraits?"

"Yes. "

"That explains your way of looking at people. Only, you'll get no customersif you paint them as you see them. "

"I only see what they see when they look in the mirror. "

"Yes, but you see it impartial--or rather, I should say, cynically. "

"Thank you. "

"For what?"

"For calling me cynical. The two keenest pleasures a man can attain are fora woman to call him a cynic and for a woman to call him a devil with thewomen. "

"Are you a 'devil with the women'?"

"Not I--not any more than I am a cynic. But let us talk about you--I amabout exhausted as a topic of conversation. Why do you look sodiscontented?"

"Because I have nothing to occupy my mind. "

"No children?"

"None--and no dogs. "

"No husband?"

"Husbands are busy. "

"So you are the typical American woman--the American instinct for doing, the universal woman's instinct for sunshine and laziness; the husbandabsorbed in his business or profession with his domestic life as anincident; the wife--like you. "

"That is right, and wrong--nearer right than wrong, a little unjust to thehusband. "

"Oh, it's probably your fault that you are not absorbed in his business orprofession. It ought to be as much yours as his. What does he do?"

"He edits a newspaper. "

"Oh, he's _the_ Mr. Howard. A very interesting, a very remarkableman. "

Marian was delighted by this appreciation. She talked with Shenstone againafter dinner and was pleased that he was to be in the same box with her atthe opera the next night. He had spent much of his time on the other sideof the Atlantic. He was unusually well educated for an artist's, and hismind was not developed in one direction only. Like Marian, his point ofview was artistic and emotional. Like her he had a reverence for tradition, a deference to caste--the latter not offensive for the same reason thathers was not, because good birth and good breeding made him of the "highcaste" and not a cringer with his eyes craned upward. It seemed in him, asin her, a sort of self-respect. 

Marian showed a candid liking for his society and he was quick to takeadvantage of it. For a month they saw more and more each of the other, shediscreet without deliberation and he discreet with deliberation. He talkedto her of his work, of his ambition. He showed her himself without egotism. He made an impression upon her so distinct and so favourable that sheadmitted to herself that he was the most fascinating man--except one--whomshe had ever met. 

When Howard at last returned, defeated by corruption within his own partyand for the time disgusted with politics, she at once had Shenstone at thehouse to dine. "What do you think of Mr. Shenstone?" she asked when theywere alone. 

"No wonder you're enthusiastic about him. As he talked to me, I couldhardly keep from laughing. It was your own views, almost your own words. Hehas the look of a great man. I think he will 'arrive, ' as they say in theBowery. "

Howard went out of his way to be agreeable to Shenstone, often inviting himto the house and giving him a commission to paint Marian. For the rest ofthe winter Shenstone was constantly in Marian's company; so constantly thatthey were gossiped about, and all the women who were unpleasantly discussed"for cause" conspired to throw them together as much as possible. 

One evening in the very end of the winter, Howard called to Marian from hisdressing room: "Why, lady, Shenstone's gone, hasn't he? I've just read anote from him. "

There was a pause before Marian answered in a constrained voice: "Yes, hesailed to-day. "

Howard was tying his bow. He paused at the curious tone, then smiledmysteriously to himself. He put on his waistcoat and coat and knocked onthe half-open door. "May I come in?" he asked. 

"Yes--I'm waiting for dinner to be announced. "

She was sitting before the fire, very beautiful in her evening gown. Sheseemed not to observe that he had entered but stared on into the flames. Hestood beside her, looking down at her with the half mocking, half tendersmile. Presently he sat upon the arm of her chair and took one of herhands. "Poor, friendless, beautiful lady, " he said softly. 

She glanced up quickly, her cheeks flaming but her eyes clear and frank. "Why do you say that?" she asked in the tone of one who knows why. 

"Other women will not be her friends because they are jealous of her, andas for the men--how can a man be really a friend to a woman, a fascinating, sympathetic woman?"

Marian hid her face against the lapel of his coat. "He told me, " shewhispered, "and then he went away. "

"He always does tell her. But----"

"But--what?"

"She doesn't always send him away. Poor fellow! Still, he went into it withhis eyes open. "

"He was very nice. He told it in a roundabout way. And I wasn't a bitafraid that he'd--he'd--you know. But I got to thinking about how I'd feelif he did--did touch me. And it made me--nervous. "

There was a long pause, then she went on: "I wonder how you'd feel abouttouching another woman?"

"I? Dear me, I wonder! I never thought. You see I'm such a domestic, unattractive creature----"

"Don't laugh at me, please, " she pleaded. 

"I'm not laughing. Underneath, I'm thinking--thinking what I would do if Imet you and lost you. It's very black on the Atlantic for one pair of eyesto-night. "

"And the worst of it is, " she said, "that my vanity is flattered and I'mnot really sorry for him. "

"Rather proud of her conquest, is she?"

"Yes, it pleased me to have him care. "

"She likes to think that he'll carry his broken heart to the grave, doesshe?"

"Yes. Isn't it shameful?"

"Shameful? Shameless. I have always held that even the best woman dearlyloves to ruin a man. It's such a triumph. And the more she loves him, themore she'd like to ruin him--that is, if ruin came solely through love forher and didn't involve her. "

"But I would not want to ruin you. "

"If that seemed to be the supreme test of my love for you--are you sure?I'm not. There's Thomas, knocking to announce dinner. "

The Shenstone incident was apparently closed. Marian, a most attractivewoman of thirty, absorbed in a social life that demanded all her physicaland mental energy as well as all of her time, did not long vividly rememberhim. But he had given her a standard by which she unconsciously measuredher husband. She contrasted the life he had promised her, the lifeShenstone reminded her of, with the life that was--so material, sosuspiciously physical when it professed to be loving, so suspiciously chillwhen it professed to be friendly. She thrust aside these thoughts asdisloyal and false. But they persisted in returning. 

If she had been less appreciative of Howard's intellect, less fascinated bythe charm of his personality, she would soon have become one of the"misunderstood" women in search of "consolation. " Instead, she turned hermind in the direction natural to her character--social ambition. 

XXIII. 

EXPANDING AND CONTRACTING. 

In such a city as New York, to be deliberately careful about money is theonly way to keep within one's income, whether it be vast or small. Thereare temptations to buy at the end of every glance of the eye. The merchantsare crafty in producing new and insidious allurements, in creating new andexpensive tastes. But these might be resisted were it not that the habitsof all one's associates are constantly and all but irresistibly stimulatingthe faculty of imitation. 

