Enoch Crane | Project Gutenberg (2024)

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It was my father’s practise, in planning a novel, firstto prepare a most complete synopsis from beginningto end—never proceeding with the actual writing ofthe book until he had laid out the characters andaction of the story—chapter by chapter.

This synopsis, which closely resembled the scenarioof a play, he kept constantly enriching with little side-notesas they occurred to him—new ideas and pointsof detail.

So spirited were these synopses, and so clearly didthey reflect the process of his mind, that by the fewwho saw them in the course of publishing consultations,or friendly confidence, they were rememberedoften after the finished novel had obliterated its constructivelines.

A scheme like this he had prepared for “EnochCrane”—a story which, like “Felix O’Day,” he hadvery much at heart. Once he had begun a novel itoccupied his whole mind. He lived—as it were—withthe characters he was developing, to the exclusionof all other work. He would talk to me constantlyof their welfare or vicissitudes, and was oftenin grand good-humor when any of them had provedthemselves worthy by their wit, their courage, or their[vi]good breeding. They all seemed to be old personalfriends of his, whom by some chance I had never met.

My father had written three chapters of “EnochCrane” when his brief illness came. Thus there hasremained to me as a legacy of his unquenchably youthfulspirit an unfinished novel, which to reach his readersneeded to be wrought out on the lines he had socarefully laid down with that untiring enthusiasmwith which he undertook everything; and this—hislast story—it has been my privileged task to complete.

F. Berkeley Smith.

New York, 1916.

Joe Grimsby stood on the door-mat—a very shabbyand badly worn door-mat, I must say—trying to fithis key into the tiny slit which, properly punctured,shot back the bolt which loosened the door, admittinghim to the hallway leading to his apartment on thethird floor of No. 99 Waverly Place.

“Somebody must have—no, here it is. Hello, Moses,is that you? I was just going to put my knee againstit and——”

The old negro janitor bowed low.

“I wouldn’t do dat, sir; ’spec’ yo’ hand is a littleunstiddy. You young gemmen gets dat way sometimes,’specially when so much is goin’ on. Hold ontill I turn up de gas. It gets dark so early, can’t findyo’ way up-stairs in de broad daylight, let alone deevenin’. I jes’ lighted a fire in yo’ room.”

“Bully for you, Moses. And don’t forget to comeup-stairs when I ring. Mr. Atwater in yet?”

“No, sir; not as I knows on. Ain’t seen nuffin’ ofhim. ’Spec’ he’s a little mite how-come-you. I seenin de papers dat bofe on yo’ was at de big ball last[2]night. Matilda was a-readin’ it out while I wasa-brushin’ yo’ shoes.”

The young architect waved his hand in reply andmounted the stairs, his strong, well-knit frame fillingthe space between the wall and the banisters. He hadmounted these same stairs in the small hours of themorning, but if he was at all fatigued by his night’souting, there was no evidence of it in his movements.He was forging his way up, his coat thrown back, armsswinging loose, head erect, with a lifting power andspring that would have done credit to a trained athlete.

Only once did he pause, and that was when thedoor of Miss Ann’s apartment on the second floor wasopened softly and the old lady’s fluffy gray head wasthrust out. He had never met the dear woman, buthe lifted his hat in a respectful salute, and brought hisbody to a standstill until she had closed the door again.

She, no doubt, misunderstood the sound of his tread,a curious mistake had she thought a moment, for noone of the occupants of 99—and there were a goodmany of them—had ever mounted the dingy stairstwo steps at a time, humming a song between jumps,except the handsome, devil-may-care young architect.The others climbed and caught their breath. Andclimbed again and caught another breath. So didmost of the visitors. As for her own invalid sister,Miss Jane, who shared with her the rooms behind thispartly opened and gently closed door, the poor ladyhad no breath of any kind to catch, and so wheezed upone step at a time, her thin, bird-claw fingers clutching[3]the hand-rail. It was she Miss Ann was waiting for,it being after five o’clock, and the day being particularlyraw and uncomfortable, even for one in January.

He had reached his own door now, the one on thethird floor—there was only one flight above it—andwith the aid of a second key attached to his bunchmade his way into the apartment.

The sight of his cosey sitting-room loosened up thebar of another song: the janitor’s fire was still blazing,and one of the three big piano-lamps with umbrella-shadesMoses had lighted and turned down was sendinga warm glow throughout the interior.

Joe tossed his hat on a low table, stripped off hisovercoat and coat, pushed his arms into a brown velvetjacket which he took from a hook in his bedroom, andsettled himself at his desk, an old-fashioned colonialaffair, which had once stood in his grandfather’s homein his native town. Heaped up on a wide pad, thecomers bound with silver clamps, was a pile of lettersof various colors, shapes, and sizes.

These the young fellow smoothed out with a sweepof his hand, glancing hurriedly at the several handwritings,pulled out a drawer of the desk, opened abox of cigars, and selecting one with the greatest care,snipped its end with a cutter hung to his watch-chain.In the same measured way he drew a match along theunder-side of the colonial, held the flame to the perfecto,and, after a puff or two to assure himself that itwas in working order, proceeded leisurely to open hismail.

[4]It is good to be young and good-looking and a favoritewherever you go. It is better yet to be good-natured,and well-born, and able to earn your living,and it is better still to so love the work by which youearn your daily bread that you count as nothing themany setbacks and difficulties which its pursuit entails.

Joe was all that; twenty-five, well-built, erect,strong of limb, well-dressed, even if sometimes a littlebizarre in his outfit, more particularly in wide sombrerosand low collars with loose ties; thoroughly contentwith his surroundings wherever they were, whethera student at the Beaux-Arts, living on the closest ofallowances, or fighting his way in New York amonghis competitors; meeting each successive morning witha laugh and a song, and getting all the fun out of theremaining hours of which he was capable.

He had moved into these rooms but a fortnight before,and had at once proceeded to make himself ascomfortable as his means and belongings would allow.His partner, Atwater, had come with him: there wasthe rent of the office to pay, and the wages of his twoassistants, and they could save money by doubling up.With this in view, Joe had moved in some of the oldfurniture his father had left him, including the desk,and a set of shelves filled with books; had added arare old Spanish sofa that had once stood in a hidalgosalon, to say nothing of the three or four easy chairsof the sofa-pillow-stuffed-armed variety, covered withchintz, that he had bought at an auction, and whichhad once graced his former quarters. Some small tables[5]had then been commandeered—two were now surmountedby big lamps; a rug thrown on the floor andanother before the fire—good ones both, one being aDaghestan and the other a Bokhara; and the twoyoung men proceeded to make themselves at home.The bedrooms, one Atwater’s and the other Joe’s, althoughsimply furnished, were equally comfortable,and the bathroom all that it should be.

As to creature comforts, did not Moses bring themtheir breakfast, and did not his wife Matilda cook thesame on her own stove in the basem*nt in the rear?For their dinners, some one of the restaurants on 14thStreet could always be counted upon, unless someWall Street potentate, or one of his innumerablefriends, or the mother of Joe’s last lady love—hehad a fresh one every month—laid a cover at hertable in his honor.

His one predominant ambition in life, as has beensaid, was to succeed in his profession. His uncle hadachieved both riches and distinction as one of the leadingarchitects of his time and, divining Joe’s talents,had sent him abroad to uphold the honor of the family,a kindness the young fellow never forgot, and anobligation which he determined to repay by showinghimself worthy of the old man’s confidence. If he hadany other yearning, it was, as has also been said, tohave a good time every moment of the day and nightwhile the developing process was going on. And thescribe, who knew him well, freely admits that he succeeded,not only in New York, but in Paris.

[6]When a posse of gendarmes followed a group of studentsalong the Boul Miche who were shouting at thetop of their voices their disapprovals or approvals, itmade very little difference which, of some new law inthe Latin Quarter, Joe’s voice was invariably the loudest.When the room under the sidewalk at the Tavernewas full, every seat occupied, and the whole placein an uproar, it was Joe who was leading the merriment.

When, upon the dispersal of the gay revellers fromthe Quart’z’Arts ball, the Champs-Elysées was madethe background of a howling mob of bareskinned warriorsof the Stone Age, Joe led the chorus, the onlystudent in the group who was entirely sober, intemperancenot being one of the ways in which he enjoyedhimself.

It was, therefore, quite in keeping with his idea ofwhat a normal life should be that, when he nailed uphis shingle in his down-town office, and started in toearn a crust and a reputation, this same spirit of funshould have dominated his idle hours to the exclusionof everything else except the habit of falling in lovewith every pretty girl he met.

If the beautiful and accomplished and fabulouslyrich Mrs. A. had a ball, Joe invariably led the german.If there was a week-end party at Mrs. B.’s, Joe’s engagementswere always consulted and a day fixed tosuit him. They couldn’t help it really. There wasan air about the young fellow that the women, bothmarried and single, could not resist. The married onesgenerally counted on him to make their parties a success,[7]but the single ones manœuvred so as to be withinarm’s reach whenever Joe’s partner was tired out andhe ready for another.

Should you have tried to solve the problem of thisever-increasing popularity and, in marshalling yourfacts, had gone over his personal attractions—his well-groomedfigure, never so attractive as in a dress suit,clear brown eyes, perfect teeth shining throughstraight, well-modelled lips shaded by a brown mustacheblending into a close-cut, pointed beard, and hadcompared these fetching attractions with those possessedby dozens of other young men you knew, youwould be still at sea.

Old Mrs. Treadwell, who, when Joe had sprainedhis ankle, had kept him at her country-seat for a wholeweek, came nearest to the solution. “Never thinksof himself, that young fellow.” That’s it. Hasn’t anego anywhere about him. Never has had. Alwaysthinking of you, no matter who you are. And he issanely polite. Treats an apple woman as if she werea duch*ess, and a duch*ess, whenever he runs across one,as first a woman—after that she can be anything shepleases.

This accounted in a measure for the number andquality of the several notes he was opening, one afteranother, his face lighting up or clouding as he perusedtheir contents.

Moses was having a busy day. The front hall waspacked full with a heterogeneous mass of miscellaneousfurniture, the sidewalk littered with straw packing,kitchen utensils, empty bird-cages, umbrella-stands,crates of china, and rolls of carpet. Mr. Ebner Ford,late of Clapham Four Corners, State of Connecticut;Mrs. Ebner Ford, formerly Preston, late of Roy, Stateof North Carolina, and her daughter, Miss Sue Preston,were moving in.

Moses was in his shirt-sleeves, a green baize aprontied about his waist, a close-fitting skull-cap crowninghis gray wool. There were spots on his cranium whichthe friction of life had worn to a polish, and, the Januaryair being keen and searching, the old darkybraved no unnecessary risks.

The force was properly apportioned. Mrs. Fordwas in charge of the stowage, moving back, and hanging-updepartment. Mr. Ford had full charge of thesidewalk, the big furniture van and the van’s porters.Moses was at everybody’s beck and call, lifting onemoment one end of a sofa, the other steadying a bureauon its perilous voyage from the curb to the back bedroom,while Miss Preston, with an energy born ofyoung and perfect health, tripped up and down thefew steps, pointing out to the working force this or[9]that particular chair, table, or clock most needed. Allthis that the already tired mother might get the roomto rights with the least possible delay.

It was not the first time this young woman had performedthis service. The later years of her life hadbeen spent in various intermittent moves in and outof various houses since the gentleman from Connecticuthad married her mother.

Her first experience had taken place some monthsafter the unexpected wedding, when her stepfather—hewas at that time a life-insurance agent—had movedhis own bag and baggage into the family homestead.Shortly after he had elaborated a plan by which theentire family would be infinitely better off if a redflag should be hoisted out of the second-story window,and the old place knocked down to the highest bidder.He would then invest the proceeds in the purchase ofsome town lots in one of the larger cities up the State.They would then have a home of their own, more inkeeping with the aspirations of his wife, who reallyhad married him to escape her present poverty, andthe welfare of his stepdaughter, whose sole ambitionwas to perfect herself in music, she being the possessorof a wonderful soprano voice.

In this new venture six houses were to be built; onethey would live in, rent and cost free, the income fromthe other five supporting them all.

Then had come a hasty packing up and rather suddendeparture for Norfolk, the houses being partlybuilt, and none of them rented or sold, Mr. Ford having[10]abandoned life insurance and given his attentionto a new dredging machine for use in the DismalSwamp Canal. And then a third exodus to a smallvillage near New York, where the promoter of a brilliantand entirely new adaptation of laundry machinery,never before imagined, and the formation of whichwas known among the favored few as The UnitedFamily Laundry Association, Limited, engrossed thedistinguished engineer Mr. Ebner Ford’s sole attention.

It was from this near-by village the fourth movehad been made, the van and supplementary cart havingabsorbed the contents of a small house, situatedon the outskirts of the town, that deluded individualhaving exchanged a year’s rent for a delicately engravedsheet of paper, certifying that he was the proudpossessor of ten shares of the company’s preferred.

That these several shiftings, migrations, and re-handlingshad had their effect on the family belongingscould be seen by even the most cursory examinationof the several articles littering the sidewalk.Even the old family sideboard—and every Southernfamily has an old-fashioned sideboard—lacked a brassdoor-handle or escutcheon here and there, and similardefects could be found in Mrs. Ford’s high-poster,once the property of her dead mother, two of the carvedfeet being gone by reason of a collision in an extra-hazardousjourney.

It was because of the knowledge gained in theseexperiences, as well as a fervent desire to get the wholematter over as quickly as possible, that the young girl[11]had taken charge of the “picking-out” department,so that each article might reach her mother in regularorder, and in discrete corners as much as what wasleft of the old mahogany was saved.

She was again on the sidewalk, dragging out a rocker,ordering a crate here, and a bundle of fire-tongs there,when the gentleman from Connecticut must have gotin her way, for she broke in in an authoritative toneof voice, much to Moses’ astonishment, with:

“No, Mr. Ford, stop right where you are. Mammadoesn’t want any more small things until she gets thebig ones arranged, and don’t you send them in!”

“My dear Sue, you will have to take them as theycome.”

“No, I’m not going to take them as they come.I’m going to take them as I want them. You’ve gotplenty of room here, and you’ve got plenty of men tohelp. That wardrobe comes next.”

“Well, but can’t you take these here cushions?”

“Yes, send in the cushions, but that’s the last, untilI tell you what next.”

The distinguished engineer raised his hands, openinghis fingers in a deprecatory way, expressive of hisfirm belief that she would live to see the day whenshe would keenly regret her interference, and in subdued,almost apologetic, tones called Moses.

“Here, Moses—your name is Moses, ain’t it?”

The darky nodded.

“Well, be good enough to carry this here bundle ofcushions to Mrs. Ford. And be careful, Moses.”

[12]Moses, without a word in reply, swung the bundleto his shoulder, mounted the few steps and depositedthe pillows at Mrs. Ford’s feet, and resumed his placeon the sidewalk. He was making up his mind as tothe character and personality of the new tenants, andnothing had so far escaped him. The old janitor’slikes and dislikes had a very important bearing on thestatus occupied by the various tenants.

Furthermore, his diagnosis was invariably correct.

Thus far, two things had impressed him. That theyoung lady should have addressed her stepfather asif he had been a mere acquaintance, and that thatmaster of the house should have prefaced his order tohim with a “be good enough.” Nobody had ever, sofar as he could remember, addressed him in any suchway. His former master’s customary formula, generallywith a laugh, was: “Here, Moses, you infernalscoundrel.” His later employers had been contentedwith Moses, Mose, or Mr. Harris (the latter he despised).The new young gentlemen had begun withMoses, and had then passed on to “You ebony gargoyle,”or “Bulrushes,” “Pottifer’s Kid.” But theorder came direct as if they meant it, and was alwayscarried out by him in the same kind of spirit. “Begood enough, eh,” he kept saying to himself, “’spec’ heain’t ’customed to nuffin’.”

The young lady seemed to be cast in a differentmould.

“That’s too heavy for you, Uncle,” she had said ina low, soft voice, the more surprising to him when he[13]remembered the tones in addressing her stepfather.He was struggling under the weight of one end of thedining-room table at the time. “Come here, one ofyou men, and help him. Put it down, Uncle. You’llbreak your poor old back, first thing you know.”

“Thank you, young mistiss. ’Tis little mite heavy,”he had answered humbly, as the leg he was carryingsagged to the sidewalk, adding as he watched her disappearagain into the house: “Befo’ God, she’s oneof my own people, dat she is. I ain’t been calledUncle by nobody, since I went back home dat Christmastime.”

The van was empty now, and the supplementarycart, carrying the odds and ends, a rusty, well-burnt-outstove, two pieces of pipe, a big mirror with a giltframe, a set of wooden shelves, two wash-tubs, and ontop, a dainty work-table with spindle legs, was beingbacked to the sidewalk.

Some article must have been forgotten or brokenor scraped, for the language of the man from ClaphamFour Corners had lost its soft edge, his outburst endingwith:

“See here, you lunkhead, don’t you handle thatwork-table as if it was a ton of coal. Don’t you seeyou’ve broken the glass!”

The young girl had just emerged from the door.

“Oh, what a pity!” she cried. “I loved it so. No,please don’t touch it again. I’ll lift it down myself.”

She had mounted a chair now which stood by thetail of the cart and, against the protest of the group,[14]was carefully disentangling the precious legs from thechaos of pipes, tubs, and stove-fittings.

“Oh, you darling little table! Nobody ever thoughtabout you. It’s all my fault. No, go away all of you.You shan’t one of you touch it. I’ll lift it down myself.Oh, the drawer has caught in that stove door!Uncle, won’t you just push it back so I can——”

“Permit me to help this—” came a voice from behind.Before she could catch her breath, an armreached forth, lifted the precious table clear of theentangling mass and, without waiting for protest orthanks, carried it into the house at the feet of theastonished mother. Then with a remark, “That hewas glad to be of service,” Mr. Joseph Grimsby, occupantof the third floor, backed out and rejoined theastonished girl.

“A lovely bit of Chippendale, is it not, Miss Ford?It is Miss Ford, isn’t it? Yes, our old colored janitortold me you were expected to-day. I and my chumlive up-stairs. But please don’t worry about the glass.That is quite easily replaced. I must apologize formy intrusion, but when I saw what a beauty it was,and heard you say how you loved it, I had to help.There is nothing like Chippendale, and it’s gettingrarer every day.”

“Oh, but you were very kind. It was my grandmother’sand I have always used it since I was a girl.Thank you very much.”

Joe was about to say: “That—” but checked himselfin time—“if she would permit the digression, she[15]was still a girl, and a very pretty one.” In fact, hehad not seen any one quite as pretty for a very longperiod of time. He had thought so when he stood inthe doorway, watching her efforts to save the tablefrom further destruction. He had only a view of herback, but he had noticed in that brief glance the trim,rounded figure, curve of her neck, and the way hertight woollen sweater clung to her small waist and hips.He had caught, too, a pair of very small and well-shodfeet.

When she turned in surprise and looked him squarein the eyes, in one of those comprehensive, searchingglances, and his own lenses had registered her freshcolor, small ears, and dainty, enchanting mouth andteeth, the whole surrounded by a wealth of light,golden hair, escaping from the thraldom of a tam-o’-shanterhat, part of her working clothes, he would havetaken an oath on a pile of Bibles as high as a churchsteeple that she was altogether the most radiantlyattractive young woman he had ever met in the wholecourse of his natural existence.

This was not at all unusual. It was Joe’s way withevery fresh girl he met. Such hyperbole was only asafety-valve, giving vent to his enthusiastic appreciation.He had had similar outbursts over two or threesince he had left Paris. He had not only looked asimilar declaration into the eyes of the inamorata whohad begun her letter with “Dearest,” and ended itwith an initial—the letter he had cremated and tuckedaway in the burial-plot of his forgetfulness—but he[16]had told her so in so many plain words, and had toldher a lot of other things besides, which the youngbeauty had believed.

The scribe who knew them both will tell you thatSue Preston, despite Joe’s panegyrics, was just a trim,tidy, well-built, rosy, and thoroughly wholesome girl,no prettier than half a dozen other Southern girlsbrought up in her own town, which she had left whenthe gentleman from Connecticut had married hermother. That her independence of speech and bearing,as well as her kindness, came from the fact thatshe was obliged to earn her own living with her voice,singing at private houses and teaching music. Thelife, which, while it had not dulled her enthusiasm orlove for things worth the having, had taught her aknowledge of the world far beyond her years. Thiscould have been detected in the short talk she had hadwith Moses, after Joe, having reached the limit of hisintrusion, had lifted his hat in respectful admirationand taken himself off to his office, where he spent whatwas left of the morning pouring into Atwater’s earsa wholly inflated account of the charms of the newarrival, and how plans must be laid at once to get onthe friendliest terms possible with the occupants ofthe first floor.

“You ask me, young mistiss, who is dat gentleman?”Moses had rejoined in answer to her question, hereyes fixed on Joe’s graceful, manly figure as he swungdown the street.

“Dat’s Mr. Grimsby, and dere ain’t nobody moved[17]into dis house since I been here, and dat’s eleven yearsnext June, any better. Fust time I see him, I says toMatilda: ‘Matilda, don’t he look like Marse Robinwhen he was his age? He’s got just de air of him.’Don’t care for nobody dat ain’t quality. Ain’t youfrom the South, young mistiss?” Moses never forgothis slave days when he was talking to his own people.

“Yes, Moses, I’m from North Carolina.”

“And de mistiss, too?”

“Yes; mother, too.”

“But dat—dat—” the darky hesitated, “dat gentlemandat—dat married yo’ ma. He ain’t one ourpeople, is he?”

The girl laughed, a crisp, sparkling laugh, as if shereally enjoyed answering his questions.

“No, he’s a Yankee.”

“Gor a’mighty, I knowed it. ’Scuse me, youngmistiss, for askin’, but we got to get along together,and I’m goin’ to do evertin’ I can to please you.”

Joe had turned the corner by this time, and hereyes again sought the old darky’s.

“What does he do, this Mr. Grimsby?”

“I don’t know, young mistiss; I think he buildshouses. What dey call a architect.”

“And how long has he been here?”

“’Bout two weeks, goin’ on three now.”

A curious expression now crossed her face.

“And is he always as polite as that to everybodyhe meets for the first time?”

It was Moses’ turn to chuckle now. “I ain’t never[18]seen him with nobody, fur dere ain’t nobody ’round fitfur him to bow and scrape fur till you come, and youain’t seen de last of him, young mistiss, unless I missmy guess.” And with a prolonged chuckle, Mosesseized a chair, backed away with it to the house, andreturned again to his duties on the sidewalk.

That the new tenant interested him enormouslycould be seen as the old negro stood watching his self-imposedsupervision. He had been accustomed to allsorts of people since he had held his position, especiallythe kind that constantly moved in and out of thefirst floor. There had been inebriates who had beenlaid up for days at a time, broken-down bank clerkslooking for another situation, with only money enoughfor the first month in advance, ending in final collapseand exit, with most of their furniture in pawn. Therehad been a mysterious widow, a rather flabby person,whose son was a reporter, and who came in at all hoursof the night. And there had been a distinguishedlawyer, who moved in for the summer and was goingwhen the heating apparatus broke down on the firstcold day.

But the gentleman from Connecticut represented atype which Moses had never seen before. His dressshowed it, with a full suit of black, his white collarshowing above his overcoat. His speech was anotherindication. Where most men used verbal ammunitionat the rate of so many spoken words a minute,Ford’s delivery was as rapid and continuous as theoutpouring of a Gatling gun.

[19]“How many times must I tell you to be careful,men? How often must I go on insistin’ that you shouldnot bump things on the sidewalk? This here furnitureis made to sit on, not to be smashed into kindlin’wood. Easy there, now, on that bureau! Pull outthe drawers. Quick, now! One at a time. And nowlet go of that other end. It’s extraordinary how sensiblemen like you should go on ignorin’ the simplestrules of safety. Sue, my dear, tell your dear motherthat I am doin’ the best I can. But that if everythingis brought to a piecemeal, it’s only what’s to be expected.Out of the way, Moses, give them men plentyof room. There, that’s more like it!”

That the two broad-backed porters in linen jumpershad for years passed everything from a piano-stoolto a folding-bed from the top of the highest tenementin New York, without so much as a scrape of paintfrom the side walls, and that nothing that Ford hadsaid or done made the slightest impression on them,was entirely clear to Moses as he listened to theirharangue.

He had seen a busy clown at the circus picking upand dropping at a critical moment the ends of thecarpet spread out on the sawdust, a remembrancewhich pumped up another chuckle in the old darky’sinterior.

When the sidewalk was cleared, the van and thesupplementary cart emptied, and the entire belongingsof the Ford family securely housed, and the door ofthe apartment discreetly closed, so that the passers[20]up and down the staircase might not become familiarwith the various imperfections of the householdgods, when I say what Moses called the biggestcircus he had ever seen for many a day was over,that guardian of the house moved into the rear basem*ntto talk it all over with Matilda.

The old woman—and she was very nearly as oldas Moses, sixty-five if she was a day—was busy ironing,her head tied up in a big red bandanna, her shrewdeyes peering out of a pair of big-bowed spectacles.

“Well, is you through?” her eyes on her work, noton her husband.

“Yes; through!”

“Well, what you think of him?”

Moses had dropped into a chair now and begun tountie his big green baize apron, his morning work beingover.

“I ain’t got no think, Matilda. He can talk delegs off a iron pot. Dat’s one of my thinks. Ain’tnever heard nuffin’ like it. Jes’ like one of dese patent-medicinefellers with a stand on de street corner.”

“Well, is dat all?” She had dropped her iron nowand with her hands on her hips was looking at himcuriously.

“Dat’s all. Unless I’m much mistuk, dat’s all dereis to him. Jes’ wind. De madam is sumfin’ better.She looks as if she might have been quality afo’ shestruck him. But young mistiss is de real thing. Howshe can put up wid him is mo’ ’an I can understand.”

All the way to his office, Joe was planning for abetter acquaintance with the girl on the first floor.He had had but a glimpse of the mother, but eventhat brief insight had convinced him that she was awoman of refinement, and must be handled with dueregard for the conventionalities of life.

The father he had not seen, his eyes having beenfastened on the trim figure of the girl in the close-fittingknitted jacket and tam-o’-shanter hat. He hadheard more or less conversation in a high key, and hadbecome aware of a strident voice soaring above theroar of the street, but he was too much occupied withthe new arrival to give the incident further thought.