Neither Howard nor Marian had been brought up to be watchful about money. Both had been accustomed to having their wants supplied. And now that theyhad a household and a growing income, it was a matter of course that theirexpenditures should steadily expand. Before three years had passed theywere spending more than double the sum which at the outset they had fixedupon as their limit. A merely decent and self-respecting return of thehospitalities they accepted, a carriage and pair and two saddle horses andthe servants to look after them--these items accounted for the increase. They looked upon this as really necessary expenditure and soon would havefound that curtailment involved genuine deprivation. From the verybeginning each step in expansion made the next logical and inevitable, madethe plea of necessity seem valid. 

An aunt of Marian's died, leaving her a "small" house--worth perhaps aquarter of a million--near the Avenue in Sixty-fifth Street, and eightythousand in cash. About the same time Stokely told Howard of a finespeculative opportunity in certain copper properties. Howard hesitated. Heknew that the way of speculation was the way of bondage for his newspaperand for him. But this particular adventure seemed harmless and he yielded. The money was invested and within a few months was producing an income offifteen thousand a year which promised to be steady. Howard's ownership ofstock in the paper increased; and as the profits advanced swiftly with itsswift growth in its illustrated form, his own income was nearly fiftythousand a year. They were growing very rich. There was no longer theslightest anxiety as to money in his mind. 

"You know the great dread I had in marrying, " he said to her one day, "waslest I should make myself and you dependents, should some day sacrifice myfreedom to my fear of losing--happiness. "

"Yes, and very foolish you were, not to have more confidence in yourselfand in me. "

"Perhaps. But what I am thinking is that you have brought me luck. I amfree, beyond anybody's reach. I could quit the paper to-morrow and weshould hardly have to change our style of living even if I did not getsomething else to do. "

"Style of living--" in that phrase lay the key to the change that wasswiftly going on in Howard's mind and mental attitude. It is not easy for aman with environment wholly in his favour to keep his point of viewcorrect, to keep his horizon wide and clear, his sense of proportion just. It is next to impossible for him to do so when his environment opposes. 

The man who looks out from misery and squalor upon misery and squalor is, if he thinks at all, naturally an anarchist. To him the established ordershows only injustice and persistence of injustice. The man who looks outfrom luxury and ease and well-being upon luxury and ease and well-being isforced by the very limitations of the human mind to an over-reverence forthe established order. He is unreasonably suspicious of anything thatthreatens change. "When I'm comfortable all's well in the world; changemight bring discomfort to me. " And he flatters himself that he is a"conservative. "

Howard had had a long training at the correct standpoint and in rightthinking. But the influences were there, were at work, were destroying hisdevotion to a social and political ideal wholly alien to the life he wasnow living under the leading of his wife. He did not blame her, indeed hecould not justly have blamed her, for his falling away from what he knewwere correct principles for him. While she had brought him into thisenvironment, while at first it was in large part for her that he gave somuch time and thought to the accumulation of wealth, soon love of luxury, dependence upon a train of servants, fondness for the great extravagancesto which New York tempts the rich and those living near the rich, becamestronger in him than it was in her. And through the inevitable reaction ofenvironment upon the man, the central point in his valuation of men andwomen tended to shift from the fundamentals, mind and character, to thesurface qualities--dress and style and manners and refinement, and evendress. 

This process of demoralisation was well advanced when they moved from theapartment. After four years of "expansion" there, they had begun to feelcramped; and a year after Marian inherited the house Howard had progressedto the mental, the moral, the financial state where it seemed natural, logical, practically necessary that they should set up a real New York"establishment. "

"Isn't this just the house for us?" she said. "I hate huge, big houses. Like you, I think the taste of the occupants should be everywhere. Now thishouse is just big enough. You don't know how wonderful it would be. "

"Oh, yes, I do, " he laughed, "and you must try it. " He was as enthusiasticas she. 

In the late autumn the house was ready; and there was not a more artisticinterior in New York. It was not so much the result of great expense as ofintelligence and taste. It was an expression of an individuality--arevelation of a woman's beautiful mind, inspired by love. 

"At last I have something to interest, to occupy me, " she said. "This isour very own, through and through our own. It will be such a pleasure to meto keep it always like this. "

"You--degenerated into a household drudge, " he mocked. "Why, you used tolaugh at me when I held up a wife who was a good housekeeper as one of myideals. "

"Did I?" she answered. "Well, as you would say, see what I've come tothrough living with--a member of the working-classes. "

Howard's own particular part of this house included a library with a smallstudy next to it. In the study was a most attractive table with plenty ofroom to spread about books and papers, a huge divan in the corner and afire-place near by. He found himself doing more and more of his work athome. There were not so many interruptions as at the office, the beauty ofthe surroundings, the consciousness that "she" was not far away--allcombined to keep him at home and to enable him to do more and better workthere. 

He was justly and greatly proud of her achievement; and where he used to bemore regretful than he admitted even to himself when they had guests, hewas now glad to see others about, admiring her taste, appreciating herskill as a hostess and giving him opportunities to look at her from an evernew point of view. 

Of course these guests were almost all "_their_ kind ofpeople"--amiable, well mannered persons who thought and acted in that mostconventional of moulds, the mould of "good society. " They fitted into thesurroundings, they did their part toward making those surroundingsluxurious--a "wallow of self-complacent content. " And this environment soonsuited and fitted him exactly. 

But to her he was still The Democrat. She loved him in the way and to thedegree which her character, as the years had developed it, permitted her tolove. And this love, or rather admiring respect, was wholly based upon herideal of him, her belief in the honesty and intensity of his convictions. While she did not share them, she had breadth enough to admire them and toregard them as high removed above her own ideas to which for herself sheheld tenaciously, instinct and association and "tradition" triumphing overreason. 

Howard retained his ideal of her, never examining her closely, never seeingor suspecting what a pale love she gave him and how shrivelled had becomethe part of her nature which she and he both assumed was most stronglydeveloped. He knew how she idealised him and did not dare to undeceive her. Therefore he practised toward her a hypocrisy that grew steadily moredisgraceful, yet grew so gradually that there was no single moment at whichhe could conveniently halt and "straighten the record. " At first he wasoften and heartily ashamed of himself; but by degrees this feeling deadenedinto cynical insensibility and he was only ashamed to let her see him as hereally was. She had kept her self-respect. She esteemed self-respect at theexalted valuation he had formerly put upon it. What if she should find himout?

 * * * * *

When the famous "coal conspiracy" was formed, three of the men conspicuousin it were among their intimates--that is, their families were often at hishouse and he and Marian were often at theirs. Yet he had never made a morerelentless attack. Nor did he, either in the news columns or on theeditorial page, conceal the connection of his three friends with theconspiracy. 

"Mrs. Mercer was here this morning, " Marian said as they were waiting forthe butler to announce dinner. She was flushed and embarrassed. 

Howard laughed. "And did she tell you what a dreadful husband you had?"

"Oh, she didn't blame you at all. She said they all knew how perfectlyupright you were. Only, she said you did not understand and were doing Mr. Mercer a great injustice. "

"Well, what do you think?"

"Why--I can't believe--is it possible, dear--I was just reading one of youreditorials. Can Mr. Mercer be in such a scheme? The way she told it to me, he and the others were really doing a lot of people a valuable service, putting their property on a paying basis, enabling the railroads to meettheir expenses and to keep thousands and thousands of men employed. "

"Poor Mercer!" Howard said ironically. "Poor misunderstood philanthropist!What a pity that that sort of benevolence has to be carried on by bribingjudges and prosecutors and legislatures, by making the poor shiver andfreeze, by subtracting from the pleasures and adding to the anxieties ofmillions. One would almost say that such a philanthropy had better not beundertaken. It is so likely to be misunderstood by the 'unruly classes. '"

"Oh, I knew you were right. I told her you must be right, that you neverwrote until you knew. "

"And what was the result?"

"Well, we are making some very bitter enemies. "

"I doubt it. I suspect that before long they'll come wheedling about in thehope that I'll let up on them or be a little easier next time. "

"I'm sure I do not care what they do, " said Marian, drawing herself up. "All I care for is--you, and to see you do your duty at whatever cost orregardless of cost--" she was leaning over the back of his chair with herarms about his neck and her lips very near to his ear--"you are my lovewithout fear and without reproach. "

"Listen, dear. " He took her hand and drew her arms more closely about hisneck. "Suppose that the lines were drawn--as they may be any day. Supposethat we had to choose, with all these friends of yours, with our position, yes, even the place I have won in my profession, my place as editor--allthat we now have on the one side; and on the other side a thankless, unprofitable, apparently useless standing up for the right. Wouldn't youmiss your friends?"

"_All_ our friends? And who will be on the other side?"

"Almost no one that we know--that you would care to call upon or go aboutwith or have here at the house. Nobody with any great amount of wealth orsocial position. Those other people who are in town when it is said 'Nobodyis in town now!'"

She did not answer. 

"Where would you be?" he repeated. 

"Oh, I wasn't thinking of that. " She came around and sat on his knee. "Where? Why, there's only one 'where' in all this world forme--'wheresoever thou goest. '"

And so the half-formed impulse to begin to straighten himself out with herwas smothered by her. 

Both were silent through dinner. She was thinking how honest, how fearlesshe was, how he loved her, how eagerly she would follow him, how blessed shewas in the love of such a man. And he--he was regretting that his "pose"had carried him so far; he was wishing that he had not been so bitter inhis attacks upon his and his wife's friends, the coal conspirators. When hehad definitely cast in his lot with "the shearers" why persist in makinghis hypocrisy more abominable by protesting more loudly than ever in behalfof "the sheep?" Above all, why had he let his habit of voluble denunciationlead him into this hypocrisy with the woman he loved?

He admitted to himself that "causes" had ceased to interest him except asthey might contribute to the advancement of his power. Power!--that was hisambition now. First he had wished to have an independent income in order tobe free. When he had achieved that, it was at the sacrifice of his mentalfreedom. And now, with the clearness of self-knowledge which only men ofgreat ability have, he knew that the one cause for which he would makesacrifices was--himself. 

"Of what are you thinking so gloomily?" she interrupted. 

"Oh--I--let me see--well, I was thinking what a fraud I am; and that Iwished I could dupe myself as completely as I can dupe--"

"Me?" she laughed. "Oh, we're all frauds--shocking frauds. I wouldn't haveyou see me as I really am for anything. "

Although her remark was a commonplace, of small meaning, as he knew, he gotcomfort out of it, so desperately was he casting about for someconsolation. 

"That's true, my dear, " he said. "And I wish that you liked the kind of afraud I am as well as I like the kind of a fraud you are. "

XXIV. 

"MR. VALIANT-FOR-TRUTH. "

Stokely came rushing into his office the next morning. "Good God, old man, "he exclaimed, "What's the meaning of this attack on the coal roads?"

Howard flushed with resentment, not at what Stokely said, but at his tone. 

"Now, don't get on your high horse. I don't think you understand. "Stokely's tone had moderated. "Don't you know that the Delaware Valley roadis in this?"

Howard started. He had just invested two hundred thousand dollars in thatstock on Stokely's advice "No, I didn't know it. " He recovered himself. "And furthermore I don't give a damn. " He struck his desk angrily. Hissimulation of incorruptible indignation for the moment half deceivedhimself. 

"Why, man, if this infernal roast is kept up, you'll lose a hundredthousand. Then there are my interests. I'm up to my neck in this deal. "

"My advice to you is to get out of it. I'm sorry, but you know as well as Ido that the thing is infamous. " "Infamous--nonsense! It will double ourdividends and the consumers won't feel it. "

"Let us not discuss it, Stokely. There--don't say anything you'll regret. "

"But--"

"Now, Stokely--don't argue it with me. "

Stokely put on his hat, stood up and looked at Howard with sullenadmiration. "You will drive away the last friend you've got on earth, ifyou keep this up. Good morning. "

Howard sent a smile of cynical amusement after him, then staredthoughtfully into the mass of papers on his desk for five, ten, fifteenminutes. When his plan was formed he touched the electric button. 

"Please tell Mr. King I'd like to see him, " he said to the answering boy. 