When Joe burst in, Atwater was in his shirt-sleeves,poring over a big drawing, showing the ground-planof a large office building for which the firm were competing.

“By Jove, Sam, we’re in luck! Perfect stunner!Knocks cold anything you ever saw! Regular Hebe.Come here and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Sam moved aside his T-square and followed hispartner into a small room, lighted by a punched-outskylight, which answered for their private office.

“Now, go on, Joe, and hurry up. What are youdriving at? The Long Island woman has given us[22]her cottage, hasn’t she? I thought that sketch ofyours would fix her.”

“Long Island woman be hanged, Sam. This issomething brand-new. Early colonial. Martha Washingtonwhen she was a girl. Beauties of the republicancourt not in it! Prettiest little figure, and a pair ofeyes that would drive you crazy. And——”

Sam reached forward and grabbed Joe’s arm.

“What the devil are you talking about, Joe?”

“Miss Ford.”

“What Miss Ford?”

“The girl on the first floor.”

“Where?”

“Right below us, you lunatic! She got tangled upwith the best bit of Chippendale I’ve seen for years,and I helped her out. Glass all smashed. Nearlybroke her heart. Oh, you’ve got to see her, Sam, beforeyou——”

Sam held both hands to his head, expressive of thefear that his precise and conservative mind was givingway.

“Joe, if it wasn’t but ten o’clock in the morning,and I didn’t know that you were plumb sober when Ileft you at breakfast an hour ago, I’d think you wereboiling drunk. Now, pull yourself together, and giveit to me straight. What are you raving about? Isit an order for a bungalow, or some girl who trampedup our stairs to sell you a ‘Trow’s Directory’?”

Joe threw up his arms and let out a laugh that madethe two draftsmen in the next room raise their heads.

[23]“None of ’em, you woodenhead. Listen, Sam, andI’ll put a fresh curl in your hair. When I reached thesidewalk this morning, the whole place—hall, steps,and curb—were cluttered up with furniture! Everythingfrom a flat-iron to a folding-bed was all over thelot. That new family—the one Moses was telling usabout last night—were moving in. Mounted on achair—just a plain kitchen chair, mind you—stood agirl—oh, a daisy girl!—holding on to a dressing-table,its legs tied up in a stove. And, Sam——”

“Her legs tangled up in—what are you talking about,Joe?”

“Not hers, you idiot! The Chippendale’s.”

“Well, then, what’s the girl got to do with it?”

“Don’t I tell you she owned the table? She wasall broken up. Called her ‘darling.’ Was just burstinginto tears when I made a dive, grabbed the eighteenth-centuryrelic by one corner, lifted it overeverybody’s head, carried it inside, and laid it at thefeet of a rather demoralized woman—no doubt hermother—her head tied up in a green veil. Hence,‘Thanks,’ grateful looks, and ‘Oh, so kind of you, sir’—thatsort of thing. Returned to the girl, apologized,more ‘Oh, thank yous,’ and retired in good order. Aperfect stunner, I tell you, Sam! I knew we’d strikeit rich when you picked out that old rookery. We’llbegin to live now. She’s right below. Go down anytime she sends for us. I’ve been thinking it over,and the first thing to do is to have a tea. Got to behospitable, you know. We’ve just moved in, and[24]they’ve just moved in. We’ve been there the longest,and, therefore, we make the advances. That wouldbe the decent thing to do if there wasn’t any girl.Don’t you think so?”

Sam’s mind had begun to wander. He had listenedto a dozen just such outbursts in the past six months.

Joe rattled on:

“Of course, we must invite the mother and father.They won’t come. He won’t, anyway. Mother might,so as to find out who we were and how we lived, andafter that it will be easy-going with the daughter.I’ll send for Higgins and his sister, and you get MattySands and her mother, and—”

Sam began moving toward the door.

“Better cut the tea out, Joe,” he said curtly.

“But you haven’t seen the girl; if you had,you’d——”

“No, I haven’t seen the girl, and I don’t want tosee the girl. Bad enough to give up a day’s work.We’ve got a lot to do, you know. A tea smashes thewhole afternoon. Make it at night.”

“Too expensive. Must have something to eat, andmaybe something to drink. Moses and his wife couldwork the hot-water-and-sandwiches racket, all right,but a supper, no—can’t see it—break us.”

“Well, make it a musicale, and send for Paul Lambingand his violin. I’ll do the piano. Maybe yourgirl can sing.”

“No; she can’t sing.”

“How do you know she can’t sing?”

[25]“Because she don’t look like a girl who can sing.I can tell every time.”

“Well what does she look like?”

“She’s a perfect stunner, I tell you.”

“Yes, you’ve said that three times already. Nowgive us the details. Elevation, openings, cornice, roofline, and——”

Again Joe roared, this time with his head thrownback, his white teeth glistening. “That’s just likeyou, Sam, you never had a soul above bricks and mortar,and you never——”

“Well, I don’t go out of my head over every petticoatI come across.” He was inside the drafting-roomnow, and was holding the door open between them.“And, another thing, Joe, take my advice and stopwhere you are. The girl no doubt’s all right, and themother may be all right, but the father is a queerone. Looks like a cross between a tract distributerand a lightning-rod man. Go slow, Joe,” and he shutthe door between them.

By the end of the week the Fords had settled downin their new quarters, so far as outside activities wereconcerned. But what was going on inside the unluckysuite of rooms, no one but Matilda knew. Moses hadvolunteered the remark, that when a carpet was fullof holes “it didn’t make no diff’unce which side youlaid down.” But whether this mutilation was discoveredin one of Fords’ Axminsters or in his ownfloor coverings, Joe did not catch, nor did he press theinquiry.

[26]His impatience, however, to get inside the sacredprecinct was not cooled, and he was still at fever heat.Nor had the proposed entertainment been abandoned,Joe forcing the topic whenever the opportunity offered,Sam invariably side-tracking it whenever it was possible.To-night, however, Joe was going to have itout, and Sam, being entirely comfortable, was preparedto listen. Neither of them had engagementswhich would take them from their rooms, and so Joehad donned his brown velvet jacket, and Atwater hadslipped his thin body into what Joe called his “HighChurch” pajamas, an embroidered moiré-antiquedressing-gown, cut after the pattern of a priest’s robe,which a devoted aunt had made for him with her ownhands, and which, to quote Joe, “should always beworn with smoked glasses as safeguards against certaindangerous forms of ophthalmia.”

Joe, finding another mail heaped up on his pad—therewas always a mail for Joe—had seated himselfat his desk, his legs stretched out like a ten-inch gun,his shapely feet in thin-soled, patent-leather shoes,resting on one corner of the colonial. Sam occupiedthe sofa, the slim curve of his girth almost parallel tothe straight line of the Hidalgo’s favorite lounge.

Several schemes looking to a further and more lastingacquaintance had been discussed and rejected.One was to leave their own door ajar, be in wait untilFords’ was opened, and then in the most unexpectedmanner meet some one of the family on the stairs,Joe’s affability to do the rest.

[27]Another was to waylay Ford as he entered from thestreet, engage him in conversation, and keep it upuntil he had reached his door, when Joe would be invitedin and asked to make himself at home. Thislast was Atwater’s. Indeed, both of these “vulgarabsurdities” (Joe’s view-point) were Atwater’s.

“Well, then,” retorted Sam, “go down like a man—now.It isn’t too late. It’s only nine o’clock.Ring the bell or pound on his door, and present yourcard. That’s the way you would do anywhere up-town.Try it here. Chuck that box of matches thisway, Joe, my pipe’s out.”

Joe chucked, stretched his shapely legs another inch,and resumed:

“No, won’t do. Might all be out. All up with usthen. Lightning-rod man would wait a week, watchuntil he saw us go out, tiptoe up-stairs and slip hiscard under the door. I couldn’t call again withoutupsetting everything. They’d think I was trying to‘butt in.’ Better way would be to write the mothera note.”

“What kind of a note? Here, catch this box.”

“That’s the devil of it, Sam, I don’t exactly know.I’m thinking it over.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what to say, and I’m not thinkingit over. Say you’re dead stuck on her daughter,and want to see more of her. That you’re going toget up a musicale which you can’t afford, and thatyou—oh, drop it, Joe, she’ll be asking us both to teabefore the week is out, and before a month the whole[28]family will be borrowing everything we own, and we’llhave to move out to get rid of them. I got a crackat the mother a day or two ago. You didn’t see herthis morning because you had gone up on ahead, buta boy rang her bell as I passed. One of these short,old family portraits kind of woman. Round and dryas a bunch of lavender. Girl might be well enough,but my advice is to cut it all out. Get a new line.We’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ve carried the ground-planas far as I can go, and you’ve got to pitch intothe details.”

Joe had dropped his feet to the floor, had squaredhimself at his desk, and was half through a note.Sam had finished his outburst. His partner’s adviceon matters connected with their profession Joe alwaysrespected; to listen to his views on social affairswas so much wasted time.

The note finished, Joe shifted his seat and faced hispartner, the letter in his hand.

“Now, shut up, you hod-carrier, and pay attention.This is what I call a corker! And you needn’t try toalter a line, because it’s going just as it is.

[29]“How’s that?”

Atwater settled himself deeper into the sofa, gatheredthe ends of the flaming robe closer about his thinbody, and jammed a pillow under his head; but noword escaped him.

“Well, I’m waiting,” insisted Joe; “what do youthink of it?”

“That you’ll get the mother, who’ll come to spyout the land; that the lightning-rod man will stayaway, and that the girl, if she’s got any sense, and Ithink she has from what you’ve told me, will wait forthe old lady’s report, and that that will end it. Thesepeople have come here to get away from everybody.That girl, no doubt, is all they’ve got, and they don’twant distinguished young architects mousing around.Save your money, Joe.”

“That letter’s going, Sam, just as I’ve written it.It’s the letter of a gentleman. Never will offend anylady, and she looks like one. Wait till I seal it. Itought to go at once—now—this very night. Youget out of that Biblical bedquilt and get into yourcoat, slip down and leave it at the door. That willgive me another chance in case this thing slips up.Could then make a suggestion about having theglass repaired. Never thought of that until thisminute.”

“I wouldn’t get off this sofa, Joe, for all the girlsin New York. Put a stamp on it, and I’ll mail it inthe morning. There’s no hurry. We’re going to behere all winter.”

[30]“Mail it, you half-breed! Mail a letter, and youin the same house!”

“Well, send it down by Moses.”

“Well, that’s more like it! Touch that bell—willyou?—you’re nearest.”

Sam reached out and pressed a button within a footof his head. Joe slipped the note into an envelope,sealed it with violet wax, waited until the little puddlewas big enough to engulf the Grimsby crest engravedon his seal-ring, and was about to repeat the summons,when there came a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

The darky entered, his back crooked like a foldingjack-knife.

“I knowed dat was yo’ ring, Mr. Joe, before it gotdone tinglin’.” A new—or rather an added joy—hadcrept again into the old slave’s heart—the joy of servinga white man whom he respected, and who waskind to him.

“You’re wrong, Gargoyles, that was Mr. Atwater’sring!”

“Well, den you gib his touch.” And again Moses’back was bent double.

“Wrong again, Moses. That the bell rang at all isentirely owing to the fact that the button was withinreach of the distinguished architect’s hand. Had itbeen six inches farther down the wall, I should havebeen obliged to tingle it myself.”

“Yas, sah.”

“The distinguished architect, Moses, suffers from[31]an acute form of inertia, Moses, owing to the fact thathe was born tired.”

“Yas, sah.”

“And furthermore, Moses, he has so little knowledgeof the ordinary civilities of life, that but for yourkindly help he would have intrusted this delicatelyaddressed missive, illumined with the Grimsby crest,to a cast-iron box decorating a street corner.”

“Yas, sah.”

Any further comment would have been presumptuous.None of this conversation, as he well knew, havingbeen addressed to himself.

“And now, stop genuflecting, you chunk of darkness,and listen. Step down-stairs, rap gently and discreetlyat the closed portal of the Ford family andpass in this letter.”

“Yes, sah, and den what?” He was included now.

“Nothing what, unless the young lady should openthe door, when you will ask her if there is any answer.If she says there is, and gives it to you, you will bringit up here on the dead run.”

“And s’pose dat de—dat de—well, dat de gemmanhimself opens it?”

“What, the letter?”

“No, sah; de do’.”

“Hand him the letter all the same, say there is noanswer; none of any kind, and to prove it, ambledown into your own coal-hole.”

Moses reached for the missive, laid it across thecreases of his wrinkled palm, and with a remark, “dat[32]his old marse, Marse Robin, had one of dem littleseals hangin’ to his watch-fob,” closed the door behindhim.

With the departure of the darky a waiting calmfell upon the room. Joe resumed his task at his desk,and Sam continued to flatten out the several parts ofhis body until each inch of his lower length had founda resting-place.

“Everybody out, or Moses would have come upagain,” remarked Joe, glancing at the clock, “beengone five minutes now.”

“Holding a council of war. Mother in tears, and thegirl in a rage. At the present moment the lightning-rodman is looking for a club. My advice to you isto get out of that velvet jacket, or it will be mussedup before he gets through with you.”

Five minutes more. No Moses. No irate protectorof the family. No news of any kind.

Nor was any further information available the followingmorning when Moses brought in their breakfast.“Didn’t nobody open de do’ but de hired girl,so I left it,” was his report. Moses’ mental distinctionbetween a hired girl and a servant was convincinglyapparent in the tones of his voice.

Nor was there any word sent to the office, nor hadany message reached their room when Joe arrivedhome to dress for dinner. The nearest approach toa possible communication had been when he caughtsight of Miss Sue’s back as she tripped out of the frontdoor, just before he reached the sidewalk. But she[33]was gone before he could have overtaken her, had heso wished, the unanswered note having now set upan insurmountable barrier between them.

Positive information reached him on his return homethat night. He had occupied a front seat at Wallack’s,Mrs. Southgate having given a débutante achance to be seen. Sam had kept awake and was waitingfor him.

“Well, it’s come, Joe,” he shouted, before the absenteehad closed the door behind him.

“What’s come?”

“The letter. She slipped it under the door afteryou left, and I came mighty near stepping on it whenI came in half an hour ago. Looks like a railroadtime-table, or a set of specifications.”

“The devil you did! What does she say? Is shecoming?”

“How do I know? Haven’t opened it. It’s addressedto you.”

Joe caught up the letter, dropped into a chair andtore apart the envelope. Inside was the missive anda printed enclosure.

Sam edged nearer, awaiting the verdict, his eyesreading Joe’s face as he scanned the lines.

Joe read on to the end, and passed the open sheetto Atwater without a word. It bore the image andsuperscription of “The United Family Laundry Association,Limited,” and was signed by the vice-presidentand treasurer.

“Read it, Sam, and go out in the hall and swear.[34]G-r-i-m-e-s-b-y, eh? Don’t even know how to spellmy name. Here, hand it back, and listen.

“Her daughter!” exploded Joe. “What does thatmean?”

Sam staggered to the sofa, and fell along its lengthin a paroxysm of laughter.

“Magnificent! Superb! He’ll show up, will he?Of course he’ll show up—all of him. Oh, what a lark!”

Joe made a pianissimo beat with his outstretchedhand in the hope of reducing Sam’s volume of protest,and scanned the letter once again.

“Just my luck!” he muttered. “Always some vulgarianof a father or crank mother gets in the way.No, we won’t have any party. I’m going to call itoff. Tell him I’ve just got a telegram. Sent for fromout of town. Professional business—that sort of thing.A man who will write a letter like that in answer toone addressed to his wife would be an intolerable nuisance.Couldn’t get rid of him with a dynamite bomb.I’ll fix him, and I’ll do it now,” and he squared himselfat his desk.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Joe,” returned Sam.

[35]“Now, the girls are not coming, we’ll have the party,nuisance or no nuisance. He’ll be more fun than ahalf-starved Harlem goat munching a tin sign. We’llcut out Matty Higgins and the other girls, and make ita stag. Just you leave it to me. I’ll take care ofhim, and if there’s anything in him, I’ll get it out.If he can’t sing, he’ll dance. If he won’t do either, I’llstand him on his head.”

That Sam should be willing, even enthusiastic, overthe admission of any one member of the Ford familywas a point gained in Joe’s mind. Whether, when hehad once gained admission to the family circle, he couldstand the surroundings, he would decide upon later.Mrs. Ford was evidently a woman of breeding and refinement;her daughter was—well, there was no usediscussing that with Sam. Sam never went out of hisway to be polite to any woman, young or old. Asto Ford, Senior, there must be a good side to him orhe could not be where he was. There was no questionthat he was unaccustomed to the usages of goodsociety; his note showed that. So were a lot of othermen he knew who were engrossed in their business.

Yes, he would have the party, and the next weekhe would give a tea, whether Sam was willing or not,and Miss Ford would pour it, or he would miss hisguess. To keep on living on the top floor of the samehouse, day after day, and that girl two flights below,and not be able to do more than wish her “good morning”when he met her on the stairs—perhaps not eventhat—was, to a man of his parts, unthinkable. Yes,[36]the party was the thing, and it would be a stag. Andhe would send for the fellows the very next day, whichwas done as soon as he reached his office, both by noteand messenger. “Just to whoop things up in the newquarters,” ran the notes, and, “Well, then, all right,we’ll expect you around nine,” rounded up the verbalinvitations. Lambing was to arrive early so that heand Sam could arrange one of their latest duets, Atwaterto rattle the keys, and Lambing to scrape thecatgut. Talcott, the portrait-painter, was also tocome. Babson, a brother architect, who had won thegold medal at the League, Sampson, Billings, and a lotmore. For refreshments there would be a chafing-dishand unlimited beer in bottles, which Moses was toserve, and a bowl of tobacco, not to mention a variedassortment of pipes, some of clay, with a sprinklingof corn-cobs, the whole to be gladdened by such sandwichesas Matilda could improvise from sundry loavesof baker’s bread and boiled ham. These last Joe attendedto himself; the musical and literary featuresof the evening being left in the hands of his partner.In this was included the standing on his head theprincipal guest of the evening, provided that worthygentleman was incapable of furnishing any other formof diversion.

The stranger in passing Enoch Crane on the streetwould have been likely to have turned and said:“There goes a crusty old gentleman”—he would nothave omitted the word “gentleman,” for that he lookedand was.

Fifty years had moulded his appearance to a nicetyin accordance with his mode of life, which was, for themost part (when he was not up-town at his club, ordown-town at his office) passed in solitary confinementin the top-floor suite.

He was a man of medium height, who carried hisstubborn head low bent from his shoulders, like mostthinkers, though the rapid upward glance out of hiskeen brown eyes was quick and piercing—even commandingat times.

What remained of his gray hairs were neatly partedon the side and as carefully smoothed over a craniumsurmounting a broad, intelligent forehead, the bushyeyebrows denoting a man of shrewd perception,shadowing a grave face framed in a pair of croppedside-whiskers. These met with a mustache nearlywhite, and as stiff as a tooth-brush, that bristled overa mouth whose corners curved downward in repose;when he opened his lips, they revealed his even lowerteeth, giving him the tenacious expression of a bulldog.[38]When he smiled, which was rarely, two seams borderingthe chop side-whiskers deepened in the effort.When he laughed, there radiated upon these still rareroccasions, tinier wrinkles from the corners of his eyes.Sham and affectation he despised. Noise made himgrit his teeth, and any undue outburst of geniality heregarded in the light of a personal insult. No onewould have dared slap Enoch Crane on the back.

Years ago he had looked in the glass, decided hewas ugly and, with the wisdom of a philosopher,thought no more about it. He was punctilious, nevertheless,about his dress—his favorite trousers being ofwhite-and-black check shepherd’s plaid, and his coatand waistcoat of dark-gray homespun. On specialoccasions these were replaced by decent black broadcloth,which, like the rest of his clothes, were kept conscientiouslybrushed by Moses and hung in the bigcloset off his bedroom—the one next to a small wash-closet,provided with a cracked basin, and two worn,nickeled faucets, out of which the water dribbled,droned, and grumbled, as if angry at being summonedas far up as the top floor.

As for the generous square living-room itself adjoining,its four windows commanding a view of both theback yard and Waverly Place, there remained barelyan inch of wall space from floor to ceiling that did nothold a memory; old prints and older pictures in thetarnished gilt frames he had picked them up in, allthese hung over three packed shelves of books. Therewas, too, a blackened fireplace, a mahogany desk, its[39]cubby-holes choked with papers and old pipes, andopposite, a high cabinet of rosewood, its glass doorscurtained in faded green silk, screening some excellentport, and the sermons of Spurgeon, two volumes ofwhich lay among the heap of papers piled on the roundcentre-table directly back of Enoch’s favorite armchair.

Though the evening was mild, it did not preventEnoch from having a cheery fire in his grate, or fromsettling himself before it, sunk in the generous leatherarms of his favorite chair. He had, too, for companya short-stemmed, brier pipe purring contentedly betweenhis teeth, and an early edition of “Vanity Fair”open upon his knees.

Mr. Enoch Crane’s door was closed as tight as hislips when the agent of The United Family LaundryAssociation rapped. Ebner Ford’s rap indicated thathe was used to knocking at doors where he was notneeded. His career as an agent had made him pastmaster in intrusion and provided him with a gift ofspeech, both the result of long experience.

At Ford’s summons, Enoch started irritably, laidhis pipe beside Mr. Thackeray’s masterpiece, rose witha scowl, shot an annoyed glance at his door, and stridingover to it with a grunt, flung it open wide to theintruder with a curt nod of recognition.

“Couldn’t help paying my respects,” grinned Ford;“must be neighborly, you know,” and with that he advancedwith a smile of assurance across the threshold.

Enoch had not opened his lips.

[40]“Neighborly,” shouted Ford, fearing he was deaf.

“Yes,” said Enoch. “I recognize you perfectly—Mr.—Mr.—er——”

“Ford,” returned the other, the grin broadening,his outstretched hand seeking Enoch’s, the other fumblingin the pocket of his waistcoat for his businesscard. Both the card and the hand Enoch accepted insilence.

“Looks comfy and homelike enough here,” blurtedout Ford, glancing around him. “I tell my wife,there’s nothin’ like——”

“Be seated,” intervened Enoch, waving his visitorto the armchair. “Well, Mr.—er—Ford, what can Ido for you?” He snapped out an old gold watch attachedto a chain of braided human hair, and stoodregarding his visitor with an expression of haste andannoyance. “Forgive me if I am brief,” he addedbriskly, as Ford flung himself into the proffered chair,“but I was about to go out when you knocked—aclub meeting which I must attend—an important meeting,sir.”

“Well, now, that’s too bad. Must go, eh? ThinksI, as I told my wife, you’d be in to-night, and we couldhave a good old talk together—seeing we was neighbors.Got to go, have you?” and Ford sank deeperinto the armchair, stretching out his long legs beforethe fire. “Well, that’s right, never pays to be late—remindsme of that story about the feller who wasrunnin’ to catch the train for Chicago and met a red-headedgirl and a white horse on the way—old man[41]Degraw used to tell this up in Syracuse—I can hear himnow.” Here he emitted a thin, reminiscent laugh—cutshort by Enoch.

“You do not seem to comprehend, sir, that I ampressed for time,” interrupted Enoch testily, againsnapping out his watch. This time he held its dialout for Ebner Ford’s inspection. “Eighteen minutesof nine now, Mr. Ford—our meeting is at nine.”

“Ain’t you a little fast?” remarked the latter, pullingout his own. “Funny how I got that watch,”Ford rattled on with an insistence that keyed Enoch’snerves to the quick.

Enoch had been bothered with many of the inmatesin his time, but Ford’s effrontery was new to him.The very ease with which he had settled himself in theproffered chair set the muscles of the bulldog jawtwitching. Forced as he had been to open his doorto him, nothing but his innate sense of breeding had,he felt, allowed the man to cross his threshold. Whathe regretted most now was that he had asked him tobe seated. Ford’s hail-fellow-well-met manner sentthe hot blood in him tingling. Twice during the accountof the remarkable history of the watch Enochhad tried to check him and failed; he might as wellhave tried to halt the street vender of a patent medicine,selling with both hands to a gullible crowd. Onlywhen his visitor had changed the subject to a rapid-fireeulogy over the hospitality of the young men onthe floor beneath, touching at length upon the partyof the night before—the wisdom of Mrs. Ford—the[42]price of rent in other towns—and the care he hadalways observed in giving his daughter the best educationmoney could buy, including French and pianolessons, did Enoch manage to dam the torrent of hisvolubility with:

“Mr. Ford, you must consider our interview at anend, sir—I am late and must be going,” and with thathe strode over to the bedroom closet for his coat andhat.

Ebner Ford slowly rose to his feet.

“Want any help?” he ventured as he watched Enochdig a closed fist into the sleeve of his night-coat.

“Thank you,” said Enoch curtly, wrenching himselfinto the rest of the ulster, “I’m not so old but thatI can dress myself.”

“What I’d like to say,” continued Ford, as Enochsearched the corners of the closet for his night-stick,found it, and started to turn down the Argand burneron the centre-table, “is—that it makes an almightybig difference what kind of a house you’re in—don’tit?—as I told Mrs. Ford, we couldn’t have struck abetter place—folks in it make a difference, too. Don’tknow when I’ve enjoyed myself more’n I did last night.Quite a party, Mr. Crane—you missed it. Big-heartedfellers, both of ’em. We certainly had a royal time.Sorry you couldn’t make it, friend—you were invited,of course——”

In reply, the Argand burner sank to a dull blueflame. Enoch led the way in the semidarkness tohis door.

[43]“Some day when you’ve got more time,” continuedFord, “I’d like to show you just about the slickestlaundry plant this side of Broadway. What we donewas to get the best machinery money can buy, andwe’re not sorry. Take our flat work alone. Fourteensteam-mangles, and seven wringers—figure that outand you’ll see how much business we do a month.Stocks above par, Mr. Crane; no man could ask abetter investment for his money. Now, there’s a hundredshares preferred that——”

“After you, sir,” said Enoch, as he slammed his doorshut, turned the key in the lock, and hurried his unwelcomevisitor before him down the creaky, carpetedstairs.

“At seven per cent,” rattled on Ford over his shoulderas he descended and halted at the Grimsby-Atwaterdoor. “Think it over, neighbor.”

“I bid you good night, sir,” said Enoch, quickeninghis pace past him.

“Damn his impertinence!” he muttered to himselfas he reached the front door, opened it, closed it witha click, and rushed for a horse-car en route to his club.

Since the coming of the Fords the house in WaverlyPlace had awakened. Sue’s presence had had its effectfrom cellar to roof. No sunbeam that ever smiledinto a dungeon could have been more welcome. Thegloomy old stairs zigzagging up to the top floor seemedmore cheerful, and the narrow hallways it led to lessdingy. Even Aunt Matilda’s cat—a scared and fat-headedold mouser who had refused half through Januaryto leave its warm refuge under her stove in thebasem*nt—could now be seen nibbling and cleaning herpaws as far up as the top carpeted step on Enoch’s floor.

There radiates from the personality of a pure younggirl like Sue something strangely akin to sunshine,something indefinable, luminous, and warm, which noone yet has been quite able to describe—any more thanone can define “charm”—that which touches the heart,neither can we place our finger upon that thin, waveringborder line between friendship and love—a pressure ofthe hand, a glance of the eyes, a smile, a sudden gazeof sympathy and understanding, and we stumble headlongacross the frontier into the land of adoration.To fall in love! What nonsense! We rise, with lovetingling through our veins—pounding at our temples,its precious treasure our own, safe forever, we believe,in our beating hearts.

[45]Ah! yes indeed, it has ever been so, and it alwayswill be. Why is it that Cupid, the god of love, hasalways been depicted as a frail little cherub, when thetruth is he is a giant, dominating, relentless, strong asdeath—who swings the whole world at his beck andcall. How much misery, doubt, and happiness he hasconceived and fashioned to suit him since the worldbegan (bless his little heart!) it is quite impossible tocompute. Eve and Adam are unfortunately dead, orwe should have it at first-hand from both of them.

Sue was not only beautiful—she was fresh, andyoung, and cheery, with a frank gleam in her clearblue eyes, a complexion like a rose, the sheen of goldin her fair hair—a lithe grace to her slim, active body—pearlyteeth, and a kind word for every one who deservedit.

No wonder that Joe Grimsby impulsively lost hishead and his heart to Sue at first sight of her. Morethan a week had elapsed, and although he had hadfrom that young lady little more encouragement thanhis buoyant imagination supplied, he was far fromdisheartened. What really had occurred, was that hehad met his ideal face to face on the stairs the dayafter the party, and she had thanked him for invitingher, rather coldly, Joe thought. Indeed it had beenquite a formal little meeting after all. He had expressedhis sorrow at her not being able to come, andshe had expressed hers—quite as formally as a strangegirl at a tea might, and he being too innately well-breda gentleman to force matters, had accepted her[46]proffered little hand with more added regrets, andshaken it as punctiliously as he was wont to do thehands of his various hostesses in bidding them goodnight. And so she went up-stairs and he went down,not, however, without a beating heart over the interview,brief and unsatisfactory as it had been, and afirm resolution to call on her mother—which he didthe very next day, and received word from the Irishmaid of all work who opened the door, that “Mrs.Ford begged to be excused.” The truth was that thisSouthern lady did not care to know the young menin the house, and as for Sue, the oversudden invitationto meet the young architects of the third floor had leftmore of an impression of distrust than desire.

As for Joe, Sam Atwater’s better sense and advicehad only the effect it usually does in such painful cases,of fanning into a blaze Joe’s infatuation and spiritingon his stubborn determination to convince Sue Prestonof its sincerity. Alas! Joe had reached that stageamong young architects in love, of covering half themargins of his quarter-scale drawings with pictorialmemories of Sue—sketching with his HB lead pencilher clean-cut, refined profile, detailing with infinitepains the exact curve of her lovely mouth, expressingas best he could the tenderness in her eyes, and theprecise way in which she wore her hair, half hiding hersmall, pink ears—in fact, he got to dreaming hopelesslyover her as he drew, and forgot in the second draft ofthe Long Island woman’s cottage important membersof cornices, windows, and doors, laying in cross-sections[47]and elevations in a scandalous, sloppy way, untilAtwater finally had to call a halt over his shoulderwith: “For Heaven’s sake, old man, cut it out,” atwhich Joe grinned, and with good-natured embarrassmentpromised to really get down to work.

He had declared to Sam Atwater in his outburstof enthusiasm at the office that Sue could not sing.He was positive of this—“She did not look like a girlwho could sing”—whereas if Sue possessed one greatgift, it was her splendid soprano voice. Her voice washer very life, her whole ambition, a possession far morevaluable than the whole worthless lot of Ebner Ford’sbusiness ventures combined, and wisely enough Suerealized that, whatever might happen to the alwaysuncertain budget of the Ford family, at least with herconcert work and her teaching, she could make herown living. When her stepfather’s six-house venturehad failed, it was Sue who came to the rescue—withwhat she had earned during the two years previous,singing in the smaller towns of Connecticut, givinglessons wherever she could, mostly in Ebner Ford’shome town of Clapham, the very town in which hermother had married him ten years before to escapefrom impending poverty.

It may be seen, therefore, that the hard struggle thestepdaughter had gone through had left her with a farmore serious knowledge and view of life than eitherJoe or the rest of the inmates of No. 99 WaverlyPlace were in the least conscious of.

Sue thoroughly understood her stepfather; briefly,[48]she regretted his methods, and still wondered how hermother could have ever married him, poor as they were.Inwardly, too, she trembled over his wildcat schemes,none too overscrupulous at best, while his hail-fellow-well-metmanner, which he assumed upon anyoccasion when he saw a commission for himself hangingloose about the stranger, grated upon her. Indeedshe knew him thoroughly, just as he was, bombasticvarnish, vagaries, common self-assurance, and all.Behind closed doors in the intimacy of his home, beforeher mother and herself, Ebner Ford was a differentman. His respect for his stepdaughter’s wishes and betterjudgment was often one of ill-tempered resignation.

He dared not disagree with his wife—a short, thick-setlittle woman, several years his senior, addicted toside-combs, opinions of her own, and an extravagantway of boasting to others of her South Carolinian ancestry,and carefully avoiding any mention of herhusband’s from central Connecticut.

Now it happened that that dear little old spinster,Miss Ann Moulton, who lived with her invalid sisteron the second floor, was the first to really know Sue.

These two unmarried sisters had lived together sincethey were girls. They had a little property, just enoughto provide for the modest apartment they were livingin, and were anywhere from fifty to sixty years old.You could not possibly tell their exact age by lookingat them, and, of course, they would not have told youhad you asked them. They were both small, verymuch alike—little, gray, dried-up women. Both veryrefined, very gentle in their manners, gentle of voice,[49]too. Miss Ann was the stronger of the two. She wasthe manager. Upon her frail, little person fell all theresponsibility, their only relative being a brother wholived West, and who managed what little propertythey had. She had no one else to look after her affairs,and he was a lazy brother at that.

As for Miss Jane, the sister, she had always been aninvalid. Her frail hands were strangely transparentwhen held to the light, her voice weak, her step uncertain,and her hair, like Miss Ann’s, nearly silver-white.On the street you could hardly tell the twosisters apart. They were so much alike, and dressedalike, which they had always done since they werechildren, and yet they were not twins. There was adifference, however; Miss Jane’s cheeks were sunken,and there were dark circles under her patient, grayeyes. She never let any one know she was an invalid;neither did Miss Ann mention it. It had all happenedso many years ago, but it was as clear in JaneMoulton’s memory as if it had happened yesterday:Her gasping for breath, her failing strength as shefought on in the grip of an ebb-tide. His sharp cryto her to keep her head, then his strong arm about her—blackness—thenthe beach, and he whom she loved,who had given his life for hers, lying drowned upon it.

A small daguerreotype of him hung above her bed;one taken when he was eighteen, the year they wereengaged.

The Misses Moulton’s apartment was furnished ina various and curious collection of quaint little round[50]tables with spindle legs, a Franklin stove burningwood, some old family portraits in oval gilt frames,and high-post bedsteads for each of the bedrooms, thesunny one being Miss Jane’s. There were big easychairs covered with chintz in the sitting-room, and anassortment of different kinds of china, suggesting relicsof several family collections; none of them matched—threeteacups and saucers of one set, and four of another,some in gold and lustre. They had but oneservant—Mary—an American, who came from upNew York State, a motherly woman of fifty, fat, serious,and good-natured.

Sue had been giving a singing lesson as far up-townas East 46th Street, to the daughter of a wealthyalderman, who owned a brownstone, high-stoopedhouse, grafted intact from the last political election.This house was a block above the railroad bridge onLexington Avenue, and there being no cars runningto-day, owing to a strike on the Third Avenue horse-carline, Sue had been obliged this wretched January day,with the streets swimming in slush under a fine, drizzlingrain, to reach her destination on foot. After herlesson she had crossed the bridge spanning the GrandCentral tracks, and found her way back to WaverlyPlace by way of Madison Avenue.

Stairs have a habit of forcing acquaintanceships,and making friends, a way of introducing strangers,who otherwise would not dare speak to each other,of bringing neighbors face to face, and providing them[51]with a firm foothold until they knew each other better.Where Joe Grimsby had failed on the stairs, Miss AnnMoulton succeeded. Miss Ann had put on her bonnetto do an errand, closed the door of her sitting-room,and stood in the dim light of the landing, buttoning anew pair of lisle-thread gloves she had purchased theday before at the big Stewart store, just as Sue, wetand tired from her lesson up-town, came up the stairs,her cloak and hat glistening with rain. As she nearedthe Moultons’ landing, she caught sight of the littleold maid nervously struggling over the top button ofher left-hand glove.

“Won’t you let me help you?” ventured Sue, asshe reached the landing. “New gloves are so difficultto button.”

“Oh, please—I pray you—don’t bother,” returnedMiss Ann, flushing with embarrassment, but Sue insisted,briskly laid the thin wrist in the palm of herhand, quickly extracted a hairpin from where it hadnestled in her fair hair, and so deftly buttoned the newgray glove, that before Miss Ann could further protestthe button was snug and safe in its buttonhole.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you so much,” stammeredthe little spinster. Then both glanced into each other’seyes, and both smiled. “I’m so sorry to have troubledyou,” added Miss Ann sweetly.

There was a friendly gleam in her aged gray eyesnow that won Sue’s heart before the little womanbefore her, standing with her back to her sitting-roomdoor, had uttered another word.

[52]Sue laid her wet umbrella against the banisters nextto Miss Ann’s dry one, and brushed the wet from herskirt.

“You are Miss Moulton, aren’t you?” she askedwith a cheery smile.

“Yes, my child. How did you know? Except forMr. Crane we know no one here at present. My sisterand I live here; we have lived here nearly as long asMr. Crane.”

“I know,” nodded Sue. “Moses told me.” Therewas something so gentle, frank, and sincere, especiallyin the word “child,” that Sue already felt theywere friends. The frail, gloved hand lingered in Sue’s.“You don’t know how glad I am to meet you, MissMoulton,” said she, pressing it firmly.

“And I to meet you, my dear. It’s such a joy tohave a young girl come into this dreadful gloomyplace,” sighed Miss Ann.

“It is gloomy to-day, isn’t it?” Sue declared. “Ifyou don’t really have to go out I wouldn’t, Miss Moulton.It’s simply dreadful out. The streets are simplyswimming in slush, and it’s just that kind of a drizzlingrain that soaks you through and through.” Sue hesitated.“Do you really have to go out?” she askedseriously. “Please tell me, is there anything I can do?Do let me go if there is. Must you go?—and withoutyour rubbers, too! I feel like scolding you,” she laughed.

“But, but I was only going to the druggist’s,” explainedMiss Ann. “My sister has been quite wretchedand in bed since yesterday with a cold.”

[53]“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Sue. “I hope it isn’tserious.”

“Of course it’s nothing,” returned Miss Ann; “butyou see, dear, she is not very strong, and I’m always alittle anxious about her.”

“Now you must let me go,” pleaded Sue. “You’llbe drenched, Miss Moulton. I’m drenched already,so it doesn’t matter, I’m used to getting wet.”

In reply Miss Ann patted the girl’s shoulder affectionately.“I should not think of letting you go, mychild. I’ll send Moses instead and, unless your dearmother is waiting for you, won’t you come in and seeme? Mary will take care of your wet things. Thenwe can have some tea and a good chat before thewood fire.”

“Oh, how nice! Of course I’ll come. A wood fire!”Sue exclaimed, as Miss Ann opened the doorof the cosey old-fashioned sitting-room. “It’s along time since I’ve seen a real wood-fire—not sincewe lived in Clapham. Don’t you love them?”

“Yes, my child; all my life I have loved them.They are like old friends,” she added, as she led theyoung girl across her threshold, whereupon she sentMary down for Moses, with instructions and a prescription,laid aside Sue’s wet things in the kitchen todry, poked into a blaze the dying embers of the sitting-roomfire, put on two fresh logs, ensconced Sue in a bigarmchair full of eider-down cushions, insisted on relievingher of her shoes and rubbers, tucked her trimstockinged feet upon a low settle before a glorious[54]hickory blaze, and called to her sister Jane throughthe half-closed door of her bedroom, announcing theirvisitor—all as naturally as if Sue had been visitingthem for years.

There was a restful, cosey atmosphere about theMisses Moulton’s apartment that appealed keenly tothe young girl before the cheery fire. She could nothelp realizing the slovenly air and bad taste of theirown belongings; that sordid collection of trash thathad always accompanied them in their various movings.Some of these modern horrors had been acquiredon the instalment plan, and stood out incongruouslyamong their meagre store of family mahogany. Imitationoak and cherry made no difference to EbnerFord as long as the drawers worked and there wasroom enough for his scanty wardrobe. As for hermother, despite her Southern training, she had notaste whatever. A Nile-green bow tied on a nickel-platedpicture easel went far from shocking her senseof the artistic. Mrs. Ford had purchased two of them,in fact, one serving to uphold a crayon portrait ofEbner, showing the great promoter wearing his whitetie, and laboring under an expression calculated toconvey to the mind of the spectator absolute honestyand business acumen; and the other sustaining a giltwicker basket, filled with dyed pampas grass, andfurther embellished with silvered sea-shells spelling“Welcome.”

And so Sue and the little spinster chatted on, while[55]the fragrant tea brewed in the daintiest of white porcelainteapots, Miss Jane putting here and there a wordin the conversation through the door ajar of her bedroom,an effort which ended in a fit of coughing, agentle protest from her sister, silence, and a nap.

Miss Ann rose from the tea-table, softly closed thedoor of Miss Jane’s bedroom, and resumed:

“So you see, dear, my sister Jane and I have livedhere so long that we have become attached to the oldhouse, gloomy as it is. I don’t think I should havethe courage to move again among strangers—when Ithink of all the people we have seen settled here,”smiled Miss Ann reminiscently, while she paused topour a second cup of tea for Sue.

“Oh! please go on,” pleaded Sue eagerly, as she recoveredher boots, now warm and dry. “Do tell meall about them,” she added as she laced them. “Don’tyou love to study people? They are all so different,you know. You were speaking of Mr. Crane and histop floor when I interrupted you. Do tell me moreof the history of the house; it’s simply fascinating.”

“Well, let me see. Then, there was old Mr. Peapod.”

“Peapod!” laughed Sue. “Delicious!”

“Simon Peapod. Such an eccentric, withered-up oldman, who used to stutter with embarrassment, I remember,every time we met him on the stairs. Somebodyin the house, Mr. Crane says, once invited him(Shy Simon we used to call him) to dinner, and hestole down-stairs, sneaked around a corner to a lamp-post[56] box, and mailed a regret,” chuckled Miss Ann,“although he lived on the floor above them—wherethe young men are now.”

“And so they succeeded Mr.—oh, delicious name!—Mr.Peapod?”

“No, my dear, a Miss Green succeeded Mr. Peapod.”

“I knew a Miss Anna Green, from New York, asculptress. She used to come to Clapham to visit anaunt—a tall girl with dark hair. I wonder if it couldhave been she,” Sue ventured.

“No, my child. The Miss Green I speak of was anactress—dear, it isn’t a very happy history—she’s dead,poor girl.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Sue. “And did she die here, poorthing?”

“She died in Bellevue Hospital,” said Miss Annvery quietly, and for a moment the little woman ceasedspeaking. She did not refer to what she herself hadmeant to the poor girl in question; how time and timeagain she had stood by this poor inebriate; how shewould go out at night and hunt her up in the cafésand restaurants and take her home and put her tobed; how at last she became hopeless and desperatelyill, with no one to appeal to save Miss Ann, and thenher death in Bellevue, and the funeral which MissAnn arranged and paid for.

“Tell me—how long have the architects—Mr. Atwaterand Mr. Grimsby, I mean—been here?” askedSue, breaking the silence.

[57]“Well, my dear—let me see—all of six months, Ishould say.”

“You won’t think it strange in my asking, will you,Miss Moulton?—but, you see, we had hardly gottensettled before they asked mother and me and Mr. Fordto a musicale in their rooms. My stepfather went,but—well, mother and I declined. It seemed so forcedand sudden. Can’t you understand, Miss Moulton?I just couldn’t.”

“I dare say they meant no harm,” declared MissAnn. Then, after a brief reflective pause: “Of course,dear, as you say, it was a little sudden. When I wasyour age, my child, the young men were different thanthey are nowadays—as for these young fellows, theyboth seem to be gentlemen and of good family. Atleast what little I have seen of them leads me to believeso. Mr. Grimsby is always so exceedingly polite.”

“Oh! it’s easy to be polite,” returned Sue hastily.“It isn’t that, Miss Moulton. I—I don’t believe Ican quite explain it to you; I don’t believe you’d understandit if I did. I’m foolish, I suppose; and then it’sso different in New York—but I just couldn’t go theother night. The next day I met Mr. Grimsby on thestairs, I told him I was sorry—I guess he understood—butthe very next day he persisted in calling on mother.”

“And may I ask what was your dear mother’s impression,my dear?”

“Mother didn’t see him,” confessed Sue withoutturning her head, her blue eyes gazing at the fire.“Mother told Bridget to tell him she begged to be[58]excused,” she added, turning and flushing slightly.“Mother did not like the idea of his calling, anyway.It seemed so forced; we were hardly settled and perfectstrangers, you see.”

“And your stepfather—he went, you say, my dear?”

“Yes, Mr. Ford went,” replied the young girl nervously,twining and untwining her fingers.

“And did he enjoy himself?” asked the little spinsterquietly.

“Mr. Ford always enjoys himself where strangersare concerned,” returned Sue, her breath coming quick.Then with a toss of her pretty head: “My—my stepfatherand I do not always agree about—well, aboutlots of things, Miss Moulton.” The tears were fastwelling into Sue Preston’s eyes. Again she gave abrave little toss of her head, brushing the tears awaywith the back of her hand—her lips quivering.

Miss Ann rose quietly, went over to the young girl,put an arm tenderly about her neck, bent down andkissed her flushed cheek. Sue’s small hand crept intohers.

“There! there! you’re tired, child,” murmured thelittle old maid affectionately. “Your dear mother willbe wondering, I fear, what has become of you.”

“I’m—I’m going now,” Sue managed to say.“You’ve been so good and kind to me,” she addedtensely, her voice none too steady as she left the comfortableold chair and its eider-down cushions, andstood up straight, her hands clasped behind her, herblue eyes gazing gratefully into Miss Ann’s.

[59]“And you’ll come again, won’t you?” ventured thelittle spinster, “and bring your dear mother.”

She summoned Mary for Sue’s dry things from thekitchen, and when finally she opened the sitting-roomdoor leading out to the gloomy hallway, Sue lingeredfor an instant on its threshold. Then impulsively sheflung her arms about the little woman’s neck, kissedher withered cheek, and flew down the stairs.

The fact that Enoch Crane returned Ebner Ford’scall a week later, proved that whatever his opinionmight be of his neighbor, he felt in duty bound to returnhis visit. In matters of this kind Enoch was aspunctilious as an ambassador. This man, whomstrangers put down as crusty, cold, crabbed, and uncompanionable,could not be accused of being a snobor a boor. It may be further said that he decided tocall on Ford purely out of self-respect for himself—inwhat he conceived to be the well-bred thing to do.He who had been capable of opening his door wideto his unwelcome visitor, had waved him courteouslyto the comfort of his favorite chair, had listened to hischeap and overfamiliar talk, and had explained tohim as politely as he could that he had a pressing engagement,pursued, nevertheless, his code of mannersin accordance with what he considered to be his dutyas a gentleman under unfortunate obligations of thekind. Enoch might easily have barred his door toFord forever, and thus have banished the overneighborlypromoter and his worthless laundry stock fromhis mind. The memory of Ford’s visit had not altogetherceased to irritate him. There were moments,however, as he chanced to recall it, when his broadermind and higher intelligence saw its humorous side.

[61]One afternoon, as he was sitting smoking a lightHavana in the front room of the Manhattan Club—afavorite club of Enoch’s, since it was but a short walkfrom the top floor of Waverly Place—he broke out ina broad grin, and rubbed his stubborn chin.

“What cheek that fellow had!” he exclaimed halfaloud. “He’s insufferable.” Then he began to laughsoftly to himself, and as he laughed Ford’s calm effronteryseemed all the more amusing.

“I’ll go down and call on him to-morrow afternoon,”he muttered, and straightway made a note of it in asmall, well-thumbed leather memorandum-book, whichhe invariably carried in his vest pocket, next to hisreading-glasses. Had any one chanced to glance intothis little book, filled with interesting engagements,they would have read the complete diary of Enoch’sdaily life. The leaf he had turned to ran as follows:

Thursday: Dinner of the Society of Mechanical Research.
Saturday: Geographical Society.
Friday: Dinner to Commander Nelson.
Saturday: Meeting at Century.
Tuesday: Rear-Admiral Mason to lunch—Daly’s—Union Club.
Sunday: Joseph Jefferson’s birthday.

Monday afternoon was free, however, and it was herehe jotted down “Ford.”

At five o’clock Monday, Ebner Ford answeredEnoch’s knock at his door in his carpet slippers andshirt-sleeves, both of which he apologized for, recoveredan alpaca office coat from Mrs. Ford’s bedroom closet,[62]retained the slippers, declared he had just had a napafter a heavy business day, regretted his stepdaughterwas out, singing up-town at a tea, and assured hisvisitor that his better half would be dressed to receivehim in just a minute.

“Damn glad to see you,” said Ford, straighteninghis white tie with a nervous wrench in the folding-bedmirror. “Sort of missed you, Crane. Busy, Isuppose? Well, we’re all busy. The duller businessis, the busier I get. Common sense, ain’t it? ‘Earlybird gets the worm,’ as the feller said. Come to thinkof it, most of my big deals in life have come from gittin’up early—gittin’ after ’em—gittin’ after the other fellerbefore he gits after you.” Ford winked his left eyelidat Enoch. “When you’ve got as many irons in thefire as I have, Crane,” he declared, “it don’t do tolet ’em get cold. Set down, won’t you, and makeyourself at home.”

So far it had not occurred to him to offer his guesta seat.

“Take that there rocker,” he said with insistence;“best in the market. Sid Witherall made that rocker.You know the Witherall brothers, I suppose; biglumber people up-State; slapped right into the furniturebusiness as easy as slidin’ off a log. That’s oneof Sid’s patents. Spring balance, you see, keeps herrockin’. Sid made a heap of money out of that contrivance.Sells ’em like hot cakes. Just the thing forporch or shady nook, country or seaside, an ornamentto the home and a joy to old and young. Well, say—when[63]it comes to advertisin’, Sid’s about as cute asthey make ’em, regular persuader in print. Thoughif I do say it, Crane, he’ll have to hop along some tobeat our latest prospectus of the U. F. L. A., Limited.Cast your eye over that, neighbor!” he exclaimed,jerking a circular from a bundle on his roll-top desk,fresh from the printer’s. He handed it to Enoch witha triumphant air.

“Thank you,” said Enoch quietly, as he acceptedthe proffered rocker. He put on his reading-glasses,and began to peruse the latest circular of the UnitedFamily Laundry Association with grim resignation,Ford, with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat,waiting in silence for him to finish.

“Pretty neat, ain’t it?” he declared, watching Enochas he read on. “Gets at the customer first crack outof the box with a hearty handshake, inspires confidenceat low rates. That there line,” he explained, pointingwith a long finger to: “Don’t damn your shirts if youfind they don’t fit when they come back from the wash.Damn the laundry. We guarantee no profanity inour work.” “That line’s mine, Crane.”

“I might have guessed so,” said Enoch, glancingup at the promoter over the fine gold rims of his spectacles.“You seem to have been born, Mr. Ford, witha—er—what—shall I say?—an inborn talent—to—er—catchthe public.”

“Been so since I was a boy,” declared Ford withenthusiasm. “Always seemed to come natural to me.Why, Crane, I warn’t but just turned sixteen when I[64]was out for myself on the road makin’ sometimes ashigh as a hundred and fifty dollars a week sellin’ ‘TheElixir of Youth.’ Take it along up Lake Champlainand down the Vermont side during fair-time; why,them ’way-backs would crowd up and slap out a dollarfor a bottle quick as a trout takes a grasshopper.”

“Harmless, I hope?” remarked Enoch.

“Harmless!” Ford grinned and scratched his head.“Well, Crane, I wasn’t takin’ any chances. A littleEpsom salts and brook water, tinctured up with portwine never hurt ’em any, I guess. Then, of course,they had a dollar’s worth of excitement in waitin’ toget young. Used to throw in a mirror and a pocket-combwith every three-bottle sale.”

“A hundred and fifty dollars a week! Ah, you don’ttell me!” exclaimed Enoch slowly, squaring about inthe rocker and scrutinizing Ford sternly.

“That’s what it amounted to, my friend—cleanvelvet profit—from Monday to Saturday night. Notso bad for a youngster of sixteen, was it? I used todo a lot of talkin’ then. I had to.”

“Naturally you needed a good rest Sundays,” intervenedEnoch coldly.

“Oh! Sundays, of course I had to close down theshow. But I was pretty light-fingered on the cornetin those days, and when I struck a fresh town SundaysI used to lead the church choir. Nothing like a cornetto fill a meetin’-house. That always netted me a five-dollarnote. I tell daughter she must have somehowinherited her musical talent from me.”

[65]“Inherited?” remarked Enoch dryly.