Mr. King entered with a bundle of legal documents. "I suppose it's theinjunction you want to discuss, " he said. "We've got the papers all ready. It's simply great. Those fellows will be in a corner and will have to giveup. They can't get away from us. The price of coal will drop half a dollarwithin a week, I'll bet. "

"I'm afraid you are over sanguine, " Howard said. "I've just been going overthe matter with my lawyer. But leave the papers with me. And--about thenews--be careful what you say. We've been going a little strong. I think alittle less personal matter would be advisable. "

Mr. King was amazed and looked it. He slowly pulled himself together tosay, "All right, Mr. Howard. I think I understand. " He laid the papers downand departed. Outside the door he laughed softly to himself. "Somebody'sbeen cutting his comb, I guess, " he murmured. "Well, I didn't think he'dlast. New York always gets 'em when they're worth while. "

As the door closed behind King, Howard drew out the lowest and deepestdrawer of his desk. It was half-filled with long-undisturbed pamphlets andnewspaper cuttings. He tossed in the injunction papers. A cloud of dustflew up and settled thickly upon them. He shut the drawer. 

He went to the window and looked out over the city--that seductive, thatoverwhelming expression of wealth and power. "What was it my father wroteme when I told him I was going to New York?" and he recalled almost theexact words--"New York that lures young men from the towns and the farms, and prostitutes them, teaches them to sell themselves with unblushingcheeks for a fee, for an office, for riches, for power. " He shrugged hisshoulders, smiled, drew himself up, returned to his desk and was soonabsorbed in his work. 

The next morning the _News-Record's_ double-leaded "leader" on theCoal Trust was a discharge of heavy artillery. But it was artillery inretreat. And in the succeeding days, the retreat continued--not precipitatebut orderly, masterly. 

 * * * * *

Ten days after their talk on the "coal conspiracy" Marian greeted him latein the afternoon with "Oh, such a row with Mrs. Mercer!"

"Mrs. Mercer! Why, what was she angry about?"

"She wasn't--at least, not at first. It was I. I went to see her and sheasked me to thank you for stopping that fight on the coal conspiracy. "

"That was tactful of her, " Howard said, turning away to hide hisnervousness. 

"And I told her that you had not stopped, that you wouldn't stop until youhad broken it up. And she smiled in a superior way and said I was quitemistaken, that I didn't read the paper, I haven't read it for several days, but I knew _you_, dear, and I remembered what you had said. And so wejust had it. We were polite but furious when I went. I shall never go nearher again. "

"But, unfortunately, we have stopped. We had to do it. We could accomplishnothing. "

"Oh, it doesn't matter. What angered me was her insinuation. "

"That was irritating. But, tell me, what if it had been true?" Howard'svoice was strained and he was looking at her eagerly, with fever in hiseyes. 

"But it couldn't be. It isn't worth while imagining. You could not be acoward and a traitor. " So complete was her confidence in him that suspicionof him was impossible. 

"Would you sit in judgment on me?"

"Not if I could help it. "

"But you can--you could help it. " His manner was agitated, and he spokealmost fiercely. "I am free, " he went on, and as she watched his eyes sheunderstood why men feared him. "I do what I will. I am not accountable toyou, not even to you. I have never asked you to approve of me, to approvewhat I do, to love me. You are free also, free to love, free to withdrawyour love. I follow the law of my own being. You must take me as you findme or not at all. "

She tried to stop him but could not. His words poured on. He leaned forwardand took her hand and his eyes were brilliant and piercing. "I love you, "he said. "Ah, how I love you--not because you love me, not because you arean angel, not because you are a superior being. No, not for any reason inall this wide world but because you are you. Do what you will and I shalllove you. Whether I had to look up among the stars or down in the mire tofind you, I would look just as steadily, just as proudly. "

He drew along breath and his hand trembled. "If I were a traitor, then, ifyou loved me, you would say, 'What! Is he to be found among traitors? How Ilove treason!' If I were a coward, liar, thief, a sum of all the vices, then, if you ever had loved me you would love me still. I want no love withmental reservations, no love with ifs and buts and provided-thats. I wantlove, free and fearless, that adapts itself to changing human nature as thecolour of the sea adapts itself to the colour of the sky; love that doesnot have to be cajoled and persuaded lest it be not there when I most needit. I want the love that loves. "

"You know you have it. " She had been compelled by his mood and was herselfin a fever. She looked at him with the expression which used to make hisnerves vibrate. "You know that no human being ever was more to another thanI to you. But you can't expect me to be just the same as you are. I love_you_--not the false, base creature you picture. I admire the way youlove, but I could not love in that way. Thank God, my love, my dear--Ishall never be put to that test. For my love for you is my--my all. "

"We are very serious about a mere supposition. "

Howard was laughing, but not naturally. "We take each the other far tooseriously. I'm sorry you idealise me so. Who knows--you might find me outsome day--and then--well, don't blame me. "

Marian said no more, but late that evening she put her hands on hisshoulders and said: "You're not hiding something from me--something weought to bear together?"

"Not I. " Howard smiled down into her eyes and kissed her. 

His mood of reaction, of hysteria had passed. He was thinking how little inreality she had had to do with his outburst. He had not been addressing herat all, except as she seemed to him for the moment the embodiment of hisself-respect--or rather, of an "absurd, " "extremely youthful" ideal ofself-respect which he had "outgrown. "

XXV. 

THE PROMISED LAND. 

A woman with a powerful personality may absorb in herself a man of strongand resolute ambition, may compel him to make her his career, to feel thatto get and to keep her is all that he asks from destiny. But Marian was notsuch a woman. 

She had come into Howard's life at just the time and in just the way toarouse his latent passion for power and to give it a sufficient initialimpetus. It was love for her that set him to lifting himself from amongthose who work through themselves alone to the potent few who work chieflyby directing the labour of others. 

Once in this class, once having tasted the joy of power, Howard was lost toher. She was unable to restrain or direct, or even clearly to understand. She became an incident in his life. As riches came with power, they pushedhim to one side in her life. Living in separate parts of a large house, leading separate lives, rarely meeting except when others werepresent--following the typical life of New Yorkers of fortune andfashion--they gradually grew to know little and see little and think littleeach of the other. 

There was no abruptness in the transition. Every day had contributed itslittle toward widening the gap. There was no coolness, no consciousness ofseparation; simply the slow formation of the habit of complete independenceeach of the other. 

His ambitions absorbed his thought and his time. To them he found her veryuseful. The social side--forming and keeping up friendly relations with thefamilies whose heads were men of influence--was a vital part of his plan. But he used her just as he used every and any one else whom he foundcapable of contributing to his advancement; and, as she never insisted uponherself, never sought to influence or even to inquire into his course ofaction, she did not find him out. 

She was in a vague way an unhappy woman. A discontent, a feeling that herlife was incomplete, perpetually teased her. He was distinctly unhappy, often gloomy, at times morose. In her rare analytic moods she attributedtheir failure to prolong the happiness of their courtship to the hard workwhich kept him from her, kept them from enjoying the great love which sheassumed they felt each for the other. She would not and could not see thatthat love had long disappeared, leaving a mask of forms, of phrases and ofimpulses of passion to conceal its departure. And to this view he outwardlyassented, when she suggested it; but he knew that she was deceiving herselfas to him, and wondered if she were not deceiving herself as to her ownfeelings. 

Up to the time of the "Coal Conspiracy" and his attempt to put himselfstraight with her, the idea of his love for her and of her oneness with himhad at least a hold upon his imagination. He then saw how far apart theyhad drifted; and he dismissed from his mind even the pretense that loveplayed any part in his life. After that definite break with principle andself-respect for the sake of his coal holdings, his Wall Street friends andhis newspaper career, the development of his character continued alongstrictly logical lines with accelerating speed. And it was accompanied byan ever franker, more cynical acceptance of the change. 

He could not deceive himself, nor can any man with the clearness ofjudgment necessary to great achievement--although many "successful" men, for obvious reasons of self-interest, diligently encourage the populartheory of warped conscience. He was well aware that he had shifted from theideal of use _to_ his fellow-beings to the ideal of use _of_ hisfellow-beings, from the ideal of character to the ideal of reputation. Andhe knew that the two ideals can not be combined and that he not only wasnot attempting to combine them but had no desire so to do. He despised hisformer ideals; but also he despised himself for despising them. 

His quarrel with himself was that he seemed to himself a rather vulgar sortof hypocrite. This was highly disagreeable to him, as his whole naturetended to make him wish to be himself, to make him shrink from the part ofthe truckler and the sycophant which he was playing so haughtily and soartistically. At times it exasperated him that he could not regard hischange of front as a deliberate sale for value received, and not as theweak and cowardly surrender which he saw that it really was. 

 * * * * *

On the day after Howard's forty-fourth birthday Coulter fell dead at theentrance to the Union Club. When Stokely heard of it he went direct to the_News-Record_ office. 

"I happen to know something about Coulter's will, " he said to Howard. "The_News-Record_ stock is to be sold and you and I are to have the firstchance to take it at three hundred and fifty--which is certainly cheapenough. "

"Why did he arrange to dispose of the most valuable part of his estate?"

"Well, we had an agreement about it. Then, too, Coulter had no faith innewspapers as a permanent investment. You know there are only the widow, the girl and that worthless boy. Heavens, what an ass that boy is! Coulterhas tied up his estate until the youngest grandchild comes of age. He hopesthat there will be a son among the grandchildren who will realise hisdream. "

"Dream?" Howard smiled. "I didn't know that Coulter ever indulged indreams. "

"Yes, he had the rich man's mania--the craze for founding a family. Soeverything is to be put into real estate and long-term bonds. And for yearsNew York is to be reminded of Samuel Coulter by some incapable who'll usehis name and his money to advertise nature's contempt for family pride inher distributions of brains. I think even a fine tomb is a wiser memorial. "

"Well, how much of the stock shall you take?" Howard asked. 

"Not a share, " Stokely replied dejectedly. "Coulter couldn't have died at aworse time for me. I'm tied in every direction and shall be for a year atleast. So you've got a chance to become controlling owner. "

"I?" Howard laughed. "Where could I get a million and a half?"

"How much could you take in cash?"

"Well--let me see--perhaps--five hundred thousand. "

"You can borrow the million with the stock as collateral. "

"But how could I pay?"

"Why, your dividends at our present rate would be more than two hundredthousand a year. Your interest charge would be under seventy-five thousand. Perhaps I can arrange it so that it won't be more than fifty thousand. Youcan let the balance go on reducing the loan. Then I may be able to put youonto a few good things. At any rate you can't lose anything. Your stockwould bring five hundred even at forced sale. It's your chance, old man. Iwant to see you take it. "

"I'll think it over. I have no head for figures. "

"Let me manage it for you. " Stokely rose to go. Howard began thanking him, but he cut him off with:

"You owe me no thanks. You've made money for me--big money. I owe you myhelp. Besides, I don't want any outsider in here. Let me know when you'reready. " He nodded and was gone. 

"What a chance!" Howard repeated again and again. 

He was looking out over New York. 

Twenty years before he had faced it, asking of it nothing but a living andhis freedom. For twenty years he had fought. Year by year, even when heseemed to be standing still or going backward, he had steadily gained, making each step won a vantage-ground for forward attack. And now--victory. Power, wealth, fame, all his!

Yet a deep melancholy came over him. And he fell to despising himself forthe kind of exultation that filled him, its selfishness, its sordidness, the absence of all high enthusiasm. Why was he denied the happiness ofself-deception? Why could he not forget the means, blot it out, now thatthe end was attained?

His mind went out, not to Marian, but to that other--the one sleeping underthe many, many layers of autumn leaves at Asheville. And he heard a voicesaying so faintly, so timidly: "I lay awake night after night listening toyour breathing, and whispering under my breath, 'I love you, I love you. Why can't you love me?'" And then--he flung down the cover of his desk andrushed away home. 

"Why did I think of Alice?" he asked himself. And the answer came--becausein those days, in the days of his youth, he had had beliefs, highprinciples; he had been incapable of this slavery to appearances, to vainshow, incapable of this passion for reputation regardless of character. Hisweaknesses were then weaknesses only, and not, as now, the laws of hisbeing controlling his every act. 

He smiled cynically at the self of such a few years ago--yet he could notmeet those honest, fearless eyes that looked out at him from the mirror ofmemory. 

He was triumphant, but self-respect had gone and not all the thickswathings of vanity covered him from the stabs of self-contempt. 

"When I am really free, when the paper is paid for and I can do as Iplease, why not try to be a man again? Why not? It would cost me nothing. "

But a man is the sum of _all_ his past. 

XXVI. 

IN POSSESSION. 