“Well, of course, not exactly—inherited—I beingher stepfather; but anyway,” he laughed, “musicruns in the family. Take Mrs. Ford, for instance,never took a lesson in her life, but she certainly canplay the piano.”

“Now, Ebner,” protested a voice behind Enoch’schair.

Mrs. Ford, red from dressing, heralded by the faintrustle of a new lavender-silk dress, and a strong odorof violet perfume, swept effusively into the room.

“Well, Mr. Crane!” exclaimed that round littlewoman. (Mrs. Ford was really round all over. Therewere no angles.) “You don’t know how overjoyedwe are to see you; how simply delighted!”

“My wife, Crane,” Ford endeavored to explain.She put forth a plump hand to Enoch as he rose fromthe rocker. “Ebner has so often spoken of you,” sheburst out.

“Delighted to meet you, madam,” said Enoch.“I regret not having the double pleasure of seeing yourdaughter. Your husband tells me Miss Preston isout singing at a musicale.”

“At a tea, Mr. Crane,” declared Mrs. Ford, her smallmouth pinched in a set smile. “At the Van Cortlandt’s.I tell Sue she’s getting on famously; of courseyou know the Van Cortlandts—as if there was any onein New York who didn’t. Of course you saw abouttheir niece’s superb wedding in the papers the otherday. Magnificent affair, wasn’t it?”

[66]“Evidently it escaped me,” confessed Enoch.

“Why, Mr. Crane, the papers were full of it! As Itell Sue, when you do go into society, go into thebest.”

“You are right, madam,” returned Enoch. “Thereis nothing rarer than good society; the best is nonetoo good. It is more often shockingly bad.”

“But of course the Van Cortlandts, Mr. Crane.Their wealth and position——”

Enoch did not reply.

“Sue says their house on Fifth Avenue is a palaceof luxury!” exclaimed her mother.

“Window-curtains alone cost forty thousand dollars,they claim,” put in Ford over Enoch’s shoulder.

“Well,” sighed the little woman, “when you havemillions—do be seated, won’t you? I’ve disturbedyou, I fear. Don’t fib—I have, haven’t I?—just asyou were having a good old chat with Ebner. Ah, youmen, when you get together! Of course you cantell I’m a Southerner, can’t you, Mr. Crane? Theysay we old families from North Carolina never quitelose our accent. Sue was speaking about it at theVan Cortlandts only the other day.”

“Worth about three millions, ain’t he?” interruptedFord.

“Who—Sam Van Cortlandt?” inquired Enoch, turningsharply to him as Mrs. Ford subsided on the sofa,and began to smooth out the wrinkles in her new lavender-silkdress with an air of a duch*ess trying to decidewhether or not she should give it to the poor.

[67]“Wasn’t it him that made that big corner in cottonabout ten years ago?” asked the promoter.

“Yes,” said Enoch. “That was Sam Van Cortlandt.”

“Biggest thing ever done, wa’n’t it?”

“Yes, Mr. Ford, in the way of unprincipled scoundrelismit was,” declared Enoch with some heat.“Piracy on the high seas of finance. Piracy, pure andsimple,” he declared, his stern voice rising savagely.

“Why, Mr. Crane, you surprise me!” exclaimed Mrs.Ford.

“Piracy, madam; there’s no other word for it.”

“Um!” exclaimed Ford. “You call a man a pirateand a scoundrel, because he’s successful—because he’sgot grit, and nerve, and brains enough to carry a dealthrough that made him, if I recollect it right, over amillion dollars in a single day?”

“I do,” snapped Enoch, “when that million meansthe financial ruin of hundreds of honest families.Sam Van Cortlandt ruined them by the wholesale.He ruined them from New Orleans to San Francisco,”he cried hotly. “Many of them have never recovered.”

Mrs. Ford raised her thin eyebrows to the speakerin silent astonishment.

“Six months later,” continued Enoch brusquely,squaring himself before the fireless grate, his handsclenched behind him, “Van Cortlandt again held hisgrip on the cotton market. Those who had managedto escape the first crash, went down under the second.[68]A few came out limping, but he got most of them in theend—more than one he drove to suicide. Then theythought of running him for governor. Instead, theSupreme Court ran him uncomfortably close to thepenitentiary for complicity in bribery relative to hismining territory in Montana. You have asked meabout Sam Van Cortlandt. Very well; I have toldyou.”

He shut his square jaws hard, and gazed for someseconds at the pattern in the faded carpet.

Mrs. Ford did not utter a syllable; she sat immovableon the sofa, redder under the shock of Enoch’stirade, though none too willing to believe it. TheVan Cortlandt’s millions and social position, theirniceness to her daughter, and the glamour of her beingwelcomed to their exclusive society serving only tooreadily as a balm to heal the gaping wound left byEnoch’s words.

Enoch had slashed deep; he had bared the truthabout Sam Van Cortlandt down to the bone.

The promoter looked up and cleared his throat.

“Ain’t you exaggerating a little, friend?” he venturedblandly.

“Exaggerating!” Enoch jerked up his square jaws,and protruded his under lip, a gesture peculiar to himwhen he was roused. He focussed a kindling eye onhis questioner: “Do you suppose, sir, I do not knowwhat I am talking about? I am not given to makingstatements which have no foundation.”

“But all that which you speak of, Mr. Crane, is—is[69] happily in the past,” remarked Mrs. Ford sweetly,endeavoring to soften the awkward pause that followed.“As I tell Ebner, we should always be ready to forgiveothers their—their little mistakes. Oh! I believestrongly in forgiveness, Mr. Crane—’deed I do. I’mjust that way, Mr. Crane, and always have been, sinceI was a girl—my old North Carolinian blood, I suppose—”Her monotonous, high-keyed voice softenedas she spoke, and Enoch caught plainly now her Southernaccent, touched slightly with the lazy cadence ofthe negro, as she continued to dilate upon the beautyand virtues of Mrs. Van Cortlandt and the lavishgenerosity of her husband.

“What’s past is past,” was Ford’s profound remark,when she had finished. “He got his money, anyway.If he’d laid down and give up, somebody else ’ed trampledover him—done the trick, and got it—wouldn’tthey? I’ll bet you a thousand dollars even they wouldhave.” (Ford’s bets were never lower than a thousand.)“I guess when you sift the whole thing down,friend, you’ll find Sam Van Cortlandt was up againsta pretty big proposition. It was win out or die.”

Enoch lifted a face that quivered with sudden rage,but he did not open his lips.

“Hark!” said Mrs. Ford excitedly, as she caughtthe sound of a quick, familiar step on the stairs.“That’s Sue now,” and she rushed to open the door.She confided to Sue in an excited whisper as she trippedup to the landing that Mr. Crane was there; saw forherself that her daughter was trim and unruffled,[70]smoothed a wisp of her fair hair in place, and usheredher into the sitting-room, beaming with motherlypride.

There was a refreshing cheerfulness about theyoung girl as she entered that sent the hard lines outof Enoch’s face before her mother had presented her.As he looked up critically at the girl before him, hercharm and refinement were evident to him before shehad even opened her pretty lips or stretched forthher shapely gloved hand, which she did with so muchunassuming frankness that Enoch held it gratefully.Her cheeks were rosier than usual to-day. Evidentlyshe had thoroughly enjoyed herself at the tea. Therewas a certain radiance and sparkle in her blue eyes, asshe tossed her roll of music on the little Chippendaletable and hastily drew off her gloves, that captivatedhim. He had already banished Van Cortlandt’s failingsfrom his mind. It seemed incredible to him as hewatched her, that she was really part of the householdin which, for the last quarter of an hour, he had listenedto the ill-disguised social aspirations of her motherand the crude, mercenary view-point of her stepfather.The sight of Sue warmed his heart; again his keen eyeskindled, this time with satisfaction.

“Your mother tells me you have been singing at atea,” said Enoch in a kindly tone, as he released herhand. “I had no idea you were so gifted, my dear,”he continued pleasantly. “And you made a success?I’m sure of it.”

Sue flushed under the compliment.

[71]“I did my best, Mr. Crane,” she confessed simply,with a forced little laugh.

“The Van Cortlandts have asked her to sing againnext week,” declared her mother triumphantly.

“Well, say, girlie! that looks like success, don’t it?”broke in Ebner Ford. “Made a hit, did you?”

He slammed down the top of the roll-top desk, andlocked it. Sue glanced at him with a pained expression.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Ford, it will be a good many yearsbefore I can really make a success,” she said evenly.Then turning to Enoch seriously: “I’m only a beginner,you know, Mr. Crane.”

“Of course you are,” he returned, “but there is abeginning to all art, a hard beginning, and you arebeginning bravely, my dear. There is no short cutleading to art. It is a rough and stony road—mostlyup-hill and very little down-dale, and for the most ofits length hedged with thorns, masking so many pitfallsthat many give up, faint and disheartened bythe wayside, long before they reach the broad plateauof success at the top, and can stand there looking downover the valley of shadows and trials they have struggledup through safely.”

Sue caught her breath and looked at Enoch withher blue eyes wide open with eager interest. “Oh,how wonderful!” she cried. “Do go on.”

“I am not saying this to discourage you, my dear,”he continued, “but to encourage you. You are soyoung, so rich in years to come—years that we old[72]fellows no longer have. Do your best; sing on to thebest of your ability. In every fresh effort, in everynew note lies the real lesson. Think of how happyyou will be when at last you are sure of yourself, surein making others feel what you feel. In painting, insculpture, and in literature it is the same, and in noart is this rare ability of making others feel what youinterpret so rare as in music. Music without it issimply a display of pretty noises. Only the artistcan touch the heart.” The ugly little room was silentas he ceased speaking. Sue’s eyes were shining.

“And you were not frightened?” asked Enoch.

“Yes, Mr. Crane,” declared Sue frankly, “I was. Iwas just scared to death before all those people. NewYork is so critical, you know. They have a way oflooking at you when you begin as if they had made uptheir minds to be bored. Think of it, mother, theball-room was packed—the conservatory, too. Mrs.Van Cortlandt, you remember, said she had only askeda few intimate friends to drop in for a cup of tea.”

“Gorgeous affair, of course,” declared the mothersolemnly. “I expected it would be, honey. The VanCortlandts always entertain so extravagantly. Well—”she sighed deeply—“when one has millions, Mr. Crane!Tell me, did Miss Stimpson play your accompaniments?I worried so, fearing she would disappoint youat the last moment; you know, honey, how uncertainshe is.”

At which Sue declared that that near-sighted andnervous girl, Mazie Stimpson, had sent word at the[73]last moment that it was impossible for her to bethere, owing to a distressing attack of sore throat.

“How outrageous of her!” exclaimed the mother.“No wonder, darling, you were nervous.”

“Pity you didn’t go along with her, Emma,” venturedFord meekly; “been just the thing.”

“I certainly now wish I had,” declared Mrs. Fordfirmly. “Sue is so dependent on a good accompanist,Mr. Crane.”

“Ah, but I found one, mother,” announced Sue,with so much satisfaction that Enoch pricked up hisears. “Who do you think came to my rescue? A Mr.Lamont. He plays exquisitely. Wasn’t it kind ofhim?”

“Mr. Lamont!” exclaimed the mother. “Not Mr.Jack Lamont?” she asked, beaming with interest.

Sue nodded. “Yes, mother—Mr. Jack Lamont.He’s simply marvellous. He gives one so much confidencewhen he’s at the piano. He’s so wonderfullyclever in his phrasing, and never rushes you. I camehome with him, mother. He insisted on taking mehome in his brougham.” This time Enoch caught hisbreath. “I begged him to come up, but he had to goback for Mrs. Lamont. He told me such a lot of interestingthings—about his polo-ponies and his yacht,and his cottage at Newport. The Van Cortlandtsadore him.”

“How delightful!” exclaimed Mrs. Ford. “You, ofcourse, have heard of Mr. Lamont,” she said, turningto Enoch. “‘Handsome Jack Lamont,’ they call him.[74]He’s such a lion in society. They say no cotillon canbe a success without him. You see his name everywhere.”

Enoch’s jaw closed with a grip; when it relaxed heconfessed bluntly that he had not only heard aboutMr. Lamont, but had seen him. That he was, in fact,a member of one of his clubs, where Mr. Lamont wasnot only to be seen, but heard. He did not add“drunk or sober.” Neither did he dilate upon thevarious escapades of that gentleman, or the strainedrelations that had existed during several reckless conspicuousyears between Mrs. Lamont and her society-pamperedhusband, or that his polo-ponies were fedand cared for, his steam-yacht run, and the luxuriesof his Newport cottage paid for out of Mrs. Lamont’scheck-book—Jack Lamont’s favorite volume, thestubs of whose pages bore evidence of Mrs. Lamont’sresigned generosity in matters that did not concernthe public. Instead, Enoch held his tongue and startedto take his leave, having left in Sue Preston’s heart acertain friendly reverence. In Enoch, in his charm ofmanner, in his kindly outspoken sincerity, she sawthose qualities so sadly lacking in her stepfather.Enoch was real. She already felt a strange confidencein him. From the little she had heard about him astheir neighbor—a reputation of being brusque andill-natured—she saw only too plainly now that it wasa mask, back of which lay a personality, full of somuch charm and kindliness, of insight and understanding,of that great gentleness which is part of[75]every great gentleman, that she felt she might cometo him gladly for advice as a daughter might come toa father. Had he not already encouraged her? andso eloquently and graciously that she could havelistened to him for hours.

In the brief conversation that ensued as he nearedthe door to take his leave, Ebner Ford referred againto the hospitality of the young architects on the thirdfloor, a tactless speech which Mrs. Ford receivedfrigidly, and which forced Sue to confess guardedly:

“Strange—wasn’t it, mother?—Mr. Grimsby wasat the Van Cortlandts’.”

“At the Van Cortlandts’! I trust it was by invitation,”returned her mother stiffly, recovering fromher astonishment. “Nothing would surprise me inregard to that young man’s ability to force himselfanywhere. Imagine, Mr. Crane—we were hardly——”

“But, mother, I only saw him for an instant, justas Mr. Lamont and I were leaving,” explained Sue.“He told me he had known the Van Cortlandts foryears.”

“A most excellent young fellow,” declared Enochbriskly. “A most charming young fellow,” he insisted.“We are sadly in need of young men of hisgood taste and ability, when you consider, Mrs. Ford,how poverty-stricken in style our architecture has become.How many horrors in brownstone we areobliged to look at and live in. Atrocious jumbles,beastly attempts at Ionic and Corinthian—ugly, misshapen,and badly conceived—nightmares, madam, in[76]stone—scarcely a detail that does not offend the eyes.Roman, French, Renaissance, and Tudor stewed together,capped by mansard roofs, and decorated withvagaries from the fret-saw, the lathe, and the cold chiselin the hands of bumpkins—we are sadly in need of arevolution in all this. New York is growing; it will bea beautiful city some day, but it will take many yearsto make it so. Young men like Mr. Grimsby and hiscolleague, Mr. Atwater, I tell you are worth theirweight in gold.” And with that he took his leave,not, however, without the consciousness as he did soof a pair of blue eyes smiling into his own.

“Jack Lamont!” he muttered to himself, as heclimbed the stairs to his rooms to dress for dinner atthe club. “And he brought that child home in hisbrougham? Merciful Heaven!”

The ever-watchful eye of the liveried servant incharge of the door of the club, whose duty it was torecognize a member from a visitor and receive himaccordingly past that exclusive threshold, swung openthe door to Mr. Enoch Crane to-night with a bow anda respectful smile of greeting.

“Good evening, James,” said Enoch pleasantly.

“Good evening, Mr. Crane,” returned the domestic;“a bad night, sir.”

A page ran up to relieve Enoch of his dripping umbrella,but it was James himself who divested him ofhis overcoat and white muffler, relieved him as wellof his rain-bespattered silk hat, several seasons outof date (Enoch had a horror of new fashions), andhaving handed them to the page who hurried awaywith them to the coat-room, knelt down on the marblefloor, Enoch steadying himself with one hand on theman’s broad shoulder, while he unbuckled and tookoff his galoshes.

“I’ve got it for you here, sir,” said James, loweringhis voice and glancing furtively around him. Thenas a trio of members crossed the hall close to his heels,he added: “A note for you, Mr. Crane,” and he roseand handed Enoch an unsealed white envelope,stamped with the club’s name, and unaddressed.

[78]“Thank you, James,” said Enoch, and left him tohis vigil again at the door.

Enoch never forgot to speak to James when he entered.He also bid him a pleasant good night whenhe left. In fact, it may be said that out of all themembers of that stately and time-honored establishment,Enoch was the only one who invariably bidJames good evening and good night. Certainly itnever occurred to that faultlessly dressed member,Mr. Morton Beresford, to do so—Beresford in hissmart London clothes, who knew Europe and talkedit, a valuable man at dinner, and a great favorite withthe newly elected “money-having” men. Beresfordconsidered those who served him as objects of utility,like the great, soft rugs beneath his feet, or the bellfor a fresh co*cktail under his big, ringed hand. Neitherwas Jack Lamont given to these little touches of humankindness, which often mean more to those whoserve than tips. His conduct to inferiors was generallyoverbearing. When he was obliged to ring twice,Lamont swore. So did Seth Van Worden, grain-broker,when the slightest thing disturbed him. Van Wordenwas proud of his ancestry, having walked one day overa graveyard in Rotterdam and found a de Wordenburied there. From that moment Seth began to searchamong the branches of his family tree for some distinguishedfruit. Finally, at the tip end of a forgottenlimb, he discovered a certain Van Worden—an admiral.His joy was intense. It left no doubt in hismind that he himself was of straight descent from[79]that famous personage, and within twenty-four hoursthe Van Worden coat-of-arms was conspicuous in giltupon his note-paper, Mrs. Van Worden adding a fewflourishes to her taste which the blazon lacked, whileSeth became absorbed in making a collection of earlyDutch prints for his library—mostly sea-fights, inwhich the distinguished admiral could be gloriouslydetected in the smoke. Seth, however, Enoch knew,was pure New England, Van Worden meaning “fromWorden,” a Holland town. His ancestors being partof a shipload bound for Salem, all of them were knownwhen they landed as “Van Wordens,” and most ofthem being suspicious characters, were glad to losetheir identity in Van Worden.

As for that ponderous and florid member, Mr.Samuel Barker, who made his money in glue, and whosetruffles, wines, and cigars, were all especially selectedfor him, only the most capable of club servants couldattend to his wants speedily enough to save thatgentleman from growing purple with rage.

There were others, too, whose bald heads showedabove the window-sills of the big, luxurious roomlooking out upon Fifth Avenue, and whose habit itwas to fill its easy armchairs on fine afternoons andthemselves with idle opinions of the public who strolledby them. Enoch knew them all.

Some of the younger members referred to Enochas “old Crane,” and gave him a wide berth, as beingsour, opinioned, and crabbed. They did not forget,however, that he was a member of the advisory committee,[80]and as such they feared more than respectedhis authority, though they openly discussed the failingsof the house committee down to the question ofsoap and nail-files, and up to the size of the co*cktail-glasses,and the quality of the gin. Others assumedthat critical air of connoisseurs, who, having beenweaned on commonplace nourishment during theirearly struggles to make a living, were more difficultto please in good fortune than Lucullus in the matterof canvasback ducks, terrapin, and grilled mushrooms.Many of them having reached manhood oncider and elderberry wine, now considered themselvesexperts in dry champagne, sound red burgundy, andtheir proper temperatures. Some became both illustriousand conspicuous by inventing concoctions oftheir own, like little Archie Reynolds, whose long drinkknown as a “Reynolds pick-me-up,” survived twoseasons of popularity, and finally fell flat, to give placeto an invention of the barman, whose full name nobodycared about.

As for the elder men, there were many who wereglad to meet Enoch, men of distinction and brains,whom New York honored among her citizens in commerce,in law, and in science, in surgery, and in medicine—menwhom it was a liberal education to meet,and whose modesty was one of their many virtues.

There were half a dozen other clubs in which Enochmight have chosen to dine to-night, but he chose thisone—a club which he rarely went to for dinner.

He glanced into the big front room where the shades[81]were drawn back of the heavy velveteen curtains,noted the identity of the men there chatting in groupsor screened behind the evening papers, and havingassured himself that the man he was looking for wasnot among them, searched through the silent libraryand the card-rooms, and without further investigationmade his way to the dining-room, where he chose asmall table in the corner, commanding a view of thedoor. A score of dinners were already in progress.Among these he recognized several acquaintances,Morton Beresford and Sam Barker being among them.These he nodded to in passing, and took his seat atthe table he had chosen, where he ordered a most excellentlittle dinner, beginning with a dry Chablis andoysters, and continuing with a bottle of Château deBécheville, stuffed green peppers, and a salad of cold,firm, sliced tomatoes, which he insisted on dressinghimself. He was dressing this salad when the tall,slim figure of a middle-aged man silhouetted in thedoorway made him lay aside his spoon and salad-forkand watch the newcomer intently as he scanned thedining-room with his black eyes, caught sight of SethVan Worden dining alone, and went over and joinedhim.

There was no mistaking that tall, slim figure, theiron-gray hair shading to silver at the temples, theclean-cut, handsome profile, or that easy manner of aman of the world with which he crossed the dining-room.

Enoch saw Seth Van Worden rise briskly from his[82]chair and stretch out his hand to welcome him. Thenthe late comer took his seat at Van Worden’s tableand unfolded his napkin, with his back to Enoch, whor*sumed his salad dressing with the grim satisfactiona detective feels in having guessed where to find hisman, and found him.

It was Jack Lamont.

Enoch was in no hurry. He raised his eyes to awaiter and quietly asked the man to bring him a copyof the Sun, which he refolded by his plate and perusedleisurely over his salad, while Lamont, with his backto him, bent over his green-turtle soup, and a waiterpoured for him a stiff glass of Bourbon whiskey andsoda. Now and then Enoch caught fragments of theirconversation, Seth Van Worden’s big voice reachingclearly to his table. Lamont’s was pitched lower andaccompanied by a good deal of foreign gesture, whichhad become a habit with him since his various sojournsabroad, more often in Paris than elsewhere, thoughhe knew that gay little Paris—Brussels—as well ashis pocket, and Italy—at least that side of it whichappealed to Jack; Florence in the height of the season,and Venice, when a favorite little countess he knewwas there to welcome him in her palace so close tothe Grand Canal, that you could have thrown a kissto it in passing. Seth’s eyes brightened as he drankhis wine and devoured a slice of cold duck cooked tohis liking. Seth was again on his favorite topic ofconversation—the Dutch—and his descent from thatbrave, stolid little nation. He dilated as usual upon[83]their centuries of prowess on the high seas, their honesty,their ancient blood. Seth, being overblooded byhigh living, had his full share of it. Presently helaunched forth to Lamont, about the Hollanders’ loveof flowers, raking up from his shallow knowledge thethreadbare history of the black tulip. He informedLamont that he had picked up two rare volumes ontulip-growing, printed by hand in Rotterdam in 1600,and paid “a sound price for them, by gad,” for whichhe was not sorry, and had them now safe under aspecial glass case in his library.

“I knew a Dutch girl once,” intervened Lamont,and he bent over to confide her qualities to Seth outof hearing of the servants. “Titian hair and a skinlike ivory”—Enoch overhead him declare.

Thus the best part of an hour passed. Both werespeaking freely now, off their guard, the dining-roombeing nearly deserted.

“Weren’t—you—er—afraid he’d return?” askedSeth.

Lamont’s easy, well-modulated laugh filtered throughthe room.

“You don’t suppose I was fool enough not to havecalculated that,” he returned. “It was a good eighthours from Milan by train—and besides there was oldCesare, my gondolier, and the little femme de chambreAnnina to give me warning.”

“Good-looking?” ventured Seth.

“Who—Annina? As pretty a little Venetian asever paid you a smile for a compliment. I was playing[84]for high stakes, I’ll admit, old man. But then I knewwhat I was about—the countess was no fool.”

Again Lamont lapsed into sotto voce.

“Besides,” he declared (again within ear-shot ofEnoch), “they manage these little affairs better inItaly than in America. To love is an art there. Verywell, they have brought it to a finesse. I’d give tenyears of my life to be back there again—Ah! but wewere happy! Once I wired her all the way fromVerona.”

Again the conversation became inaudible to Enoch.

“And she came?” asked Seth, his voice rising,with a sneaking thought in his mind that he wouldlike to have known her.

“Of course she did; she even brought Annina.There are some women who never can travel withouta maid; the Countess Vezzitti was one. She arrivedin deep mourning without a jewel. Delicious, wasn’tit? As she whispered to me: ‘You see, amico mio, Ihave only brought one jewel—Annina.’ I believe thatgirl would have given her life for her mistress.”

He lowered the candle under its crimson shade betweenthem, and kindled a Russian cigarette over itsflame, lighting up his dark, handsome, devil-may-careface and a cabochon emerald ring the countess hadgiven him. Lamont might easily have been mistakenfor an Italian. His slim, straight figure, over six feetin height, moved with an easy Latin grace; a dark-skinned,handsome fellow, with the eyes of a Neapolitan,fine hands, a soft persuasion in his voice, and a[85]smile that revealed his perfect teeth, white as milk.At thirty he was all some women could have desired.He was now forty-three.

“Never run after a woman,” Lamont resumedquietly. “Take the advice of an old hand, VanWorden, let them run after you; grande dame orbourgeoise, they are all alike.”

Then they fell into a talk about the theatres, inwhich Seth gave vent to some heavy opinions about therevival of the “School for Scandal,” at Wallack’s, expatiatingupon the art and beauty of Miss AnnieRobe, and the consummate acting of John Gilbert asSir Peter Teazle, which he considered a capital performance.

In lighter vein, he talked over the good old theatredays of the past—Harrigan and Hart in their oldtheatre, the little Comique, playing the “MulliganGuards Ball,” the drop-curtain with a picture of theMary Powell at full speed up the Hudson, and a strongsmell of chloride of lime permeating the house fromgallery to pit. Thus he preambled reminiscently up theBroadway of his younger days. Where was Niblo’sGarden and the “Black Crook”? “Gone,” declaredSeth. “Evangeline” and “Babes in the Woods” atthe old 14th Street Theatre had vanished likewise,and the San Francisco Minstrels, packed on Saturdayafternoons with Wall Street brokers, roaring over thepersonal jokes, those never-to-be-forgotten end-men,Billy Birch and Charley Backus, had prepared forthem overnight.

[86]“All gone,” sighed Seth.