Stokely arranged the loan, and within six months Howard was controllingowner of the _News-Record. _ There was a debt of a million and aquarter attached to his ownership, but he saw how that would be wiped out. Once more he threw himself into his work with the energy of a boy. He hadto give much of his time to the business department--to the details ofcirculation and advertising. He felt that the profits of the paper could begreatly increased by improving its facilities for reaching the advertiserand the public. He had never been satisfied with the circulation methods;but theretofore his ignorance of business and his position as mere salariededitor had acted in restraint upon his interference with the "groundfloor. "

As he had suspected, the business office was afflicted with the twindiseases--routine and imitativeness. It followed an old system, devised indays of small circulation and grudgingly improved, not by thought on thepart of those who circulated the paper, but by compulsion on the part ofthe public. No attempts were made to originate schemes for advertising thepaper. The only methods were wooden variations upon placards in the streetcars and the elevated stations, and cards hung up at the news-stands. Asforgetting advertising business, they thought they showed enterprise by alittle canvassing among the conspicuous merchants in Greater New York. 

Howard had charts made showing the circulation by districts. With these asa basis he ordered an elaborate campaign to "push" the paper in thedistricts where it was circulated least and to increase its hold where itwas strong. "We do not reach one-third of the people who would like to takeour paper, " he told Jowett, the business manager. "Let us have an army ofagents and let us take up our territory by districts. "

The Sunday edition was the largest source of revenue, both because itcarried a great deal more advertising at much higher rates than did theweek-day editions, and because it sold at a price which yielded a profit onthe paper itself, while the price of the weekday editions did not. Newsconstituted less than one-fourth of its contents. The rest was "featurearticles, " as interesting a week late to a man in Seattle as on the day ofpublication within a mile of the office. 

"We get out the very best magazine in the market, " said Howard to Jowett. "Are we pushing it in the east, in the west, in the south? Look at thecharts. 

"We have a Sunday circulation of five hundred in Oregon, of one thousand inTexas, of six hundred in Georgia, of two thousand in Maine. Why not tentimes as much in each of those states? Why not ten times as much as we nowhave near New York?"

There was no reason except failure to "push" the paper. That reason Howardproceeded to remove. But these enterprises involved large expenditures, perhaps might mean postponement of the payment of the debt. Receipts mustbe increased and the most promising way was an increase in the advertisingbusiness. 

Howard noted on the chart nineteen cities and large towns near New York ineach of which the daily circulation of the _News-Record_ was equal tothat of any paper published there and far exceeded the combinedcirculations of all the home dailies on Sunday. This suggested a system oflocal advertising pages, and for its working out he engaged one of the mostcapable newspaper advertising men in the city. Within three months the ideahad "caught on" and, instead of sending useless columns of New York"want-ads" and the like to places where they could not be useful, the_News-Record_ was presenting to its readers in twelve cities and townsthe advertisements of their local merchants. 

A year of this work, with Howard giving many hours of each day personallyto tiresome details, brought the natural results. The profits of the_News-Record_ had risen to five hundred and forty thousand, of whichHoward's share was nearly three hundred thousand. The next year the profitswere seven hundred and fifty thousand, and Howard had reduced his debt toeight hundred thousand. 

"We shall be free and clear in less than three years, " he said to Marian. 

"If we have luck, " she added. 

"No--if we work--and we shall. Luck is a stone which envy flings atsuccess. "

"Then you don't think you have been lucky?"

"Indeed I do not. "

"Not even, " she smiled, drawing herself up. 

"Not even--" he said with a faint, sad answering smile. "If you only knewhow hard I worked preparing myself to be able to get you when you came; ifyou only, only knew how life made me pay, pay, pay; if you only knew--"

"Go on, " she said, coming closer to him. 

He sighed--not for the reason of sentiment which she fancied, though he puthis arms around her. "How willingly I paid, " he evaded. 

He went to his desk and she stood looking at him. There was still the charmof youth, even freshness, in her beauty--and she was not unconscious of thefact. 

And he--he was handsome, distinguished looking and certainly did notsuggest age or the approach of age; but in his hair, so grey at thetemples, in the stern, rather haughty lines of his features, in theweariness of his eyes, there was not a vestige of youth. "How he has workedfor me and for his ideals, " she thought, sadly yet proudly. "Ah, he isindeed a great man, and _my_ husband!" And she bent over him andkissed him on an impulse to a kind of tenderness which was now so strangeto her that it made her feel shy. 

"And what a radical you'll be, " she laughed, after a moment's silence. "What a radical, what a democrat!"

"When?" He was flushing a little and avoided her eyes. 

"When you're free--really the proprietor--able to express your own views, all your own views. We shall become outcasts. "

"I wonder, " he replied slowly, "does a rich man own his property or does itown him?"

For an instant he had an impulse of his old longing for sympathy, forcompanionship. She was now thirty-six and, save for an expression ofexperience, of self-control, seemed hardly so much as thirty. But with theyears, with the habit of self-restraint, with instinctive rather thanconscious realisation of his indifference toward her, had come a chillperceptible at the surface and permeating her entire character. In her ownway she had become as self-absorbed, as ambitious as he. 

He looked at her, felt this chill, sighed, smiled at himself. Yes, he wasalone--and he preferred to be alone. 

XXVII. 

THE HARVEST. 

Through all his scheming and shifting Howard had kept the_News-Record_ in the main an "organ of the people. " Coulter andStokely had on many occasions tried to persuade him to change, but he hadstood out. He did not confess to them that his real reason was not hisalleged principles but his cold judgment that the increases in circulationwhich produced increases in advertising patronage were dependent upon thepaper's reputation of fearless democracy. 

In the fourth year of his ownership he felt that the time had come for thechange, that he could safely slip over to the other side--the side ofwealth and power, the winning side, the side with offices and privileges todistribute. His debt was so far reduced that he had nothing to fear fromit. A presidential campaign was coming on and was causing unusualconfusion, a general shift of party lines. And he had put the_News-Record_ in such a position that it could move in any directionwithout shock to its readers. 

The "great battle" was on--the battle he had in his younger days lookedforward to and longed for--the battle against Privilege and for a"restoration of government by the people. " The candidates were nominated, the platforms put forward and the issue squarely joined. 

The same issue had been involved in previous campaigns; but the statementof the case by the party opposed to "government of, by and for plutocracy"had been fantastic, extreme, entangled with social, economic and politicallunacies. And Howard had strengthened the _News-Record_ by refusing topermit it to "go crazy. " Now, however, there was in honesty no reason forrefusing support to the advocates of his professed principles. 

But the _News-Record_ was silent. Howard and Marian went away to theircottage at Newport, and he left rigid instructions that no politicaleditorials were to be published except those which he might send. There hegot typhoid fever and was at the point of death for two weeks. 

Marian gave herself to nursing him, stayed close beside him, read books andthe newspapers to him throughout his convalescence. They were more intimatethan they had been for years. A feeling bearing a remote resemblance to thelove he had once had for her arose out of his weakness and dependence andhis seclusion from the instruments and objects of his ambition. And sheswept aside the barriers she had erected between herself and him andreturned, as nearly as one may, to the love and interest of their earlydays together. 

In the first week of September came Stokely with Senator Hereford, thechairman of the "Plutocracy" campaign committee. 

"I shall not annoy you with evasions, " said Hereford, "as Mr. Stokelyassures me that I may speak freely to you, that you personally are with us. The fact is, our campaign is in a bad way, especially in New York State, and there especially in New York City. "

"You surprise me, " said Howard. "All my information has come from thenewspapers which my wife reads me. I had gathered that the victory was allbut won. "

"We encourage that impression. You know how many weak-kneed fellows thereare who like to be on the winning side. We've been pouring out the moneyand stand ready to pour it out like water. But these damned reformballot-laws make it hard for us to control the vote. We buy, but we fearthat the goods will not be delivered. Feeling is high against us. Even ourfarmers and shopkeepers are acting queerly. And the other fellows have atlast put up a safe man on a conservative platform. "

Howard turned his face away. There was still the memory, the now quickenedmemory, of his former self to make him wince at being included in such an"us. "

"You can't afford to keep silent any longer, " Hereford continued. "You'vedone the cause a world of good by your silence thus far. You have thereputation of being the leading popular organ, and your keeping quiet hasmeant thousands of votes for us. But the time has come to attack. And youmust attack if we are to carry New York. You can turn the tide in thestate, and--well, we have a very high regard for your genius for makingyour points clearly and interestingly. We need your ideas for our editorsand speakers as much as we need your influence. "

"I cannot discuss it to-day, " Howard answered after a moment's silence. "Itwould be a grave step for the _News-Record_ to take. I am not well, asyou see. To-morrow or next day I'll decide. You'll see my answer in thepaper, I think. " He closed his eyes with significant weariness. 

Hereford looked at him uneasily. Just outside the door Stokely whispered, "Don't be alarmed. You've got him. He's with us, I tell you. "

"I must make sure, " whispered Hereford. "I wish to speak to him alone for amoment. "

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Howard, " he said as he re-entered the room. "Iforgot an important part of my mission. Our candidate authorized me to sayto you on his behalf that he felt sure you would see your duty; that heesteemed your character and judgment too highly to have any doubts; andthat he intends to show his appreciation of the conscientious, independentvote which is rallying to his support; in the event of his election, hefeels that he could not do so in a more satisfactory manner than byoffering you either a place in his cabinet or an ambassadorship as you mayprefer. "

As soon as Howard saw Hereford returning, he knew the reason. He had neverbefore been offered a bribe; but he could not mistake the meaning ofHereford's bold yet frightened expression. He kept his eyes averted duringthe delivery of the long, rambling sentence. At the end, he looked atHereford frankly and said in his most gracious manner:

"Thank him for me, will you? And express my appreciation of so high acompliment from such a man. "

Hereford looked relieved, delighted. "I'm glad to have met you, Mr. Howard, and to have had so satisfactory an interview. "

Again outside the door, he muttered gleefully: "Yes, we've him. Otherwisehe would have had his servants kick me down stairs. Gad, no wonder ---- ison his way to the Presidency, I had a sneaking fear that this fellow mightbe sincere. But _he_ saw through him without ever having seen him. Isuppose two men of that stripe instinctively understand each other. "

 * * * * *

That was on a Sunday afternoon. On the following Wednesday, as Marian cameinto Howard's sitting-room with the newspapers, she laughed: "I've beenreading such a speech from your candidate, you radical! I must say I likedto read it. It was so like you, your very phrases in many places, thethings you used to talk to me before you gave me up as hopeless. Justlisten. "

And she read him the oration--a reproduction of the Howard she first saw, the Howard she admired and loved and had never lost. "Isn't it superb?" sheasked at the end. "You must have written it for him. Don't you like it?"

"Very able, " was Howard's only comment. 

Marian continued to read the paper, glancing from column to column, givinghim the substance of the news. Soon she reached the editorial page. He wasstealthily watching her face. He saw her glance through a few lines of theleader, start, read on, look in a terrified way at him, and then skipabruptly to the next page. 

"Read me the leader, won't you?" he asked. 

"My voice is tired, " she pleaded. "I'll read it after awhile. "

"Please, " he insisted. "I'm especially anxious to hear it. "

"I think, " she almost stammered, "that somebody has taken advantage of yourillness. I didn't want to tell you until I'd had a chance to think. "

"Please read it. " His tone was abrupt. She had never heard that tonebefore. 

She read. It was an assertion of that which her Howard most disbelieved, most protested against; a defense of the public corruption she had heardhim denounce so often; an attack upon the ideas, the principles, theelements she had so often heard him eulogize. It was as adroit as it wasdetestable, as plausible as it was unprincipled. 

When she had done, there was a long silence which he broke. "What do youthink of it?"

"Only a wretch, an enemy of yours could have written it. Who can it havebeen?" Her eyes were ablaze and her voice trembled with anger. 

"I wrote it, " he said. 

He did not dare to look at her for a few seconds. Then, with a flimsy maskof pretended calmness only the more clearly revealing self-contempt andcowardice, he faced her amazed eyes, her pale cheeks, her parted lips--anddropped his gaze to the floor. 

"You?" she whispered. "You?"

"Yes, I. "

She sat so still that he reached over and touched her hand. It was cold. She shivered and drew it away. They were silent for a long time--severalminutes. She was looking at his face. It was old and sad andfeeble--pitiful, contemptible. She had never seen those lines of weaknessabout his mouth before. She had never before noted that his features hadlost the expression of exalted character, the light of free and independentmanhood which made her look again the first time she saw him. When had theman she loved departed? When had the new man come? How long had she beengiving herself to a stranger--and _such_ a stranger?