At which Lamont, who had been more familiar withthe 23d Street Koster & Bial’s, confided to Seth howmany corks he himself had added to the ceiling andwalls of its famous cork-room back of the scenes.

Enoch swallowed his salad slowly, his ears on thequi vive, his countenance both grim and attentive,and his whole mind on the man with his back to him,who, if he had seen him on entering, had totally forgottenhis existence during dinner. Thus anotherquarter of an hour slipped by, during which Enochordered a long cigar and some black coffee. It wasnot often he dined alone so lavishly, but whatever itcost him to-night, he was determined to sit Lamontout. In his search for him in the club before dinnerhe had made up his mind to speak to him privatelythe instant he sighted him. He had ended in listening.That which rankled deep in his heart did not concernVan Worden. He intended to see Lamont alone.If Lamont had a grain of decency in him, he felt hewould understand.

“If he doesn’t understand,” he muttered to himself,as he sipped his coffee, “I’ll make him. I’ll explainto him, that his method of winning the confidence ofa young girl scarcely out of her teens is nothing shortof damnable; that it’s got to stop.”

“Where?” asked Van Worden a moment later,rousing himself and stretching his long, angular bodyback in his chair, as the two reached their cigars andliqueurs.

[87]“At the Van Cortlandts’,” confided Lamont.

“The devil you say!”

“Telling you the truth, Seth. At one of herdeadly musicales. Dearest little piece of flesh andblood you ever laid eyes on—intelligent, too, frightenedout of her wits, but I soon attended to that—gother laughing, and played her accompaniments,Tosti’s ‘Good-by,’ and ‘I Awake from Dreams ofThee,’ and all that sort of stuff. Chuck full of sentimentality,with a pair of blue eyes that would keepyou awake.”

“How’d she sing?” put in Van Worden.

The shoulders of Lamont’s well-fitting dress coatlifted in a careless shrug.

“Er—not badly—rather surprised me, in fact, afterall the squawkers one hears during a winter; not sobadly by any means; a damned nice little voice, notbadly pitched either, for her age—what we call inParis a ‘petite voix.’ She’s only a kid, you know, inthe rosebud stage. Lives with her mother and stepfatherdown in one of those gloomy old houses inWaverly Place. Drove her home. She’s got theprettiest little feet in the world, old man. I tell youas we fellows get older, we begin to prick up our earsover something that is fresh and young; bright andcheery, with a skin like a rose. They’re the best, afterall. Why shouldn’t they be? Our hearts never growold, when we’re young we’re timid and difficult, andby the time we do get some worldly knowledge, thegray hairs begin to hit us, and we go tagging around[88]after a lot of passéd widows, and divorcées, who knowas much as we do.”

“And sometimes more,” grunted the grain-broker.

“And sometimes more,” reiterated Lamont, laughingoutright.

Enoch clenched down his napkin, and rose quivering.He drew a sharp breath, and strode over to thetable where the two men were seated. His eyes fastenedsavagely upon Lamont, his under lip shot forward,the muscles of his jaw working convulsively,in an effort to command his voice.

“Hello, Crane!” exclaimed Van Worden, who, facinghim, was the first to notice his approach. Hemight as well have addressed a bull about to charge,for he got no reply, and for an instant stared blanklyup at him, wondering what was the matter.

Lamont wheeled round in his chair.

“Hello, Crane!” said he. “You here?” Then noticingthe state he was in, rose to his feet.

“You’re not ill?” he ventured, with a rapid apprehensiveglance at Van Worden, who had risen, hismouth open in astonishment.

“Mr. Lamont,” said Enoch evenly, despite the ragethat shook him, “I have something to say to you.Something of the utmost importance, sir—that’s whyI’m here.”

Lamont instinctively started back, like a man onhis guard. Then he covered the speaker with his attractiveblack eyes half closed, a condescending smileplaying about his lips.

[89]“Well?” said he. “Out with it, Crane; what’s itall about?”

“You,” said Enoch grimly.

Lamont’s smile broadened under his trim, gray mustache.

“Must be devilish important for you to get into thestate you’re in,” he laughed, with a wink to Van Wordenthat suggested Enoch was drunk.

Enoch’s eyes blazed.

“I’ll have you know, sir,” he declared tensely,“that it was important enough to bring me here. I’llhave you know, sir, that I came here to-night with theexpress purpose of seeing you”—he turned to VanWorden—“over a matter which does not concernyou, Mr. Van Worden. I wish to express to you personallymy apology for disturbing you.”

“Oh! well—er—that’s all right,” stammered VanWorden. “Of course if you want to see Lamont inprivate——”

“In private!” cried Lamont, his black eyes flashing.“What the devil have you got to tell me in private,I’d like to know? I decline to be bullied by you, sir,into anything like a conversation in private. No conversationsin private for me with a man in your stateof mind, thank you, without the presence of a witness.Your age, Crane, prevents me from saying more.What right have you got to disturb us, I’d like toknow? Here we are, two gentlemen—dining alone,at the club, and you have the arrogance, the impudenceto disturb our dinner!—to make a scene! You[90]are extraordinary,” he cried with a forced laugh.“Conversation in private—eh? I’ll be damned if Iwill. What have you got to say, anyway?”

“This,” said Enoch, with slow determination, “thatI warn you now, Lamont, it will be to your advantageto grant me an interview, now, at once, over there inthe card-room, if you please.”

“Not without Seth,” retorted Lamont, reddeningsullenly under Enoch’s dogged insistence. “If that’sa go, say so. If not, you can go to—” The oathdid not escape him—something in the elder man’seyes arrested it.

“Will you grant me an interview, as I desire it, ornot?” Enoch demanded.

“Not without Seth,” repeated Lamont stubbornly.He wrenched back his chair and sat down, followedby Seth Van Worden, who slipped into his own.

Though he had scarcely put in a word in an affairwhich Enoch Crane had assured him he was no part of,but which was rapidly turning from bad to worse, it,nevertheless, made him frightened and so ill at easethat he wished he was anywhere else but where he was.Seth had a horror of scenes, and the scene before himwas verging dangerously near a club scandal. Therewas Mrs. Van Worden to think of. If his name wasmentioned with it he knew what to expect from hiswife, who was as proud of the name of Van Worden asshe was of her solitaire earrings, or her box at theopera, in which she dozed twice weekly during theseason.

[91]“Without Mr. Van Worden,” Enoch continued todemand sternly.

“I’ll be damned if I will!” snapped Lamont, reachingout for the decanter of Bourbon and shakily spillingout for himself a stiff drink.

“You are a member of this club, sir,” declaredEnoch. “I, as you may know, am a member of itsadvisory committee.” Lamont turned sharply.

“Well,” said he, with a careless shrug, “whatof it?”

“On December 14,” continued Enoch, “you wereover a month in arrears for house charges, amountingto one hundred and forty-two dollars. On December15 you paid the amount without being posted, a delayhaving been granted you.”

Again Lamont turned. This time he faced him,silent and anxious.

“On the evening of December 14,” continued Enoch,“you were one of four members—Mr. Blake, Mr.Archie Reynolds, Mr. Raymond Crawford, and yourself—ina game of poker that lasted half the night.”Enoch planted his strong hands on the table. “Lateplay in this club is forbidden,” he declared. “Playof that kind especially. That night you won closeto four hundred dollars.”

“Well, I won it, didn’t I?” snarled Lamont. “AndI paid my house charges, too, didn’t I? What moredo you want? See here, Crane——”

“You will wait, Lamont, until I have finished,”returned Enoch firmly. “The incident of the poker[92]game might have been closed, had you not left thesein your trail.” Lamont started, a peculiar expressionin his eyes. “These,” repeated Enoch. He reachedin his coat pocket and drew out the white envelopeJames had given him. It contained three cards—theace of clubs, the ace of hearts, and the ace of diamonds.“Look at them carefully, Lamont,” said he. “Youno doubt recognize the pin scratches in the corners.”

“You lie!” cried Lamont, springing to his feet, hisfists clenched, Van Worden staring at him in amazement.

“I might have expected that,” said Enoch, bendingcloser to him, and lowering his voice. “If you attemptto strike me, Lamont, I warn you you will findI am a stronger man than you imagine. What I sayto you is the truth, and you know it.” Lamont noticedthe size of his hands, the stocky breadth of hisshoulders. “These cards are yours, marked by you,”continued Enoch. “James, who put you into a cabat daylight that morning, saw them slip out of yourpocket—you were drunk—as he propped you backin the seat; he picked them up from the cab floor,discovered they were marked—came to me as a memberof the advisory committee, in confidence, and gaveme these in evidence.”

Lamont gripped the back of his chair to steady himself,the color had left his face, and the corners of hismouth twitched.

“You will either grant me an interview as I wish it,or I will lay the whole matter before the committee,”[93]continued Enoch. “And now listen to me carefully.If ever I hear of you touching a card again in thisclub I’ll have you expelled.” And with this he pickedup the empty envelope and the three telltale aces ata grasp, and shoved them back in his pocket beforeLamont could prevent him. “You have asked for awitness; very well; Mr. Van Worden will bear testimonyto what I have told you.”

“Guess you’ve no further need of me,” said VanWorden, who rose and left the dining-room, shaking hishead. At the door he said to a sleepy waiter, “Splitthat dinner,” and rang for the elevator.

“Now that we are alone,” said Enoch, to the manwhose honor lay in his hands, and who for a long momentstood staring at his empty glass, “I wish totell you plainly, that I consider your attentions toMiss Preston a damnable outrage.”

“Preston?—Preston?— What Miss Preston?”stammered Lamont evasively.

“Don’t lie to me,” growled Enoch. “I wouldn’tpursue it, Lamont. It might be dangerous. I overheardnearly your entire conversation at dinner.You played her accompaniments at the Van Cortlandts’;you had the—you, a man of your record amongwomen—had the insolence to bring that child homealone in your brougham. You left her, fortunately,at her mother’s door—my neighbor—we live underthe same roof.”

“What do you mean?” returned Lamont thickly.“You don’t think I——”

[94]“Had I a daughter,” declared Enoch, “I would nottrust her in your hands. That’s what I think, andthat’s what I came here to tell you to-night. Youleave that child alone.” He shot out his under lip.“We manage these little affairs in America betterthan in Italy,” he cried, slamming his clenched fistdown on the table, and, without another word, turnedon his heel and strode out of the dining-room.

Rose Van Cortlandt was in her element. She hadbeen spending her husband’s money indefatigablythese last few days over the final preparations for hersecond musicale, which five hundred engraved invitationsby Tiffany announced for the evening of February3, at nine o’clock.

People as rich as the Van Cortlandts receive fewregrets. The postman’s earliest whistle at the areagate of their mansion on Park Avenue this morningheralded his bag stuffed with acceptances in varioushued and monogramed envelopes, which he was gladto unload to the second man, who handed them abovestairs to the butler, who in turn shovelled them overto the French maid, Marie, who spilled them off thedainty breakfast tray and half-way down the palatialstaircase of polished walnut and ebony, on her wayto her mistress’s bedroom.

None of Rose Van Cortlandt’s women friends knewher as well as her maid. Marie had served her foreight years. There was no illusion left to Marie aboutthis dark, slender woman, whom Sam Van Cortlandtspoiled, and whom half of New York society ravedabout—chattering over her beauty, her gowns, hersuperb figure, her neck, her arms, her shoulders, her[96]jewels, her savoir-faire, the brilliancy of her dark eyes,the poise with which she carried her small head proudly,her smile, the clever way she managed Sam, the exquisitecurve of her throat and neck, her shapely ears,her nervous, small hands, the pink nails polished likesea-shells—nothing escaped them. Marie knew more.

She knew Rose Van Cortlandt at close range; inillness and in health; knew her adorned and unadorned,gay or sad, peevish, petulant, and insolent,in a rage, or in tears; had cared for and handled allher clothes, all her jewels, her hands, her hair; hadlistened and survived through innumerable scenes—somewith the servants, some with her husband; hadoften amused herself in divining the real reason ofher mistress’s various moods, and, when in doubt, hadcarefully reread her letters.

That which others raved about, failed to fascinateMarie. Deep down in her Norman heart she pitied“monsieur.” He seemed to her like a bon garçon, thebest of whose good nature had been trampled uponand stifled out of him by madame, and the weightand responsibility of several million American dollars.Had she had the control of monsieur and his money,she confided to herself, she would have saved them both.She would have intrusted Sam Van Cortlandt’s moneysafely to the Bank of France and not had it kickingaround Wall Street, where the risk of losing it was asgreat as at roulette or baccarat. Neither would monsieurlive in such an insane asylum as she served in—Ah!non, mon Dieu!—where every one quarrelled, from[97]her masters all the way down to the furnaceman andthe second parlor-maid. She would see that monsieurhad a comfortable apartment in Paris, and a modestchâteau, and some good shooting close to her ownpeople in her rich, green land of Normandy, where thecider was pure, and where she knew how to cook ahare à la chasseur to perfection, and where monsieurcould have some pleasure in life, and receive his friendsand roar with laughter, and kick off his muddy bootsbefore the fire with his good comrades over the incidentsso amusing of the day’s shooting. They wouldgo crabbing at Longrune, and to the market at Dosuléto sell their spare heifers and calves, and monsieurwould lose that careworn, gray expression and growfat and healthy.

Marie dreamed of these things as she ran her mistress’spink ribbons, or pricked her strong Normanfingers while embroidering the initials of Rose VanCortlandt’s maiden name on the satin-damask towels.

There were moments, too, when the tears welled toMarie’s fine gray eyes; moments when she regrettedever having seen America, its wages, or its society;moments when she wondered what had become ofGaston since he married the daughter of the PèreMiron and set up a saddler shop of his own in Lisseux.Gaston had given her a thin, silver ring; she wore itstill.

So much had happened since then. She had beenmaid of all work in Paris to Mademoiselle Yvonne deSt. Cyr, a popular actress at the Folies Parisiennes,[98]and had learned to keep her mouth shut and her eyesopen for fifty francs a month, wine included. Thenthe young marquis died, and his noble family buriedhim, and Yvonne was turned out for debt, and gaveMarie her sick Caniche poodle in payment for twomonths’ wages, together with her signed photographand a note of recommendation—a scribbled eulogy onhighly scented paper, hastily recommending Marieto the world at large, which Marie carried in herportmonnaie from one intelligence office in Paris toanother, until it became so dirty, creased, and wornshe was ashamed to show it to a lady, and was finallyperused and accepted by Mrs. Van Cortlandt, whowas at her wit’s end that sultry September day tofind a maid, finish with the dressmaker, and sail forAmerica. C’est la vie—quoi? Marie often consoledherself by tearfully exclaiming, which many a Frenchgirl had said before her under far worse circ*mstances.

It seemed this morning, the day before the smartevent, that the postman had brought the last of theacceptances. As Marie entered her mistress’s bedroomRose Van Cortlandt sat propped up in bedamong the lace pillows, the glistening folds of her darkhair falling about her fine shoulders, contrastingcharmingly with a pale-pink peignoir. She receivedthe breakfast tray piled with notes which Marie sliddeftly across her knees, with the eager delight of achild, and began to open the notes hastily—one afterthe other. One she reread twice, Marie noticed, as[99]she busied herself laying out her mistress’s things,read it again, her black eyes merry with delight, asmile playing about the corners of her lips.

“You’re a dear!” she heard her mistress exclaim.She thrust the note aside from the rest, quickly finishedher coffee and toast, scanned the remainder of thenotes, ordered her bath and her coupé at the same time,and before three-quarters of an hour had elapsed wasdressed and out of the house. First down to Park &Tilford’s, then up to Delmonico’s, to be sure they understoodabout the terrapin. Then on to see for herselfabout the palms, the roses, the awning, and a wagon-loadof gilded chairs. So it was not until her mistresswas well out of the house that Marie could read thenote her lady had lingered over.

Marie turned up the lace pillows. It was not there.She opened one drawer after another, and finally discoveredit tucked between her mistress’s eveninggloves.

It ran as follows:

[100]Marie tucked it back among the gloves in the preciseposition it had lain, and closed the drawer. “Quelnuméro! ce Monsieur Lamont!” she smiled to herselfas she emptied her lady’s bath.

As for Sam Van Cortlandt, he too had left his housethis morning after an early breakfast, which Griggs,his butler, served him in silence in the gloomy, sumptuousdining-room, and which his master barelytouched. As Griggs handed him his coat, hat, andstick in the brighter light of the hall, the butler noticeda marked change in his master’s manner. Hisshort, wiry body moved in jerks. He was intenselynervous. His firm, smug, clean-shaven face wore anexpression little short of haggard. He drove hisshort arms impatiently into the sleeves of the light-grayovercoat Griggs held for him, grasped his profferedstick and derby, briskly shot out of the door tohis waiting coupé, and sprang into it. His coachman,noticing his haste, drove him at a faster pace thanusual down to his office in William Street.

Griggs watched the bay mare rouse herself into asmart trot and turn the corner of 34th Street. Thenhe went back and closed the heavy grilled door of thevestibule, wondering what had happened. He stoodmeditating for some moments, gazing out through thesteel spindles of the grille.

“Perhaps it’s the madam,” he concluded, and returnedto his pantry, though still wondering over thechange in him, and its reason.

Sam Van Cortlandt could have enlightened him in[101]four words had he chosen. That he was long in wheat.That he had plunged and lost disastrously. Howmuch he dared not confess, even to himself. He hadnot dared tell Rose. He was in no condition to standa scene, and besides he knew her of old. The onething she detested was a serious discussion over thequestion of money; any hint on his part over the lackof it he knew she would receive in a tantrum. Sheabhorred any mention of economy. She had a disregard,a positive disdain for economy, which was pastall reasoning. She had gone through several big sumssince their marriage—fortunes in themselves—whichhe had put at her disposal, as easily as a schoolgirlempties a box of bonbons. The musicale to a man ofhis wealth was only a detail of their winter’s entertaining,but as he felt this morning, it was an extravagancethat, in view of the present critical situation,he could ill afford. What it would cost he had only avague idea of. Rose had attended to that; moreover,he knew she had not left a luxury unordered. Lastmonth’s account at Park & Tilford’s stood out conspicuouslyon their books as a record. Even the clerkwho figured it up opened his eyes. Then dinner afterdinner; luncheon after luncheon. Gowns from Paris,hats from Fifth Avenue, and a necklace from Tiffany’swhose cost alone would have ruined many a man consideredcomfortably off; a peace-offering to make lifeworth living again after their tiff over the Huntleydinner, an occasion when the faithful Griggs had lethim in at daylight, that hour when the cheerful sparrows[102]who have slept well, chirp their virtues to youmockingly, and the rattle of the milk-cans shivers yournerves. Rose had not only thanked him; she had impulsivelykissed him for it on the top of his gray head,once for every pearl, and with so much semblance offorgiveness that he had gone down-town the next dayin the best of good-humor.

His wealth!

His plunge in wheat this time was serious. Othermen as rich as he had played the same game and beencompletely ruined. There was Dick Thomson, forinstance, who in three days’ speculating became apauper, was kept afloat for a time by the grace of twoof his biggest creditors, and was finally swept off hisfeet in the tide-way of financial ruin, and sank out ofsight and memory.

As the bay mare sped on down Fifth Avenue VanCortlandt looked at himself in the narrow mirrorpanelled between the coupé windows. What he sawwas a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown, buthe stiffened up his clean-shaven chin, rubbed his haggardeyes, and laid most of his condition to late dinners.

It never occurred to him that he was getting whathe deserved; that the unscrupulous methods he hadso successfully pursued in the past, as Enoch hadtruthfully declared, “from New Orleans to San Francisco,”were retaliating; that in some measure the ruinand misery he had swept broadcast, was being avenged.For years success had gone along with him, arm inarm, like a boon companion, unfailing. Everything[103]he had wished for, fought for, success had given him:wealth, position, a rich harvest from big deals thatflattered him and surprised Wall Street—his immunityfrom conviction at the hands of the Supreme Court.Defeated in his scheme for nomination as governor,success had handed him new riches in compensation.Success had stood by him, protected him, saved himthrough a hundred reckless ventures. To-day theghost of success sat beside him as helpless as a skeleton.He reached his office with quivering nerves. Theslump in wheat continued. Wall Street was in apanic, the Produce Exchange a frenzied bedlam.

The Stock Exchange opened in an uproar. Itsfloor a bawling, shouting, frantic mass of members.From the gallery they resembled a black mass of humanitydrowning in a whirlpool, their white handsstretched desperately above their heads as they signalledto sell. Some managed to be seen by theirrescuers and were saved in the nick of time by a putor call. Others continued to gesticulate and shouthopelessly; others elbowed, shoved, swayed back, recovered,and fought their way through to buy. Menmade decisions with that nerve and lightning rapidityborn of their trade. The man who hesitated was lost.Every fresh minute the rise and fall of stocks flashedon the announcement boards spelled safety or defeat.Wheat continued to drop; what had been yours wasnow another’s. Wealth appeared, reappeared, andvanished. Losses in cold figures appeared and remained.Men with blanched faces stared grimly at[104]each other in passing. Wheat dropped five pointsand a fraction. Those who had won yelled out ofsheer exuberance. Fortune, the mother of all gambling—lookeddown on them with a smile; she wasused to such scenes as these. It was a common sightto her to see her children ruined—or in luck.

In the centre of this howling mob—his batteredderby hat on the back of his head, dazed, white, andtrembling—stood Sam Van Cortlandt. He was slowlytearing to bits a scrap of paper upon which he hadjotted down an order that, had it been carried out,would have got him into worse difficulties. A momentbefore he had braced every nerve in him and decidedto risk it, but his nerve had failed him. He was donefor, and he knew it. A few moments later he foundhimself on the fringe of the howling mob. Outcastsfrequent the borders. The noise in the great room hadbeen deafening. He found a certain relief and comparativequiet in the corridor. Men stalked about it,some in silence. Jonas Fair & Co. had gone downwith the crash. Sims & Jenkins, too. The list waslong. Where was his friend Success who had playedhim false? Dead.

He made his way back to his office, scarcely consciousof the street corners he turned. When he reached ithe locked himself in his private room, lighted a cigar,and for all of half an hour paced the floor.

The conclusion he came to was, that he would notannounce the failure of Samuel Van Cortlandt untilthe day after to-morrow—the day after the musicale.[105]Rose should know nothing until then. Like a man ingrave danger, he had thought of a thousand things inthose agonizing moments in which wheat dropped,point by point, relentlessly, without mercy. The roarand clamor of the Stock Exchange still rang in hisears. He had tried to recuperate his loss in wheatthere. He was practically ruined, and yet he couldnot realize it. He went out, bought a new derby hat,entered a bar in Nassau Street, and ordered a stiffbrandy co*cktail—over it he came to another conclusion:to sell his house on Park Avenue and all itcontained.

At a little before nine the following evening a longline of coupés and broughams, hired or owned, movedslowly toward the Van Cortlandt awning. As eachequipage halted before it the street crowd of the poorerclass, who had gathered together for a glimpse of therich, caught hurried visions of dainty, satin-slipperedfeet, sleek silk ankles, and soft evening wraps. Theystood craning their necks at fair women, in whoseclean, well-kept hair glittered jewels, whose whitethroats were circled in pearls and brilliants, and whoneither glanced to the right nor left, but followed theirescorts up the carpeted steps, through the steel-grilledvestibule, and past Griggs, into the brilliantly lightedhall beyond, which was as far as the crowd, could see.The night was starry, crisp, and clear. The faint odorof a dozen perfumes hung in the cool air under theawning. This vapor of riches was all these fine ladies[106]left in their wake to the poor curiously watchingthem.

Rose Van Cortlandt never looked more seductivelybeautiful than she did to-night—stunning in a gownof black jet, her bare neck and arms ivory white, awreath of diamonds sparkling in her dark, undulatedhair—thorough mistress of herself, and clean as acat.

She stood receiving her guests in the big ball-roomfilled with the gilded chairs, a celebrated room byMarcotte, gay and fragrant to-night in Americanbeauty roses, its extreme end screened by a forest ofpalms, leading out to the conservatory. Before thismass of palms stood a low platform, holding a long,black, polished concert grand, fresh from Steinway.The entire front of this platform was hedged withorchids and violets.

Rose had left nothing unordered. The neatly engravedprogramme announced no less an extravagancethan the Mozart stringed sextet—six solemn-lookinggentlemen, skilled in chamber music, who knew nobodypresent, and whose business it was to dispensesymphonies and sonatas that no one understood, atthe highest price attainable. Moreover, MadamePavia Visconti, late of the Royal Opera of Milan (howlate, that motherly looking, fat, and florid contraltodid not confess), was to sing twice, relieved by Mr.Gwyn-Jones, basso, whose deep and formidable balladshad rumbled through New York successfully fortwo seasons. It was not until the second part, after[107]the terrapin and champagne, that Sue Preston’s nameappeared.

Never had the task that lay before her seemed harderto Sue than it did to-night. She had steeled herselfto the coming ordeal for days, too brave to back out,and wholly in ignorance of the magnificence of theaffair or the importance of the artists engaged. Shehad sung at the tea as she supposed for nothing; thenext morning’s mail had brought a check from RoseVan Cortlandt for fifty dollars and a sweet note ofappreciation. Mrs. Ford beamed with pride whenshe read it. Ebner Ford’s satisfaction was marked.To-night Rose Van Cortlandt had insisted on Sueaccepting one hundred dollars.

“Really, Mrs. Van Cortlandt, I’m not worth it,”Sue had said in her embarrassment.

“Hush, dear,” Mrs. Van Cortlandt had returned,giving her a sound hug and a kiss. “I’m the betterjudge of that.”

At that moment up-stairs in her hostess’s bedroomwhere the young girl had left her wraps, lay a surprisebeside her evening coat—a tiny green-leather box fromTiffany’s, containing a small brooch of pearls anddiamonds and a check for a hundred dollars.

Rose Van Cortlandt had taken her under her wingthe moment she had arrived and had kept her besideher, presenting her to dozens of people she had neverheard of and who thought her lovely enough to hoveraround her, dressed as she was to-night in a simplewhite gown, without a jewel, a bunch of moss-roses[108]held in a pale-blue sash at her waist. They asked herall about herself, her voice, the fascinating career shehad entered. Smartly dressed men bent over her,swept their blasé gaze over her lithe, girlish figure,looked greedily into her frank, blue eyes, and paid hernaïve little compliments out of ear-shot of their wives.