"Yes--I, " he repeated. "I have come over to your side. " He laughed and sheshivered again. "Well--what do you think?"

"Think?--I?--Oh, I think----"

She burst into tears, flung herself down at his feet and buried her head inhis lap. 

"I think nothing, " she sobbed, "except that I--I love you. "

He fell to smoothing her hair, slowly, gently, patronisingly. His face wascomposed and he was looking down at her trembling head and agitatedshoulders with an absent-minded smile. How easily this once dreaded crisishad passed! How he had overestimated her! How he had underestimatedhimself!

His glance and his thoughts soon fastened upon the copy of his newspaperwhich she had thrown aside--_his_ newspaper indeed, his creation andhis creature, the epitome of his intellect and character, of his strengthand his weakness. Half a million circulation daily, three quarters of amillion on Sunday--how mighty as a direct influence upon the people! Itsclearness and vigour, its intelligence, its truth-like sophistry--howmighty as an indirect influence upon the minds of other editors and ofpublic men! "Power--Success, " he repeated to himself in an exaltation ofvanity and arrogance. 

Marian lifted her head and, turning, put it against his knee. She reachedout for his hand. He began to speak at once in a low persuasive voice:

"Trust me, dear, can't you? You do not--have not been reading the paperuntil recently. You are not interested in politics. There have been manychanges in the few last years. And I too have changed. I am no longerwithout responsibilities. They have sobered me, have given me anappreciation of property, stability, conservatism. Youth is enthusiastic, theoretical. I have--"

"Ah, but I do trust you, " she interrupted eagerly, fearful lest hisexplanations would make it the more difficult for her to convince herselfof what she felt she must believe if life were to go on. "And you--I don'twant you to excite yourself. You must be quiet--must get well. "

Each avoided meeting the other's eyes as she arranged the pillows for himbefore leaving him alone to rest. 

The longer she juggled with her discovery the less appalling it seemed. Hisline of action fitted too closely to her own ambitions of socialdistinction, social leadership. If he had been her lover, the shock wouldhave killed love and set up contempt in its stead. But he was not herlover, had not been for years; and to find that her husband was doing ahusband's duty, was winning position and power for himself and thereforefor his wife--that was a disclosure with mitigating aspects at least. Besides, might she not be in part mistaken? Surely any course sosatisfactory in its results could not be wholly wrong, might perhaps be theright in an unexpected, unaccustomed form. 

XXVIII. 

SUCCESS. 

French had made a portrait of the new American ambassador to the Court ofSt. James and it was shown at the spring exhibition of the Royal Academy. The ambassador and his wife wished to see how it had been hung, but theydid not wish to be seen. So they chose an early hour of a chill, rainy Maymorning to drive in a hansom from their place in Park Lane to BurlingtonHouse. 

They found the portrait in Room VI, on the line, in a corner, but where ithad the benefit of such light as there was. When they entered no one wasthere; but, as they were standing close to the picture, admiring the energyand simplicity of the strokes of the master's brush, a crowd swept in andenclosed them. 

"Let us go, " Howard said in a low tone. 

Just then a man, almost at his shoulder because of the pressure of thosebehind, said: "Wonderful, isn't it? I've never seen a better example of hiswork. He had a subject that suited him perfectly. "

"No, let us stay, " Marian whispered in reply to her husband. "They can'tsee our faces and I'd like to hear. "

"Yes, it is superb, " came the answer to the man behind them in a voiceunmistakably American. "Now, tell me, Saverhill, what sort of a personwould you say the ambassador is from that picture? You don't know him?"

"Never heard of him until I read of his appointment, " replied the firstvoice. 

"I've heard of him often enough, " came in the American voice. "But I'venever seen him. "

"You know him now, " resumed the Englishman, "inside as well as out. Frenchalways paints what he sees and always sees what he's painting. "

"Well, what is it?"

"Let us go, " whispered Marian. But Howard did not heed her. 

"I see--a fallen man. He was evidently a real man once; but he soldhimself. "

"Yes? Where does it show?"

"He's got a good mind, this fellow-countryman of yours. There are the eyesof a thinker and a doer. Nothing could have kept him down. His face isalmost as relentless as Kitchener's and fully as aggressive, except that itshows intellect, and Kitchener's doesn't. Now note the corners of his eyes, Marshall, and his mouth and nostrils and chin, and you'll see why he soldhimself, and the--the consequences. "

Howard and Marian, fascinated, compelled, looked where the unknownrequested. 

"I think I see what you mean, " came in Marshall's voice, laughingly. "Butgo on. "

"Ah, there it all is--hypocrisy, vanity, lack of principle, and, plainestof all, weakness. It's a common enough type among your successful men. Theman himself is the fixed market price for a certain kind of success. But, according to French, this ambassador of yours seems to know what he haspaid; and the knowledge doesn't make him more content with his bargain. Hehas more brains than vanity; therefore he's an unhappy hypocrite instead ofa happy self-deceiver. "

Howard and Marian shrunk together with their heads close in the effort tomake sure of concealing their faces. She was suffering for herself, butmore acutely for him. She knew, as if she were looking into his mind, hisfrightful humiliation. "Hereafter, " she thought, "whenever any one looks athim he will feel the thought behind the look. "

"How nearly did I come to him?" asked Saverhill. 

Howard started and Marian caught the rail for support. 

"A centre-shot, " replied Marshall, "if the people who know him and havetalked to me about him tell the truth. "

"Oh, they're 'on to' him, as you say, over there, are they?"

"No, not everybody. Only his friends and the few who are on the inside. There's an ugly story going about privately as to how he got theambassadorship. They say he was bought with it. But--he's admired andenvied even by a good many who know or suspect that he's only an article ofcommerce. He's got the cash and he's got position; and his paper gives himtremendous power. Then too, as you say, all about him there are men likehimself. The only punishment he's likely to get is the penalty of having tolive with himself. "

"A good, round price if French is not mistaken, " replied Saverhill. 

The two men passed on. Howard and Marian looked guiltily about, thenslipped away in the opposite direction. He helped her into the waitinghansom. As they were driven homeward she cast a stealthy side-glance athim. 

"Yes, " she thought, "the portrait is a portrait of his face; and his faceis a portrait of himself. "

He caught her glance in the little mirror in the side of the hansom--caughtit and read it. And he began to hate her, this instrument to hispunishment, this constant remembrancer of his downfall.