Sentences not at all meant for her small, rosy earsreached her, such as “Where’s the little girl? I musthave a look at her again, old chap.” This from atall, young Englishman to another of his race, whohad already been presented to Sue three consecutivetimes—her simple answer, “I think we’ve met before,”and his “Rather,” not deterring him from a fourthopportunity. Women confided to each other: “Isn’tshe a sweet little thing—and what a skin, my dear!”and agreed that Rose Van Cortlandt’s protégée was“simply fascinating—she earns her living, I’m told.”

To the young girl, frightened at first, flushed andsensitive, the glamour of all this had its effect. Littleby little the fear in her heart subsided, the subtle intoxicationof all this beauty, wealth, and luxury waseven stronger. Her old courage came back to her.She felt that it was the opportunity of her life. Shewould do her best. She adored Rose Van Cortlandt.She had been kindness itself to her. Somehow shefelt a strange happiness tingling through her veins.She felt like singing.

“Ah! I’ve a bone to pick with you, Rose,” laughedLamont, striding up to his hostess, smiling and immaculateas usual.

[109]“How dear of you to come, Pierre,” said she, graspinghis hand.

“Think of it, Miss Preston,” continued Lamont,turning disconsolately to Sue, “this dear lady hereabsolutely forbade me to send the coupé for you to-night—wasn’tit selfish of her? There’s the coupédoing absolutely nothing—oh! I’m not discouraged.You’ll let me try again, won’t you?”

“Now, Pierre, don’t get peevish,” laughed his hostess.“What a spoiled infant you are. I sent for thislittle girl myself—didn’t I, deary?”

“It was so kind of you, Mrs. Van Cortlandt,” Suereplied. “You know I could just as well have takenthe car.”

“No, you couldn’t have,” declared Lamont. “Notin that pretty dress of yours. What a filthy vehiclea street-car is, anyway. Have you ever stopped tothink of the people you are obliged to sit next to—ugh!—orwhere they came from?—people who stepall over you, and never think of begging your pardon.Do you realize that in America the middle classes haveno manners whatever? It’s a fact. I assure you inFrance and Italy it is quite different. Even the mostwretchedly poor are polite. It is as inborn as theirreligion. Then those untouchable nickels the conductorhands you in change.” His quick, black eyesnoticed that Rose had turned to welcome the JimmyBrowns, and his voice sank almost to a pathetic whisperas he added hurriedly to Sue: “Do let me take youhome to-night—please—won’t you?”

[110]He looked at her tenderly, full into her blue eyes,his old skilful smile pleading for that hurried whispered“Yes,” which so many other women, failing toresist, had recklessly granted him.

“Why, I—why—I’m afraid I can’t—really I can’t,Mr. Lamont,” stammered Sue. “You see, I’ve alreadypromised Mrs. Van Cortlandt.”

“Then arrange it,” he begged softly, taking advantageof these few words alone with her. “Please,won’t you? Say you’ll try. You’ll make me so happyif you will. I’m so terribly lonely.”

“Lonely!” She flushed slightly, and added with aforced little laugh: “But you don’t look lonely, Mr.Lamont.”

“I am, nevertheless. I’m wretchedly lonely,” hedeclared.

He was on the point of playing his trump-card, butfeared he would have to play it too hastily to bringany satisfactory result—liable as they were at anyinstant to be interrupted. Lamont’s trump-card consistedin confiding to a woman his domestic unhappiness.The trick is not new, by any means; of convincingher of his unhappy marriage; that of all the womenin the world his wife least understood him and hissensitive nature; that, although he was too loyal afellow to say anything that might be misconstruedagainst her, he felt she (to whom he was speaking)would understand how much he suffered. He was notlike other men; he had a heart that needed affection,craved affection. His married life had been a hollow[111]mockery, devoid of that love which he craved, whichas a boy he had founded his ideals upon. Cupid hadtreated him like a tyrant. He had held out everythingto him, and given him nothing but an empty,aching heart, a life of loneliness such as few men hadknown. Where would it all end? Often he omittedthis last phrase and ceased speaking until she saw thetears welling to his eyes; then his quick: “Forgive me.Life’s a hard game, isn’t it? There are moments whenwe all break down—even the bravest of us.”

This seldom, if ever, failed to land them.

He cut this to-night, and contented himself by continuingto persist about his coupé. He would tellMrs. Van Cortlandt himself, he declared. “It wouldbe all right. I want you to feel the coupé is at yourdisposal whenever you wish it. There, you see I’mfrank—I can’t bear to think of you travelling in thosewretched cars.”

“But, Mr. Lamont!” exclaimed Sue, at a loss fora better reply.

“Whenever you wish it—and as often,” he added,and turned graciously to his hostess, satisfied that hehad ended his little tête-à-tête at precisely the rightmoment. Another word, he felt, would have ruinedhis chances, considering her age.

“Where’s Sam?” he asked. “I’ve been hunting allover for him.”

“My dear Pierre, Sam’s quite wretched,” confessedRose.

“Really? Oh, I’m so sorry!”

[112]“Nothing serious. Just one of his old attacks ofneuralgia,” she explained. “He came home earlyand went to bed. I told him he was better off therethan trying to buoy himself up with all these people.You know how Sam loathes big parties.” She bentclose to him. “Tell me, is the room pretty?”

“Simply stunning. Rose, you’re wonderful. Doyou know that before I came up to you to-night, Istood for a long moment watching you. Is there anythinglovelier than a beautiful woman? How wellMarie does your hair.”

“Hush, Pierre! I implore you.”

“You’re gorgeously beautiful, Rose.”

“Pierre—do be careful.”

“You dear,” he added. The two words spoken justaudibly enough to reach her heart unnoticed. Thenwith a bow that would have done honor to a diplomat,he raised her small hand to his lips, and disappearedin the throng to find a vacant gilded chair.

He found it close to the stage, next to pretty littleMrs. Selwyn-Rivers, who had been anxiously keepingit for him, and whose husband, Colonel Selwyn-Rivers,had granted her a snug fortune and a separation, andmade no bones about either. She was in pink to-night,and now that Pierre was seated, in a good-humor,and while the six wise men drew their bows throughthe first and second part of a Mozart symphony, keptup a whispered conversation to Lamont over the careand breeding of Scotch terriers; neither the operaticarias of Madame Pavia Visconti, nor the heroic souls[113]that Mr. Gwyn-Jones, basso, confined to the depthsof the deep sea, the blacksmith’s forge, or the darkforest, could shake this exquisite little blonde with herretroussé nose, who flirted as easily as she lied, fromdeclaring, as she babbled on, that her Belle of DinmontII was a better dog than Lucie Vernier’s ScotchLassie, and if the judges had not seen it, it was due tothat lady in question’s absurd attentions to Jack Farrell,who, Lamont agreed, was as clever a judge ofterriers as existed.

And so the musicale proceeded. Warmed andwakened up by the terrapin and champagne, theyactually listened to Sue’s fresh young voice, and applaudedher vociferously. It was not until her firstencore that she caught sight of Mr. Joseph Grimsbystanding by the door. Joe, who at parties was usuallyirrepressible and in a rollicking good-humor, twoqualities that made him a favorite with the débutanteswherever he went, stood listening attentively.Indeed, that young gentleman was drinking in everynote; notes that reached Joe’s heart to-night—morethan that, he realized that Sue was an artist, whethershe was conscious of it or not.

One of the six wise men who accompanied her—apale, sandy-haired, studious-looking man, with long,vibrant hands, kept his eyes constantly upon her asshe sang, with a curious dreamy expression of surpriseand admiration. This man was a marvellous accompanist.He seemed to have understood Sue instantly,as quickly as he had memorized her accompaniments,[114]scarcely glancing at her music before him. He steadiedher from the first; made her sure of herself. WhenLamont had played for her it had been a far differentfeeling. Light and inconsequent as was his nature,he had expressed its shallowness on the piano. Enoch’swords flashed back to her. The man at the piano,who was no other than the violinist Ivan Palowsky,had made her feel. It was as if he had taken her firmlyby the hand and led her through an ordeal over whosecoming she had worked and suffered for days, andwhich, now that it was successfully over, made hereyes sparkle and her heart light with sheer joy. Shethanked him warmly as she left the stage.

“It is I who thank you,” said he, hesitated, andwith a look that Sue did not forget, added: “You singlike my little girl, Anna. It is now this year that Igo back to Russia to see her. Ah! yes, you made mefeel that I again hear her sing—so young, so sweet, sopure. Some day you let me play for you again, eh?Yes—yes, I come.” His sad face brightened, and withan awkward bow he turned away to join his companionsin the final number. They had genially condescendedto close the performance with a gay tarantella.

Sue was now the centre of admiration. They showeredher with compliments. Lamont, who had skilfullygotten rid of Mrs. Selwyn-Rivers and her kennelof prize breeds, was again beside her, pleading to takeher home. He called her “his little playmate,” ranoff for a glass of champagne which she barely touched,and an ice which she devoured.

[115]Sue had been showered with so many complimentsthis exciting evening that one more did not matter.This came from Joe, who made his way through thegroup about her, and thanked her heartily in hisbreezy way.

Sue looked up in his genial, boyish face for thesecond time, conscious of how good-looking he was,and how frankly and sincerely he expressed himself.Joe’s was a pleasant, healthy countenance for anyyoung girl to look upon. His eyes twinkled to-nightin his exuberance, and his big, strong hand graspedhers with boyish sincerity. In fact, he brought withhim to that overheated artificial ball-room, a breathof wholesome air.

Lamont continued in opportune moments to insiston taking her home, half turning his back on Joe, whohad interrupted him just as he felt that his persuasionhad succeeded.

“Mr. Lamont, I can’t,” declared Sue firmly. “I’vepromised Mrs. Van Cortlandt.” Something in hismanner worried her. Something she did not like, andwhich might have been traced to Sam Van Cortlandt’svintage brut.

“Oh! come along,” exclaimed Lamont finally, hiseyes sparkling like black diamonds.

Joe took his leave. “Good night, and thank youagain,” he said heartily. “Hope I’ll see you soon,”he laughed. “You know we share the same stairs,”and with that he was gone. At that instant, too, aquiet personage touched Sue lightly on the arm.

[116]It was Enoch.

“Why, Mr. Crane!” she exclaimed, her young facealight.

Lamont straightened; instantly his whole mannerchanged. The elder man paid not the slightest attentionto him.

“I thought I’d take you home, my child,” saidEnoch.

“But—Mr. Crane,” faltered Sue, “I’ve promisedMrs. Van Cortlandt——”

“I’ve seen to that,” said Enoch pleasantly, as hegave her his arm. With a rapidity that amazed her,Pierre Lamont bid her good night. Enoch had knownthe Van Cortlandts for years, and though for a longwhile he had persistently declined their hospitality,the fact that Sue was to sing, and his anxiety overLamont’s attentions to her, had brought him to themusicale.

He had known Sam even before his unscrupulousbusiness deals, a fact to which was due their laterestrangement—even before his runaway match withRose Dickson, who was then considered the prettiestgirl in Troy, an orphan who at sixteen went to livewith her Uncle Jim, in Plattsburg, and who availedherself of that old sport’s trotting stock and a buggyof her own whenever it pleased her. Her Uncle Jimhad spoiled her. Who had not spoiled Rose? Shewas too devilish pretty, and had a will of her ownequal to a two-year-old in harness on her first week’srations of oats.

[117]At eighteen Sam Van Cortlandt had met her. Henever said where, but it is presumed at a picnic.With a high-school graduation as proof of her education,and two years at a fashionable girls’ college, cutshort by her marriage, Rose had entered society—apolishing school in which with her woman’s adaptabilityand Sam’s money, she quickly acquired thatvarnish of refinement and good breeding which sooften passes as being to the manner born.

At a quarter past eight the next morning Griggsrapped at the double door of his master’s bedroom.Getting no response, he entered. Before him, facedown on the Turkish rug by the bed, one arm doubledunder him, his right hand outstretched, clutching apearl-handled revolver, lay Sam Van Cortlandt—abullet-hole through his brain. He had been dead severalhours.

Life tragedies happen swiftly, with a simplicity thatis appalling. People seldom scream; they stand agape,or rush out of the house, dragging back a doctor whocan do nothing, or a policeman who can do even less.It was Griggs who told Rose Van Cortlandt. It wasthe second time he had been through a similar experience.Five years before as valet to the young Earlof Lowden, he had found him a suicide in his villa atDinard. He, too, had been gambling.

Griggs had gone straight to the bedroom door ofhis mistress. She was asleep. Her husband’s room,being separated from hers by a bathroom, a dressing-room,a boudoir, and two closed doors, not a sound ofthe tragedy had reached her.

“Something of the utmost importance, madam,”called Griggs, rapping sharply and rousing her.

“Come in,” she said sleepily.

The butler entered, and stood for a moment immovableas a statue before her.

“Madam,” said he, “I have come to you with badnews—with terrible news, madam.”

She sat bolt upright in bed. His words and mannerawakened her as if she had been struck with a whip.She stared at him wide-eyed, with compressed lips.

“Well?” she breathed tensely.

[119]“Mr. Van Cortlandt is dead.”

Griggs saw her clutch at the lace coverlet. She didnot utter a sound.

“He has shot himself, madam.”

She drew her knees up under the coverlet and buriedher face in her hands. For a long moment neitherspoke.

Suddenly she looked up, white as the pillows abouther.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“In his room, madam—madam will permit me totell her that it is better madam does not go there atonce.”

Griggs withdrew, closed the bedroom door, and rangfor Marie. To that now hysterical girl, gasping outher mon Dieu’s! he repeated again briefly what hadhappened, commanding her to be calm. “Calm asyour mistress, do you hear?”

As Marie tremblingly started to enter the bedroomRose Van Cortlandt opened the door in her dressing-gown.She stood straight, her lungs filled with adeep breath.

“Ah! mon Dieu!” sobbed Marie afresh.

“Go to your room,” said her mistress, “and waitthere until I call you.” Then she made her way tohis door, to gaze at him whom she had held in highesteem.

The news of Sam Van Cortlandt’s failure and suicideflashed through New York, was galloped up-town in[120]special editions, greasy wet from the press, was bawledout by newsboys, was discussed in clubs and bedrooms,in boudoirs, in street-cars, at dinners andtheatre-parties, for all of a day, and subsided the nextinto stale news, the long sensational columns contractingto short biographies of his financial career, and aphotograph taken of him several years previous, re-touchedwith Chinese white. The following day thepress contented itself with a paid announcement ofhis funeral. The least surprised of all was WallStreet. Friends of his had long ago warned him thathis system of speculation was suicidal. They wereright.

To Rose Van Cortlandt the blow was a bitter one.Everything she had loved—wealth, position—had beenswept away from her, her position in society dependingwholly upon his wealth. The note he left upon hisnight table was of a private nature, intended solelyfor his wife and not for these pages. In a month thefew intimate friends she saw had grown tired of tellingher how charming she looked in black. In the settlingof the estate, despite the money owed to his creditors,Sam had left her far from penniless. The house inPark Avenue was sold, and all it contained—the picturesalone bringing her a comfortable fortune thatmany another woman in her situation would have beensatisfied with. Rose Van Cortlandt considered it amere pittance. She found a bond of sympathy amongother widows who had been reduced to twenty-fivethousand a year.

[121]Lamont became a frequent visitor to her smart littlestudio apartment in Washington Square—to whichSue was never invited, and where we shall leaveRose Van Cortlandt to the care of a few so-calledBohemians to consume her whiskey and cigarettes.

Enoch was doing an unheard-of thing—forEnoch—straightening up the living-room of his hermitageon the top floor, slowly transforming this much-belovedrefuge of his from its pell-mell accumulation toa semblance of neatness and order. The idea hadstruck him suddenly, following a decision which he hadcome to the evening before, as he sat hunched up inhis big leather chair before the fire thinking overpast events, the Van Cortlandt suicide being one ofthem.

He had left his card at the house of mourning witha formal word of sympathy, more than that he felthe could not do. He had argued with himself for morethan an hour, trying to decide whether or not to writethe widow a letter of condolence, and had begun twoat his desk, both of which he destroyed as being falsein sentiment and not honestly in keeping with hisopinion of the deceased, whose business methods hehad so openly denounced to the Fords. True, he hadaccepted her invitation, and gone to the musicale, butin this case it was Sue who was solely responsible forhis presence. What he had expected had happened—hehad found Lamont, despite his warning to him,pleading to take her home. He had arrived in the[122]nick of time to offer her his arm and his club cab,both of which she had gladly accepted.

The old room during all the years it had warmedand sheltered Enoch, had become, little by little, sochoked with books, bibelots, and souvenirs, some ofthem utterly useless to him, that he had only nowawakened to the fact that there was little floor spaceleft for his feet to wander over, and he was continuallyupsetting this and that, whenever he moved.Nooks on the table and mantelpiece, where he waswont to lay his pipe, spectacles, and tobacco, werenow hard to find, and were continually being smotheredunder letters, books, and pamphlets—Matilda andMoses having strict orders to keep everything tidy,and to touch nothing.

“’Spec’ I fine him snowed under some mornin’, an’have to dig him out,” remarked Matilda. “Gittin’so bad, Mister Rabbit wouldn’t have no show gittin’through—reg’lar claptrapshun place—bad’s my olepot-closet, whar I used to stow ’way mah broom.‘Bresh up! Bresh up!’ he sez to me, ‘Matilda.’Jes’ ez ef I cud straighten out dat dar conglomeraction,’thout techin’ it—mah lordy! but I do certainly despizedust, man.”

“’Tain’t no common dust,” Moses would reply.“’Spec’ yo better keep yo black han’s offum dat yeredust—ain’t yo never heerd tell of immo’tal dust? Efyou ain’t, yo ain’t never read yo Bible. Dem things,like dust an’ ashes dar, is sacred.”

[123]Enoch had begun his house-cleaning with a will.He was in no humor to be interrupted. He went athis work grimly, his teeth set; the hopelessness of thetask appalled him.

For a while he prowled around his bookcases, grumblingover the many useless volumes, which like unwelcometramps had lain hidden snug in their berthsamong those dear to him. One after another he routedthese vagabonds out of their nests, and flung them ina pile on the floor for Matilda to cart away in her blueapron, and present them to the ash-man if she chose.Some of these trashy novels had the ill-luck to be discoveredin the company of the product of such ablemasters as Thackeray and Dickens, Scott and Fielding,Balzac, Hugo, and Maupassant. These latter inFrench, which he read fluently. One yellow paper-coverednovel he raised above his head and sent slammingto the floor.

“Trash!” he cried aloud—a habit with him when hewas roused and was forced to speak his mind for thebenefit of his own ears. “Trash! That’s what theywant nowadays—a novel never gets interesting tothem until they get to the divorce—artificial heroineswho make you shudder, whose morals and mannersare no better than a trull’s in a tavern, and heroeswhom I always feel like kicking—a lot of well-dressedcads. As for style, it’s gone to the dogs. They do noteven speak correct English, much less write it. There’snot one of them who could produce a page of Thackerayor Flaubert if they were to hang for it. What[124]they write for is the publisher and his check. It’sthat infernal check that has prodded on more writersto ruin than it ever helped. The more money theycan make, the more mediocre and sensational theyget—scarcely a page that is not cooked up like a pudding—onequart of sentimentality to two heapingpints of sensation, add a scant teaspoonful of pathos,sprinkle with a happy ending, and serve hot before thelast novel gets cold. Slop! and drivel!” he snarled,scraping out the bowl of his strongest pipe, and stuffingit with fine-cut Virginia that would have bitten anyless hardy tongue than Enoch’s. He searched in vainfor a match; discovered Rose Van Cortlandt’s invitation,tore it in two, rolled one half into a lighter,kindled it over the blazing logs in his fireplace, lightedhis favorite brierwood, and began to snort and puffthe smoke through his nostrils, his pipe doggedlyclenched between his teeth, his opinion of modernliterature gruffly subsiding in grunts. Then he returnedto his books.

He plucked out another—“Muriel’s Choice”—andturned to the fly-leaf. On it was hastily scribbled inpencil in a woman’s angular handwriting—all upsand downs: “Do read this, Mr. Crane; so sorryto have missed you. Emma Jackson.” He turnedthe pages with a rip under his thumb.

“About as light as Emma,” he remarked, recallingthat person to his mind, whose attentions had annoyedhim when he was a young student at law. He wasabout to send it spinning to the pile when he noticed[125]it contained several woodcut illustrations depicting thelovelorn and unhappy Muriel at various stages of herromantic history. Muriel seemed always to be waitingfor him—at the old turnstile ’neath the mournfuldrooping willows; at the rain-flecked library window,listening for the grating sound of his carriage wheels;again at the stile. This time she had brought her Newfoundlanddog.

“They’ll do for the children to color,” reflectedEnoch, referring to a hospital charity he never mentionedto others.

He laid the book aside, straightened up, drew adeep, courageous breath, and riveted his gaze on thecentre-table.

“What’ll I do with all that?” he exclaimed aloud,scratching his gray head, half tempted to dump thewhole of it into his bedroom closet, and sort it later.Then he realized there were important papers buriedunder the pamphlets and books, bills and receiptsthat needed filing, and more than one unansweredletter.

He began with the books, mostly scientific works,which had lately served him as reference in an articleon economics he had written for the Atlantic Monthlymodestly over his initials, and which had been widelyquoted. These filled the gaps left by the pile on thefloor. The letters, bills, and receipts he stowed awayin the drawers of an old-fashioned mahogany deskbeside his fire. One of these drawers, the small oneover his inkstand, was locked. This he rarely opened,[126]though he carried its flat key on the end of his watch-chain—had,in fact, for years.

Matilda thought it was where he kept his money.Had his strong-box been open on the table, its contentswould have been as safe with Matilda and Moses asif under the protection of his own pocket.

The old room, now that the books were in place,the table cleared and neatly arranged, and the chairspushed back into cosey corners, began to assume anair of hospitality, and that is precisely why Enochhad cleared it up. There remained, however, a finaltouch of welcome, which he put on his hat and hurriedout for—a gorgeous bunch of red Jacqueminotroses. These he arranged in an old Chinese porcelainbowl on the centre-table. This done, he surveyedhis domain, with a feeling of relief and satisfaction,and rang for Matilda.

“For de land’s sakes!” exclaimed that honest soul,as she poked her bandannaed head into the open doorway,and stood with her arms planted on her big hips,while she glanced around her at the change. “Befo’de Lord, ef it doan look scrumpsush.”

“Needed it,” muttered Enoch, turning a furrowedbrow upon her, as he bent to smell the roses.

“Dat it suttenly did, marser. ’Tain’t de fust time Itole Moses I’se been worryin’ over de looks of dis yereplace. Ain’t had no fixin’ up like dis in y’ars. Dat’ssartin’. ’Spec’ youse ’spectin’ company, ain’t you?”

“That’s why I sent for you, Matilda—where’sMoses?”

[127]“He’s a pokin’ of his fiah down in de cellar—ain’tyo felt de heat?”

She bent down on her knees, and opened the registerbetween the bookcases, a puff of dust accompaniedthe hot air, sending her hand across her eyes, her voicechoking.

“Gwine to strangle me, is yo? Keep yo mouf shutd’yer hear me, till I clean yo face so’s you kin openit ’thout insultin’ yo betters,” she commanded, snappingshut the register, and wiping it with herapron.

“Matilda,” said Enoch, as she rose to her feet, hiseyes kindling with good-humor for the first time thatmorning, “I’ve invited a few friends this afternoon totea.”

“Yas, suh——”

“It isn’t as easy as you think, Matilda. You andMoses will have to attend to it—cakes, sandwiches,teacups, and all.”

He drew out his portfolio, and handed her a ten-dollarbill, which she received respectfully and tuckeddeep in her bosom.

“Is—is yo gwine to hab quality, marser—or justplain tea?”

“Both,” smiled Enoch. “Miss Preston and hermother are coming at five, Mr. Ford also, the MissesMoulton, and Mr. Grimsby. Six in all, Matilda.”

“Ah see,” returned Matilda with conviction. “Wotyou might call mixed company.”

Enoch raised his eyebrows sharply in surprise.

[128]“’Tain’t de tea, nor de kittle, nor de cakes, nor desandwhiches, nor de bilin’ water, what’s a worryin’me,” declared Matilda. “It’s de doilies—I ain’t got’em, marser, but I kin git ’em, an’ dey ainter goin’ tercost no ten-dollar bill, neider.”

“But the teacups?” he intervened anxiously.“Here, I’ll give you a note to Vantine’s—ask for Mr.Gresham.” He turned briskly to the desk and openedhis inkstand.

“Ain’t no use in goin’ dar,” she protested. “Ain’tno Mister Gresham’s got ’em. I got ’em, an’ deyain’t no common kitchen china, neider. Dey’s wot myMistiss Mary left me when de good Lord done comean’ tuk ’er from me.” Her voice quavered. “Dey’sde best. Dey’s so white an’ fine, yo kin see yo han’through ’em, an’ dey’s got lit’l’ gold rims round ’em, an’handles no thicker’n er butterfly’s wing. Doan’ s’poseI’se er gwine let Miss Sue drink outer no common storetrash, does yer? Um! um!—mouf like er rosebud.’Mines me er mah young mistiss when she was jes abouther aige, an’ young Capt’n Pendleton come up to debig house to see ’er. Bimeby he seen me, an’ comeinter de kitchen, whar I was a mixin’ an’ a stirrin’, anda stirrin’ an’ a mixin’, for de hot corn cakes, an’ dewaffles for de supper dat evenin’. ‘Matilda,’ he sezto me, all a shinin’ in his uniform, ‘I’se gwine teckyo babby ’way from you, d’yer hear me, nigg*r?She’s done lived long nuf lone in dis heah lonesomeplace—’er eatin’ out ’er heart.’ Den I begun to shookan’ shake, an’ I got er tremblin’ in mah knees, an’ I[129]cudn’t say nuffin for de sobbin’ an’ de cryin’. Denhe ’gun to laf, an’ he come over an’ laid his han’ ’ponmy shoulder. Den I see his eyes was er twinklin’ likede stars in de heaven.

“‘Miss Mary an’ I’se gwine be married,’ says he.

“‘Yo ain’t er gwine teck ’er ’way from ’er ole mammy,is you?’ sez I. ‘See heah,’ sez I, ‘Marse Pendleton,I done brought ’er up—I done nussed ’er. I ain’tnever let ’er outer mah sight fer twenty years eversince she was a babby.’

“Den he ’gun to talk ’bout devotion an’ pholosophy—an’,an’ de end. ‘Dere ain’t goin’ to be no end,’ saysI. ‘She ain’t never even dressed herself, alone, yit;nor combed ’er own har. Dere ain’t been a mornin’,nor an evenin’, nor er night, dat her ole mammy wa’n’tdar to help ’er.’ Den I see he was er smilin. ‘Mammy,’sez he, ‘youse gwine long wid us.’ ‘Praise deLord,’ sez I. An’ dat’s de way I happin to comeNorth, Marser Crane. I wanter goin’ let mah youngmistiss be travellin’ round ’mong dem Northerners,’thout her ole mammy to teck cyar of ’er.”

She ceased speaking, and moved slowly toward thedoor. “I’ll git everythin’ ready fer de tea,” she said,brightening. “You needn’t worry ’bout nothin’, MarserCrane. ’Tain’t de fust time mah ole Moses an’ I’sewaited on comp’ny.”

Enoch stood listening to her as she descended thestairs. She was crooning softly to herself in a minorkey:

“Moonlight on de swamp an’ ’possum in de tree....”

[130]Enoch leaned over the banisters; then the door ofher kitchen closed upon her and he returned to hisroom. For a long moment he stood thoughtfully beforehis desk, thinking of her devotion, of what thedeath of her mistress must have meant to her, of thevicissitudes in the years that followed, of their presentsordid quarters in comparison to the “big house,” itsgreat rooms, and its bygone hospitality, the pictureshe had drawn of that young Captain Pendleton andthe one he loved, clear in his mind. Then he slowlyunbuttoned his watch-chain of braided hair, insertedthe flat key in the lock of the little drawer above hisinkstand, opened it, felt under a packet of letterstied with a narrow blue ribbon, and drew out a smallleather daguerreotype case, unhooked it, and stoodgazing at the portrait of the young girl it contained—ayoung girl in a checkered silk dress, with large,nervous black eyes, her dark hair falling in two softcurls over her neck, a red rose in her hair. He turnedit askance to the light, bringing into clearer detail thedelicate contour of the wistful face, the drooping, sensitive,melancholy mouth, the bit of lace at her throat,fastened by a brooch of garnets. Then he reverentlyreturned it to the drawer, closed it, and locked it.

It did not, as Matilda had supposed, contain hismoney—only a memory.

While Enoch had been straightening out his room,Joe had been fidgeting this morning over his work inthe office of Atwater & Grimsby, Architects, a modestsquare room on the third floor of an old brick building[131]in State Street, its two dingy lower floors being filledby Italian fruit merchants and the mingled perfumeof the green banana, the orange, the lemon, and the fig.Joe this morning had accomplished nothing, his wholemind elated over Enoch Crane’s invitation to tea andhis promised glimpse of Sue. He drew, sprawled overhis drawing-board, his pencil and T-square moving ata snail’s pace as he counted the hours that remainedbefore five, which the moon-faced clock, solemnlyticking over his head, appeared in no hurry to shorten;its punctilious hands seemed barely to move. Hefussed for an hour over some rough ideas for a dormerwindow, spent another in searching through a book onearly Tudor for a half-timbered inspiration, broke thepoint of his pencil constantly, and finally, with thememory of Sue’s voice in his ears, upset a full bottleof India ink, its contents flooding the emerald-greenwater-color lawn in front of Mrs. Amos Jones’s cottagedestined for Dunehurst, changing it into a lake ofindelible ink that found an outlet for itself over theedge of the drawing-board and went streaming to thefloor. Sam Atwater’s thin, alert face raised in disgust.He slid off his stool, readjusted his eye-glasseswith his nervous hand, and regarded the ruinof Mrs. Amos Jones’s water-colored country-seat indismay.

“That’s done for,” said he gloomily.

“By the gods!” cried Joe, flinging up his strong armsin his enthusiasm. “Done for! Why, it’s immense!It’s a hummer, by Jove! Look at the value of black,[132]will you? Ripping! Cast your eyes on that contrastof trees and roof bang up against that ebony lake.Talk about values, picks up that little touch of apple-greenon the roof and makes her sing. You wait untilI get through with the next water-color. I’ve got ascheme, I tell you, that will make the rest of the boyssit up and blink. Why, black’s the most valuablething in the world, only you’ve got to have enough ofit. We’ve been fooling around with a lot of timidshadows, afraid to smash in a big effect straight fromthe shoulder. Look at the value of that high lightnext to the strongest dark. That’s one reason whyRembrandt’s portraits look as if they could step outof the frame and shake you by the hand. Ruined!you sou marqué—it’s a corker! Black—that’s it, andplenty of it, with good, strong drawing and a big,splendid sky smashed in with Chinese white, rawumber, and French blue—I’ve got it, Sam. You wait.No more anæmic water-colors for me, and no morewhite paper, either. That’s good enough for illustrators,but it’s no good for architects. Give me graypaper—gauche—and charcoal—something you canbuild on.”

Sam Atwater was studying him as he rattled on withthe wide-eyed interest of a man listening to the secretof a new invention, which, although he did not whollygrasp its possibilities, nevertheless was slowly openinghis eyes to its logical advantages.

“Gray paper—that’s it!” cried Joe. “Cool grayfor gray days, and a yellow gray for hot sunlight.[133]Can’t you see, old man, that shadows are transparentand that everything else in hot sunlight is opaque?”

As no one had yet touched the ink-bottle, Joe kickedit into the corner.

“When is this miracle of yours going to happen?”asked Atwater, picking up the ruined water-color disconsolatelyand jamming it into the waste-paperbasket.

“Happen!” exclaimed Joe. “Why—just as soon asI can draw well enough and can get used to handlinggauche instead of the skimmed milk I’ve been using.”

“You can draw well enough now, Joe,” returnedAtwater—“when you want to.” He paused, grew alittle red, half turned away, then wheeling around,added seriously: “See here, Joe, I’m not the naggingkind, and you know it—but—you know what we’vegot to do as well as I do, and the time that’s left usto do it in. I’m doing my best to get the Jones jobin before the 15th, specifications and all. Well—youdon’t seem to be getting on to the job lately, that’s all.I—I hate to say this and—but, you see how it is, don’tyou? We’ve got to hustle—and there’s another thingI might just as well say,” he went on, clearing histhroat and twirling his HB lead pencil nervously inhis active hand, a hand as precise as a machine, andas timid as a woman’s. “You’re not the same as youused to be—you’ve changed—you’ve got to dreaming—well—eversince the Fords moved in.”

Joe gripped him heartily by both shoulders. “Goodold Sammy,” said he. “Oh, you’re right—I don’t[134]deny it. I’m goin’ to brace up and help—and—andhustle. There—feel better?”

The clock above them struck twelve-thirty with awheezy dang.

“Time to eat!” exclaimed Joe, with a persuasivetwinkle. “Poor old Sammy! See here, what we needis food and a change of scene. What do you say togoing to Old Tom’s for luncheon—eh? It’ll do yougood—my treat, Sammy, and don’t you dare say no,because if you do—” he grinned—“I’m going to pickyou up and carry you there, if I have to walk up Broadwaywith you on my back. Is it a go?”

Sam hesitated. “Hadn’t we better go back to thePioneer Dairy,” he ventured. “It’s cheaper, Joe, andthe stuff isn’t so bad.”

“It’s abominable,” protested Joe. “I’m tired ofthe kind that mother used to make. I’ve got enoughof skimmed milk, I tell you, and seeing that sour oldmaid with the asthma pass the crullers. No, sir—whatwe want is some man’s food and a good pint ofale in us—in a snug place that’s alive.”

He grabbed Atwater’s derby from the hook nexthis own and jammed it on his studious head, whollyagainst Sam’s ideas of right and wrong.

“Come along!” cried Joe, recovering his own broad-brimmedgray felt—a daily companion of his Beaux-Artsdays, which had sheltered him through dozensof like little extravagances that his pocket always sufferedfor on the morrow. And so the two went off toold Tom’s chop-house in Trinity Lane, where they had,[135]heeding the counsel of old Tom himself, a “combination”of spicy sausage, juicy chop, and a broiled kidney,sizzling hot, and done to a turn, that genial littleIrishman in his shirt-sleeves further suggesting, with hishabitual abbreviation of vegetables, a little “cel” anda little “spin” on the side, and two pints of his oldestale, nearly as dark and powerful as Hartligan’s oldest,next door, and with two cross-sections of hot mincepie to follow, “mince with a slip on,” smothered underthe best of Welsh rarebits, all of which in due time, asTom had promised, were poked through the blackenedworn hole connecting with the busy kitchen, and weredevoured serenely, without as much as ruffling thedigestion of youth.

“I feel better,” declared Joe, and he looked it. Sodid Atwater, though he had broken a whole goldenrule in regard to light luncheons and his duty tohis drawing-board. He was also worrying about thepie.

“Let’s have another,” coaxed Joe, as he pinionedhis last morsel of mince-meat, flaky pie-crust, andmelted cheese nimbly on his steel fork and calmlyraised it.

“Let’s what?” exclaimed Atwater, aghast. “Moreof that pie? Not on your life. That stuff will putyou on the Christmas tree if you get the habit.”

“I’ll split one with you,” laughed Joe. “Come on,be a game sport.”

“No, you won’t,” declared Atwater firmly.

“Now, Sammy; it’s my fête day.”

[136]“You wait until you get the bill, and you’ll think it’sNew Year’s,” remarked Atwater gravely.

“Ben Jonson and good old Falstaff would havebeen tickled to death with this place,” enthused Joe,sipping his coffee and unheeding the anxious look inAtwater’s eyes, as he ordered two light panetelas.“Nothing like good food for inspiration, old man.Hanged if I wouldn’t like to have a tavern of my own—bumpers—trenchers,old beams, cobwebs, and troubadours,buxom lasses, a few captains of fortune withtheir ready blades, and the mail-coach due at one.Veiled lady getting out, assisted by his Grace theDuke. Dogs, minions, and stable-boys—small, fair-hairedchild running with bunch of posies for theDuke’s lady, smiling Boniface in doorway with napkin.Steaming leaders stamping out of their trace-chains—anda fight in the back room——”

“Everything all right, gentlemen?” interruptedTom, bringing the bill in his head and enumeratingits items and total to Joe.

“I hope so,” ventured Atwater meekly, his mindstill dwelling on the pie, as Joe laid his last spare ten-dollarbill on the table, received four dollars and tencents back in change, shook the genial Irishman bythe hand, who boasted he had never been out of NewYork, and when he wanted a breath of sea air wentto the Battery, complimented him upon his cuisine,and thanked him for the good luncheon—allwith so much cheery good-humor, that Tom followedthem both out to the door, and over its sawdusted[137]threshold, to send them off with a final wave of thehand.

Joe Grimsby was the first to arrive.

Whatever glimpse he was to get of Sue this afternoonhe wished to prolong as much as possible. In fact, hesprang up Enoch’s stairs as early as half past four,heralding his presence by a hearty “Hello!” thatbrought Enoch out to his landing.

“I’m early, I know, but then I didn’t want to belate,” he explained with a frank laugh, as Enoch welcomedhim with both hands and ushered him into hisroom.

Joe flung himself into the proffered armchair andglanced about him.

“By thunder!” he cried. “What a nice old room.”

“It’s comfortable, my boy,” returned Enoch, studyinghis well-knit figure and his splendid chest, hiskeen eyes observing the well-bred ease with which Joemade himself instantly at home. He had changed hisoffice suit for a soft, light-gray homespun—its double-breastedhigh-cut waistcoat, the flamboyant black silkbow cravat, and the low, turned-down collar, allowingplenty of play to his strong, ruddy throat, giving hima slightly foreign air, which Enoch rightly decidedwas the result of his Paris student days in the LatinQuarter, where Joe had lived out four eminently respectableyears, made a good record at the Beaux-Arts,plenty of friends, and no liaisons. So that when heleft there was no good, faithful little “Marcelle” or[138]“Yvette” to shed tears over his going, and all he hadto do was to call a fiacre, shoulder his trunk, chuck iton top, say again good-by to his old concierge, MadameDupuy, and to the red-faced cocher awaitinghis order—“Gare St. Lazare.” It seems almost a pitythat there was no little Yvonne or Marie to accompanyhim to the station. Ah, how brave they are!And when one’s heart is big so that it chokes one it isnot easy to be brave—none to have packed his thingsand bought his ticket in her perfect French, and put akiss between the sandwiches, and deposited more rightbefore the accustomed eyes of the important red-facedchef de gare, until the tragic, relentless bleat of his hornsent the long-dreaded express to Havre moving swiftlyout of the station. Joe had come out of it all asstraight as a T-square.

“So you like the old room?” said Enoch, opening athin box of fat cigarettes.

“Ripping old room,” Joe declared. “I’ve neverknown a room that didn’t have a personality—good,bad, or indifferent. Some rooms seem almost tospeak to you.”

“Or, rather, they reflect the personality of the occupant,”said Enoch. “Some rooms reflect deeper thanmirrors, my boy. They give out to you much of thetrue character of the person whom they shelter.They’re as much a part of them as their minds andmanner of life.”

“Look at the charm of this old place—its friendliness,the way it hangs together!” Joe went on. He[139]was bordering unconsciously on a compliment, Enochswerving it with:

“Take, on the other hand, for instance, in your profession.There is nothing more ridiculous and incongruousto me than the houses some people live in.Some of you architects design salons and dining-roomsfor people who would be far more at their ease in thekitchen. Imagine a boudoir with a Madame Récamierlounge for a woman’s rights delegate—a library for agrocer, and a ball-room for an undertaker, and youhave my idea,” grinned Enoch.

“You ought to see the bedroom I’ve designed forMrs. Amos Jones,” Joe declared. “She’s daft onMarie Antoinette ever since she saw the Petit Trianonlast summer and bought the postal cards.”

Enoch broke out into a hearty laugh.

“I’ve got baa-lambs in blue bows and shepherdesseswith golden crooks,” confessed Joe, “stencilled all overthe frieze, and the royal crown made by a cabinet-makerin Hoboken over her canopied bed. Atwaterwas furious, but Mrs. Jones would have it.”

Enoch roared.

“That’s it,” said he. “I can see it all. What a lotof fools some women are.”

“Ever seen Mrs. Amos Jones?” Joe ventured.

“No,” grinned Enoch, “but I can imagine her.”

“No, you can’t,” chuckled Joe, as Matilda passedthrough the room to open the door for the Fords, andhurried back a second later to reopen it for the MissesMoulton.

[140]And what a tea it was! How pretty Sue looked,and how good were the hot little muffins Matildahad prepared as a surprise, which old Moses servedwith silent dignity in his best alpaca coat and whitecotton gloves. And how “darling” Sue thought Matilda’sexquisite little cups, into which Miss Ann pouredtea with the grace and gentleness of a lady.

The old room had never heard so much talk before,so much neighborly good-humor, broken at intervals byEbner Ford’s somewhat raw and insistent attempts toengage the others in listening to the beginning of oneof his many anecdotes—all of which Mrs. Ford hadheard a thousand times, and which generally endedapropos of business, but which did not deter that effusivelady from referring as usual to her famous Southernfamily, of course apropos of the muffins, which shenaïvely led up to.

“Now, when I was a girl,” she beamed, “I rememberso well our delicious Southern hot breads—ourtable fairly groaned with them, Mr. Crane. We werefive sisters, you know. Well, of course, our house wasalways full of company, father being so prominent inthe place. I shall never forget how furious father wasat an old beau of mine for taking me driving in thephaeton without his permission,” simpered the rotundlittle woman. “You see, we were young girls and,if I do say it, we had a great many young men atthe house constantly, and, of course, when fatherbecame judge....”

“Yo heah all day hiferlutin’ talk,” whispered Matilda[141]to Moses in the bedroom, transformed for theoccasion into a serving-pantry. “I’se never heerd noreal quality yit a talkin’ ’bout dere family. Dey don’thave to. Eve’ybody knows what dey is when deylooks at em.”

There were two young people in two chairs by thewindow in the fast-growing twilight, whom Enoch skilfullymanaged to leave by themselves.

“And you forgive me?” ventured Joe, looking upinto her frank blue eyes.

“Why, I haven’t anything to forgive you for,”laughed Sue nervously. “Only it did seem a littlequeer—your—your inviting me so suddenly.”

“But you will forgive me, won’t you? You don’tknow how much I’ve thought about it, and how muchI cared. Then when we met on the stairs that dayand you seemed so cold—half afraid of me. Tell meyou’re not afraid of me now, are you?”

A deeper color spread slowly to her cheeks.

“Why, no; I’m not afraid. I was foolish, I suppose,”Sue added half audibly, with lowered eyelids, claspingher hands nervously in her lap.

The dusk of evening came on apace; they forgot thechatter in the old room.

Joe leaned toward her.

“I wish we could be friends,” said he, regarding hersmall, nervous hands longingly. “Real friends, I mean—thatis, if you’ll trust me?” She glanced up at himquickly, her gaze as quickly reverting to her lap.Then, with a forced little shrug of her pretty shoulders:

[142]“Why, yes; of course I’ll trust you, Mr. Grimsby.”

Impulsively he touched her warm little hand.

“Honest?” he smiled, thrilled by that touch fromhis head to his feet. “Honest Injun? Cross yourheart?”

“I said I would,” she said evenly.

Their eyes met—his with a happy gleam in them,hers with a timid, tender look, her heart beating untilshe felt its throb in her ears.

“I fear we had better be going,” she said, makinga little movement to rise. “I’m afraid it’s awfullylate.”

Joe snapped out his watch, bending closer to thewindow, where he ascertained it lacked a few minutespast six.

“You can stay a little longer, can’t you?” he pleaded.“Now that we’re to be good friends.”

“It’s on account of mother,” she replied evasively,catching the tone of Mrs. Ford’s voice which had risento that shrill key which invariably accompanied herleave-taking—a moment in which she again referredbeamingly to Lamont, who had been kindness itself,she had heard, to Mrs. Van Cortlandt, “all throughthat awful tragedy, my dear,” she explained to MissJane Moulton, who had scarcely opened her lips.“He’s kind to every one,” she went on effusively.“You should see the beautiful roses he sent me onlyyesterday—two dozen of the most gorgeous AmericanBeauties. I was so surprised—as I told daughter....”

Her words nettled Joe, and he turned sharply.[143]Enoch struck a match savagely under the mantelpieceand lighted the Argand burner.

“Oh, please don’t!” protested Sue. “I do love thetwilight so, Mr. Crane.”

“Then you shall have it, my dear,” returned Enoch.“I wonder if you’ll do me a favor. Will you sing tous—in that twilight you love? Just a little song, anyyou please. I’m sorry there’s no piano. Come, won’tyou?”

“Please,” pleaded Joe.

“Why, yes; of course I will if you wish it, Mr. Crane,”consented Sue. “Let me see—what shall I sing?”

“That ravishing little thing from—‘Aïda’—isn’t it,darling?—the one with the fascinating warbles,” suggestedher mother. “She has another one that’s toocute for words,” she confided to Miss Jane. “I’ll gether to sing it.”

Sue started to rise. Enoch raised his hand.

“Pray don’t get up,” he begged. “Sit where youare, dear, and sing me the ‘Old Kentucky Home.’”

The room grew hushed. Two dark forms filled thenarrow doorway of the bedroom. Enoch slipped intohis favorite chair, his chin sunk deep in the palm ofhis hand. Then Sue began. The old song pouredforth from her pure young throat clear and plaintive,in all the simple beauty of its words and melody.Matilda’s lips moved. At the third verse somethingseemed to be strangling her; unseen in the dusk, sheburied her black, tear-stained face in her hands, Mosescomforting her in whispers.

[144]Joe sat beside the singer in the dusk—immovable—ina dream. Beneath his hand lay Sue’s—warm, tender,unresisting. Thus ended the song—as if it werethe most natural thing in the world for songs to endthat way.

Miss Jane had gone out. She had taken her purpleparasol with her to Stuyvesant Square, where the sunthis March afternoon glistened on its faded fringe, andsent the saucy brown sparrows to doze and preen theirwings in the bare branches of the trees, Miss Janefinding protection for her frail person back of theiron fence on a hard bench, its thin, cast-iron armspolished by the weary, the worthless, and the poor.Sometimes she sat in the corner, looking out upon thepassing life of the street, though she much preferredthe bench beside the straggling geraniums and begoniaswhen the sun shone. She had taken with her as well,secreted in the depths of her black silk reticule, a smallvolume of Lowell’s verses—some of them she knew byheart, and those she did not helped her to forget hercough.

There were a lot of things tucked away for safe-keepingin that reticule of Miss Jane’s: Old addressesof cheaper seamstresses which might some day beneeded, a spool of sewing silk and a needle, in case ofaccidents; her name and address written plainly byMiss Ann; three old prescriptions that, alas! werealways being renewed, and clippings from the NewYork Observer on sermons she had missed, stuck tolicorice drops—all these did not hinder her thin fingers[146]from finding a hidden cracker for the sparrows, whichshe fed them in tiny bits under the alcoholic eye of awell-to-do Tammany policeman with park manners,who always saluted her respectfully.

Miss Jane was so reticent in public that she rarelyopened her lips, total strangers like car-conductorsand new church-sextons being an unavoidable exception.She took up but little space in the world, andwas of no more hinderance to others than her ownshadow—and yet she was a woman, had once been agirl, and once a baby. There is a degree of modestywhich becomes conspicuous. It is almost impossibleto conceive that Miss Jane had ever loved; that shehad ever laughed, or felt the pain of happiness; thatcoquetry had once peeped mischievously from the cornersof her eyes, playing hide-and-seek with her smile—asmile that once had made more than one youngman’s heart beat the faster—all that was dry and dead.

There were other withered leaves in the park.

And so Miss Jane had gone out. In fact, there wasnobody left in the house but Miss Ann, Ebner Ford,Matilda, and the cat, Moses having crossed the ferryto his savings-bank in Brooklyn, a suburb noted for itssavings.

Ebner Ford waited until Miss Jane had timidlypassed his door on her way out. Then he hurriedlyshaved, put on his best suit of clothes, selected a freshwhite tie, doused some of his wife’s lavender perfumeon a clean handkerchief, and leaped up the stairs toMiss Ann’s door, which she had unfortunately left ajar.

[147]She was darning her sister’s stockings when heknocked, and had barely time to hide them and seizeher knitting before he thrust his head in with an ingratiatinggrin.

“Got so pesky lonesome down-stairs, thought I’djust come up and cheer you up,” he blurted out, unheedingher embarrassment. “Hope I’m not intrudin’—Emma’sgone with girlie to a show. Grand day,ain’t it, Miss Moulton?”

He had safely gained the centre of the room, an oldtrick with him in business interviews; doors marked“Private” or “No admission” had no terrors for Ford.

Miss Ann had sprung out of her chair by her sewing-tableand stood helpless before him, flushed.

“And so you were left alone, Mr. Ford,” she saidbravely, with dignified resignation.

“That’s about the size of it,” he laughed, selectingthe sofa, and crossing his long legs, his head thrownback at his ease, as she reseated herself before him.“I’m not much on goin’ to shows,” he declared. “Seentoo much of ’em. There wa’n’t a troupe that come toour town when I was a boy but what I’d tag after ’emand see ’em perform. Since I’ve had so many businesscares I’ve kinder gotten out of goin’ to the theatre.S’pose you’re pretty crazy about ’em, Miss Moulton,ain’t you? Most women are.”

“I’ve never been to the theatre,” confessed MissAnn quietly, her eyes upon her knitting.

He shot forward with a surprised smile, gripping hisbony knees with his long hands.

[148]“Well, say, that beats me!” he cried.

“Neither my mother nor my father approved of thetheatre; my sister and I have never gone,” she addedsimply. “We were brought up differently, I suppose.”

“You ain’t missed such an awful lot,” he returned,by way of consolation. “I’ve seen some shows whereyou got your money’s worth; then, again, I’ve seen’em that wa’n’t worth twenty-five cents—your pa andma didn’t have nothin’ agin the circus, did they?”

Miss Ann looked at him, with pinched lips and ahesitant smile. “Perhaps we’d better not discuss it,”said she. “I’m afraid our views are so different, yousee. To be frank with you, Mr. Ford, the people ofthe stage have never attracted me—when you considertheir lives, their—their——”

“Don’t you tell Emma,” he intervened, paused, andadded confidentially: “But I knew an actress once—finestlittle woman you ever see, Miss Moulton.”

The needles in her frail, active hands flew nervously.

“Wished I could remember her name—hold on, Igot it. Nell Little. ‘Little Nell,’ I used to call her.Come up with a show from Troy and took sick at theEagle House. Had a small dog with her, I remember—oneer them shiverin’, tinklin’, black-and-tans. Nellthought an awful lot of that little cuss. Seems he’dsaved her life once in a smash-up on the Delaware andLackawanna; led them that was searchin’ for her intoa burnin’ sleeper. Well, when she took sick at theEagle House, and the rest of ’em had to leave her—no,hold on, I’m gettin’ ahead of my story.”

[149]The trembling needles dropped a stitch.

“It was Ed Stimson that come to me—that’s it.Ed bought the Eagle House from old Bill Williams’swidder, and Ed and me was pretty close pardners inthem days. ‘Ebner,’ says he, ‘Doc Rand claimsnumber nine’s got the pneumonia. She’s been out ofher head since daylight. She’s been askin’ for you.Guess you’re elected, Eb.’”

He rambled on, unconscious that every word heuttered was far from welcome to his listener, who satbefore him helpless, dazed, and indignant, unable tostem the tide of his worldly narrative. He enlightenedher to the fact that he and Little Nell had had suppertogether only two days before in an oyster-parlor of afriend of his. He insisted that she had taken a shineto him from the first, and that now that she was ill andpenniless in the Eagle House, the only decent thinghe could do was to pay the doctor and her board bill,dilating on the detail that he was human and incapableof seeing any woman in distress, without coming toher aid like a gentleman, and ended this remarkablerésumé by flinging himself back on the sofa with a satisfiedsmile, stretching his lean jaws in a yawn, as if theincident was only one of many in his wide experience.

“Warm, ain’t it—for March?” he declared, breakingthe awkward silence that ensued.

Miss Ann agreed that it was, the needles slowingdown to their normal speed.

“It ain’t a mite too warm for me,” he remarked, displayinga thick and drooping sock above his cracked[150]patent-leather shoes. “Warm weather means plentyof business in the laundry line, Miss Moulton. A fellercan get along all right in cold weather, but take it incollar-meltin’ time and clean shirts are a necessity.Ever stop to think how many percales and fancy madrasesare spoiled by cheap wringers? Chewed to holes’fore the iron touches ’em.”

Miss Ann laid her knitting in her lap in forced attention.Something far graver than his visit had worriedher to-day, a question of money, a discouraging letterfrom her brother, which she had kept from her sister,not having the heart to tell her that some propertyshe had counted on to relieve their present modestincome had turned out a failure.

“I don’t mind tellin’ you, Miss Moulton, a littlesecret,” continued Ford, “seein’ we’re old friends andneighbors. It’s sort of lettin’ the cat out of the bag,”he added thoughtfully, “but I’ve been thinkin’ it over,neighbor; besides, I don’t know anybody I’d ratherhelp than you,” he declared, as he fished in his pocketand drew out a square chunk of dark rubber.

“That’s pure Para,” he announced gravely, holdingit up for her inspection. “Take a good look at it, MissMoulton; you don’t often see it. It ain’t worth itsweight in gold, but it’s close to it when it comes towringers. It’s them cheap rollers that does the dirtywork. If you was to know what they’re made of, Ipresume likely you wouldn’t care to wear the clothesthey come through. It’s the sulphur in ’em that doesthe stainin’.”

[151]Again his long hand fumbled in his pocket; this timeit drew out a folded paper with a mechanical drawing,a model of a clothes-wringer, which he spread out flaton his knees.

“There she is,” he declared with conviction. “Lookspretty neat, don’t it? That there layer of pure Paraon the rollers does the trick, and them two extra cog-wheelson the speed-accelerator keeps her movin’, Ikin tell you. Saves time! One turn of that crank’sworth ten of any other household wringer on the market.Can’t jam, can’t squeeze, can’t rust, every nut,screw, and rivet in it galvanized. Even pressure onanything from a lady’s handkerchief to a baby’s bib.Got any idea, friend, what it costs delivered to sufferin’humanity? Four dollars. Got any idea what itmakes?”

“I haven’t an idea,” confessed Miss Ann, lookingup, relieved at the sudden and cleanly change in theconversation, and, despite herself, becoming more andmore interested.

“’Course you haven’t, Miss Moulton. Be a littlesurprised, wouldn’t you, if I was to tell you that oldMrs. Miggs, one of our stockholders, doubled her income;that she’s got already a couple of thousand dollarslaid aside for a rainy day that she’d never had ifI hadn’t come to her in a friendly way. I don’t knowas if I’ve ever seen a woman happier. Her mortgageon her house in Yonkers all paid up, nice little newhome for herself and niece, and a tidy little sum in thebank—a sum that’s growin’ daily, friend, without so[152]much as liftin’ her little finger. As our head canvasseron the road wrote me yesterday, a man of over twentyyears’ experience sellin’ wringers—‘You needn’t worryno more,’ he writes, ‘about the Household Gem holdin’her own; I’m averagin’ two gross a week right here inElmira. I could sell three if I had ’em.’ Hold on.I’ve got it, if I ain’t mistaken.” He whipped out theletter and read it aloud, including its postscript.

He thrust the letter back in his pocket and waitedfor its effect, beating a tattoo on the arm of the sofa,and though Miss Ann did not reply, the nervous wayshe dropped her stitches assured him he had made animpression.

“Anybody, my friend, with a little ready money,can double it,” he resumed persuasively. “Just assure as two and two makes four. Take Mrs. Miggs,for instance. Six months ago she was skimpin’ alongas usual—always ailin’, too—worry done that, as Itold her, worry; not knowin’ how she was goin’ to endone month and begin another. Lookin’ sallower’n apeck of mustard—no appetite—worry—and what for?[153]Kept what little money she had in her bank, afraid toinvest a dollar of it in anything. Let it lay there incold storage without givin’ her a cent of interest.Spendin’ little by little her capital without a dollar ofit free to make another. ’Twa’n’t right, and I told herso plainly. It’s all she had, she told me. It’ll be allyou’ll ever get, I told her, if you keep on leaving it injail. Any dollar, my dear friend, that ain’t worthmore than a dollar, that can’t make a cent for itself,is a pretty shiftless greenback, and ought to be ashamedto look its owner in the face. Give every dollar a show.That’s common sense, ain’t it?”

He shot out a frayed cuff and slapped his kneesoundly.

“I ain’t the kind to believe in speculatin’, ’speciallyfor women. They wa’n’t never made to handle theheavy risks that men are. They ain’t capable ofshoulderin’ the enormous responsibilities that we haveto. How many women have come to me, beggin’ meto invest their money in speculations that I’ve refused.Funny, ain’t it, how some women like to gamble?That’s all speculatin’ is—gamblin’. Gamblin’s aginmy principles, friend, and always was. There ain’t norighteousness in gamblin’. It’s an ungodly sin, worsevice’n the liquor habit. Our gains, says the Bible, is tobe measured by the sweat of our brows. Honest businessmeans hard toil and sound judgment. Why, I’veseen times when if it hadn’t been for my sound judgment—businessacumen, they call it—I’d been a ruinedman. Sellin’ honest goods ain’t got nothin’ to do with[154]gamblin’. Sellin’ somethin’ that folks need—honestlymade and honestly sold; that folks who have paid forit and used it swear by. An article that enters thehome circle as a helpin’ hand; that makes the homehappier, and keeps the doctor from the door. Nomore backaches for mother; a child can turn the handleof the Gem. The accelerator tends to that. Easyas a fish-reel, friction down to the minimum. Anywonder that it sells? As our Southern agent wrote usthe other day: ‘It wrings out the dollars, as easy as itdoes a heavy day’s wash.’”

He laughed softly.

“Yes; it’s given the wringer trade a tough blow—patentsall covered. There ain’t an inch of it theykin imitate. When men like Hiram Sudwell, presidentof the National Mangle Company, come sniffin’round to buy,” he chuckled. “‘Sudwell,’ I says tohim, ‘you ain’t got money enough if you was to pile itas high as the ceilin’ to buy the Gem.’ He sorterlaughed. He knowed there wa’n’t no use.

“‘Couldn’t you let me in a little on the ground floor?’says he. ‘How about lettin’ me have ten thousandshares of your preferred? If it’s a go here’s my checkfor it,’ says he. I let him talk. I see he was lookin’kind er down in the mouth. Bimeby he begun to coaxan’ whine. ‘See here,’ says he, ‘there ain’t no use ’nour hemmin’ and hawin’ round the bush. I’m plain-spoken.The Gem’s a gold mine, and you know it.Tell you what I’ll do,’ says he; ‘if you’ll let me haveten thousand spot cash, I’ll throw in five hundred of[155]the Mangle’s preferred just to show there’s no hardfeelin’.’ ‘Sudwell,’ says I, ‘we ain’t sellin’ stock torival companies. First thing you know you’d wantmore. Next thing we’d know you’d have us out inthe cold....’”

Miss Ann had risen. She laid her knitting with atrembling hand in her work-basket, went over to thewindow and stood there gazing out, struggling withherself over a decision so stupendous to that conservativelittle woman, that every quivering nerve in herwas strung to its utmost. As she stood by the windowshe seemed to be praying.

Suddenly she turned to him, her hands clasped behindher, her eyes downcast, one small foot slightlyadvanced toward a step that even then made hertremble, her mind filled with doubt, that forerunner ofhasty decision.

“I’m going to speak to you very frankly,” she said,in a voice whose strange weakness belied its courage.“My sister, as you know, is ill. She has been ill nearlyall her life, Mr. Ford. We are neither of us young;what little money is ours I have always tried to managefor the best. It is I who have always taken the responsibilityof this, and it is I who must continue to do it.I have no one to come to, either for counsel or advice,neither for protection. I tell you this frankly, for Iwant you to feel it and understand it. Had my sisterand I all that is rightly due us, we should be in fardifferent circ*mstances.”

She raised her eyes bravely.

[156]“My sister needs comforts, I mean real comforts,Mr. Ford, comforts I have not dared risk the giving.A purer air than New York, long summers in somepleasant country place, more luxuries than I feel wecan afford and live within our means, and peoplearound her who would take her mind from herself.You may not realize it, but far from growing better,she is growing worse. I, who am constantly with her,see it only too plainly. Her extreme weakness attimes frightens me. Now what I feel is this——”

Ford started, his shrewd eyes alert to her slightestword or gesture.

“If it were possible to invest safely, as you say,even the small amount that I could dare give you—itis so serious, Mr. Ford, you must understand justhow I feel. If I were to give you this—and anythingshould happen to it——”

Ebner Ford sprang to his feet.

“Can you doubt it,” he exclaimed earnestly, “inthe face of plain figgers? You don’t suppose, mydear friend, I’d lead you into a risk, do you?”

“I don’t believe you would, sir,” said she. “Thatwould be too cruel.”

He drove his thumbs into his armholes, and for amoment stood in thought, tapping his fancy waistcoatwith his long, bony fingers.

“Suppose I let you have a thousand shares?” hesaid with a benign smile. “Think what it would meanto you. No more worryin’ over little things; you’llhave money enough then to have some peace of mind.”

[157]“I’ve had so little,” she said with a saddened smile,“that it would be most welcome, I assure you. Howmuch are the shares?” she asked timidly. “I knowso little about such matters.”

“Preferred?” he questioned briskly, elevating hiseyebrows. “They pay you considerable more, youknow, than the common stock.”

“I’d like the best;” said she, “that is, if I can affordit.”

“That’s right,” said he. “It always pays to git thebest. The best always pays in the end. There wa’n’tnever yit a couple of cheap things worth one good one.I’d like to see yer git the best—somethin’ you’d beproud of ownin’, like our gilt-edged preferred.” Herammed his long hands in his trousers pockets, and forsome seconds paced slowly before her, lost in thought.“Let’s see—let’s see,” he muttered.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said suddenly. “Letus say fifteen hundred shares preferred. I’ll waivewhat they’re worth to-day. I’ll let you have ’em atpar, my friend, at ten dollars a share, cash. That’llmake it an even fifteen thousand dollars. You deserveit, Miss Moulton, if ever any woman did,” he criedmagnanimously. “I’d give a good deal to see oldHiram Sudwell in your shoes right now.”

“But fifteen thousand dollars,” gasped the littlespinster, “is half of all we’ve got in the world, Mr.Ford!”

“I see,” said he gravely.

She started to speak, but he waved his hand.

[158]“Hold on,” he resumed cheerfully, “We’ll do betterthan that,” and again he paced before her. “I’mthe last man in the world to ask anybody to put alltheir eggs in the same basket. Suppose we say halfthat amount?” He saw her hesitate, nervously fingeringthe long, thin gold chain that circled her neck,and which all her life had served her as guardian ofher mother’s watch.

“I say half,” said he, breaking the silence. “Why,you’ll think nothin’ of buyin’ the rest of that fifteenhundred with what you’ll make on that half.”

“And you advise it?” she ventured. He assured herwithout speaking, his expression one of kindly approval,unvarnished, without a vestige of a doubt.“That would be seven thousand, five hundred dollars,wouldn’t it?” she inquired, still struggling with herself.

“There ain’t no use of my advisin’ less to you,”he declared. “It wouldn’t be worth your botherin’about. I’d like to see you happy—real happy. Youneedn’t thank me now, but you’ll thank me some day,my friend. You won’t never regret it.”

“I—I feel so alone—so helpless,” she returned, “asif I really ought to think it all seriously over; wouldyou mind letting me do that? I’d feel better, I think.”

“That’s just what Mrs. Miggs said to me. Nowlook at her. Do you suppose Mrs. Miggs has everregretted it? Her little nest-egg beginnin’ from thevery day she bought her shares; woke up the nextmornin’ knowin’ her troubles were over. Took her[159]little niece straight down to Stewart’s and bought hera new outfit from head to toe. Suppose she’d erwaited? I want to see you happy, friend. I wantthat there happiness to begin now—to-day.” He putforth his hand to her, forcing her own small hand intoits grasp, where it lay as frightened as a wren with abroken wing.

“Perhaps, then, I’d better decide,” she breathed,with a beating heart, gazing at the floor.

“That’s right!” he cried. “That’s the right kindof talk. I know sich matters are hard to think over,and decide. But we’ve done the thinkin’ and we’vedone the decidin’, ain’t we? And all them gnawin’little doubts is over.”

“Yes,” she said, looking up at him quickly, andwithdrawing her hand, a strange new courage in hereyes. “I have decided, Mr. Ford. I will take theseven thousand five hundred dollars’ worth of shares.”

In precisely seven minutes by Ebner Ford’s watchMiss Ann Moulton became the sole possessor of sevenhundred and fifty shares of the Household Gem, preferred,and its receipt, and before the ink was fairlydry on her check it was tucked in Ford’s portfolio nextto a five-dollar bill that his stepdaughter had loanedhim that morning. He had feared the sister’s return.He had had experience with two women deciding together.It was while he was engaged in exploiting themillions contained in a vast hen industry in the FarWest destined to supply half the eggs to the world—atbottom prices—the army of A No. 1 Leghorn layers[160]being fed on imitation corn made by a secret process,producing the best cold-storage egg on the market.

He had hardly reached his room before Miss Jane’skey opened the front door. He stood screened back ofhis own ajar, listening to her as she wearily climbed thestairs, her purple parasol aiding her, stopping on thelandings for breath. It still lacked twenty minutesbefore his bank in Union Square closed at three. Inless than fifteen he had handed over to its silent but astonishedreceiving teller, for deposit, a check for moremoney than he had ever had to his credit in his life.

This done, he walked briskly over to the EverittHouse, and through a swing-door smelling of lemonsand old Bourbon sours, feeling a good deal richer thanHiram Sudwell, and of much more importance in theworld than the President of the United States. Thebartender noticed the change in him at a glance. Heseemed younger, more at his ease. There was alreadya certain indescribable air of geniality and prosperityabout his customer that sent the bartender’s quickhand over the bottle of “ordinary” and on to the“special,” hesitated, and settled over the neck of thedecanter of “private stock,” which he produced witha clean doily and a smile of welcome.

“Warm for March—ain’t it?” remarked Ford, pouringout for himself a stiff drink.

“It sure is a grand day,” returned the bartender.“Ain’t seen you around lately, mister—er—busy, Isuppose, as usual—well, that’s the way to be.”

“Busy,” declared Ford. “Ain’t had time to eat.”

[161]Then he paid for his drink, recounted the fifty dollarsin new bills he had drawn, called a cab and wentoff to Koster & Bial’s, where he managed to secure,late as it was for the matinée, his favorite seat at afront-row table.

It was only when Miss Jane reached her room andlearned the story from her sister’s lips that she realizedtheir great good fortune. For some moments MissAnn held her in her arms, petting her like a child.

“I felt it was for the best, dear,” she kept repeating.They both wept a little; all the worry was over now,her sister assured her. Miss Jane seemed dazed. Shecould not fully realize it. She sat on the edge of herbed, smiling through the tears, smoothing Miss Ann’shand. Then they set about making plans for thesummer. They decided on Lake Mohonk. Finally,exhausted as she was, Miss Jane went to bed, MissAnn waiting until she fell asleep before straighteningout their meagre accounts of the week before, some ofwhose items had frightened her, especially the druggist’sbill which had come in the morning’s mail withthat hopeless letter from her brother. They werenothing now—new hope, new courage had entered herheart.

Now it happened that Sue had come in fresh androsy from a walk, glowing with health this fine Aprilafternoon, and had brought Pierre Lamont home withher. There is no secret about where she found him,nothing could have been more public or more innocentthan their chance meeting on Fifth Avenue before theReservoir, that solid and dignified monument with itswavy covering of ivy, which Joe considered the mostimpressive mass of stone in the city, with Bryant Parkas its back yard, and enough Croton water soundlyheld within its four solemn Egyptian walls to have satisfiedthe most rabid of teetotalers, and before whichLamont’s patent-leather shoes and English buff-coloredspats shone resplendently almost every afternoon betweenfour and five. Indeed, he was so familiar afigure on Fifth Avenue, that his absence was noticedby many whose daily habit it was to see and be seenalong the city’s most fashionable highway. More thanone man noted in passing the cut and pattern ofLamont’s clothes before ordering his own. Andthough, unlike Beau Brummel, he did not actuallyset the fashion, they could rest assured that everythinghe wore was of the latest. The newest derbywas his the day after it appeared in the window of[163]the best hatter. He was a connoisseur as well ingloves and walking-sticks. He was said to pay aformidable price for his clothes, and they were conspicuousin return for their smartness and good taste.At least he dressed like a thoroughbred and a gentleman,and his ease and good looks carried him alongtriumphantly through many an escapade.

Like Bompard, that idle Norman of Maupassant’s,Lamont “was born with an unbelievable aptitude todo nothing, and an immoderate desire never to disturbthat vocation.” This, however, did not prevent himfrom amusing himself, or of taking a flier on risingstocks, or the races now and then, with his wife’smoney. It is safe to say, he worked harder in amusinghimself than any other New Yorker of his time, andsince there is no more strenuous existence than thedaily pursuit of pleasure, no wonder that the silvertouch to his temples was whiter for his years thanmost men’s, though even at thirty-five he had theclean-cut, bronzed complexion of a boy and the handsof a nobleman. Had Jean Valjean encountered him,he would have given him some sound advice; he wouldhave said to him, as he did to Montparnasse: “Someday you will see others afar off working in the fields,and they will seem to you to be resting.” A counselthat clever footpad and criminal jeered at while theold ex-convict held him by the collar—quite as Lamontwould have jeered—for every gentleman’s ways are hisown, are they not?—and of no one else’s business.

Lamont knew Fifth Avenue as well as any man could[164]know it, and as there is always one popular side toevery thoroughfare, he chose that flanking the Reservoir,his promenade carrying him as far up as theFifth Avenue Church, and as far down as the HotelBrunswick, which he invariably crossed over to fora co*cktail and a look over the coach horses, and whereoften several people from London of his acquaintancewere stopping.

Any one with half an eye could have seen how frequentlysociety women whom he knew stopped togreet him. He made a tall, handsome figure as hebent over them, chatting about the dinner of thenight before, or the cotillon, or the play, or the newlot of débutantes. They thought him fascinating—andhe was. When a woman spoke to him, she spokedirectly into his brilliant black eyes. In her presencehe was always in a state of irrepressible good-humor,agreeing with her in everything, and skilful enough,you may be sure, never to criticise her rival. Thathe forced a would-be friendly smile from others, inpassing, of no acquaintance whatsoever, was purelyhis own affair—and theirs. He always knew what tosay instantly, no matter who she was, or where heimagined they had last met. No Italian could havebeen more gallant, and no Frenchman more courteousor experienced.

He had seen Sue’s trim, slender little figure aheadof him step from the overcrowded stage, gain the sidewalk,and turn rapidly down Fifth Avenue. Instantlyhe quickened his pace, drawing up to her, Sue unconscious[165]that he was following her, until he smilinglylifted his hat.

“Hello, little playmate!” he laughed. “And whereare you going, pray tell?” Sue started and turned.

“Why, Mr. Lamont! Why, I’m going home,” saidshe. “Isn’t it a glorious day! The stage was sonoisy and stuffy I couldn’t stand it any longer. I justhad to get out and walk.”

“Home,” he ventured, with the vestige of a sigh.“May I come?”

“Why—why, yes, of course you may,” she laughedback, “if you’d really like to,” swept off her feet bytheir sudden meeting and his quick proposal.

“Like to!” he smiled. “If you only knew howgood you are to ask me. I’m so wretchedly lonelyto-day.”

“Now, Mr. Lamont, that’s a fib and you know it.You don’t mean to tell me you’re lonely on a day likethis? It’s too glorious. Did you ever see such a sky?”

“I hadn’t noticed it,” he confessed, slipping deftlyto her left side. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed, lookingup. “Marvellous! It’s blue, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t think it was green, did you, like themoon? They say it’s really made of green cheese,”she laughed mischievously. “Isn’t it just the mostadorable blue? Don’t you think New York skies arewonderful? Didn’t you ever wish you were a swallow,and could go skimming about in that exquisite space?Think of it.”

“But I don’t want to be a swallow,” said he, swinging[166]his stick. “I cannot imagine anything more deadlydull than being a swallow. I enjoy my flights of imaginationmuch more, I assure you. How well you look.”

She glanced up at him with an embarrassed littlesmile, her pretty teeth gleaming whiter than the singlesmall pearl at her throat.

“It’s wonderful how New York agrees with you,”he declared, as they strode on past the white marblebalustrade of the Stewart mansion, his eyes taking inat their ease the dimples in her rosy cheeks, and thefull color of her lips. “Do you know there’re lots ofgirls here who’d give anything for your color. They’refaded out, poor little dears, with too much rich foodand dancing; never get to bed until morning, andseldom out of it until noon. I never give a débutantemore than six months to look as old as her chaperon.”

“I think we’d better cross here,” she said, as theyreached Madison Square; “it’s shorter.”

“Careful,” said he.

His hand grasped her soft arm tenderly. She felthis strength as he guided her firmly between the passingcarriages, his grip relaxing again to a gentle pressurethat was almost a caress as they reached theopposite curbstone in safety.

“Thank you,” said she, a little flushed. His lighterprattle had subsided. On their way through thesquare they fell quickly into their bond of commonsympathy—music—of which he knew and talked asfluently as a professional—a wider knowledge sadlylacking in Joe, whose limitations were confined to the[167]tunes he could whistle. He filled her eager ears witha host of interesting remarks about the true value ofthe diminished seventh, explaining to her how it wasoften overdone meaninglessly, like many pyrotechnicdisplays in chromatic scales meant to épater the audience,and which no sane composer would think of lettingrun riot in his orchestration. “Meaningless pads,”he called them, and Sue clearly understood. By thetime they had cut through Fourth Avenue and UnionSquare, he had explained to her the difference betweenthe weird, cold harmonies of Grieg and the subtlerpassion of Chopin, carrying her on to the orchestraleffects of Tschaikowsky, and how he produced them.Then in lighter vein he spoke of Planquette and hismerry “Chimes of Normandy,” and of Planquette’ssnug little villa among his pines and flower-beds onthe Norman French coast, which he had been to andhad had many a good day’s shooting from Planquette’ssnipe-blind close by on the dune, in ear-shot of hispiano—of what a genial host he was.

Sue strolled on by his side, absorbed as a child inthe midst of a fairy-tale. By the time they reachedWaverly Place, she had had the most delightful walkof her life. “How could he ever be lonely,” shethought, “with all those memories? Why had he nottold her more of them before?” She began to feelsorry for her treatment of him that brilliant tragicevening at the Van Cortlandts’, and almost confessedit to him as they went up the stoop together and sheopened the dingy black walnut door with its ground-glass[168] panels, one of which depicted Fortune hugging adusty sheaf of wheat, and the other, Mercury in fullflight through a firmament of sand-blasted clouds. Hefollowed her up the stairs. Nothing escaped him,neither the mat which Ebner Ford had placed himselfin front of his threshold, with a deep “Welcome”branded on it in red letters, or the Rogers group whichMrs. Ford had generously given to the niche in thehallway, and which portrayed a putty-colored fatherreading the evening paper to the spellbound delightof his wife and five putty-colored children.

Mrs. Ford, who had just put her hat on and caughtsight of them as they came up the stoop, rushed instantlyto the piano; she flew at the most difficult partof her chef-d’œuvre, “The Storming of Sebastopol,”with a will, as if nothing had happened, as if Mr.Pierre Lamont was not only then actually ascendingthe stairs to her door, if he had not already reachedit; whereas the delighted expectancy of that lady wasso intense, that she mistook the loud pedal for thesoft, opening a broadside from the English fleet atprecisely the moment Sue opened the door. Her surpriseas her small, pudgy hands left the keyboard inthe position her “Manual for Beginners” decreed, canbe imagined!

“Why, Mr. Lamont!” she exclaimed effusively, forgettingshe had never met him, oblivious to her daughter’shasty introduction. “How good of you to come.”

“We met at the Reservoir,” declared Sue frankly,laying aside her hat and jacket, and patting her fair[169]hair neatly in place before the mirror over themantel.

“By chance, I assure you, Mrs. Ford,” explainedLamont, his Parisian code of delicacy in such matterstactfully coming to the rescue.

“Well, I’m glad you did,” beamed the mother.“Don’t you think she looks splendidly, Mr. Lamont?”

She slipped an arm lovingly about her daughter’sneck.

“I’ve already complimented Miss Preston uponthat,” he returned graciously.

“Now, Mr. Lamont, you know how I hate compliments,”protested Sue.

“But when they’re true,” he laughed, seating himselfupon the new gilt chair Mrs. Ford had offered him.

“Mr. Lamont, I tell her she is much too modest,with all her talents,” the mother declared, framing therosy cheeks in her hands, much to Sue’s embarrassment.

“After all, Mrs. Ford,” returned Lamont, “is thereanything more charming than modesty in a younggirl? Isn’t that a talent in itself? Most girls are soridiculously conceited nowadays—often over nothing, Iassure you.” He sat gracefully at his ease, his ringedhands still gloved, still holding his stick and hat, muchto the mother’s surprise and anxiety—another Parisianmethod—a formality he carefully observed in callingupon young girls in the presence of their mothers.Had she been his fiancée he would have done the samein France. Had she been alone, married or widowed,with the door liable to open at any instant by husband[170]or friend, at least they would have found his presencecorrect and above suspicion, since it can be logicallyargued by the French that a gentleman whose handsare enslaved with his gloves, hat, and stick cannotpossibly make love any more than the ostrich canpursue his mate with his head in the sand.

Mrs. Ford’s anxiety was noticeable.

“Do let me take your stick and hat,” she ventured,unable longer to repress her fears of his possible suddendeparture. He seemed to give them to her almostunwillingly, peeling off his dogskin gloves and expressinghimself as deeply touched by her welcome, andadding that he feared he was “very much de trop,” ashe noticed that she was about to go out.

“You must be frank with me, Mrs. Ford; I fear Iam keeping you,” he declared, rising briskly.

“You see, darling,” she explained to Sue, “I wasjust going around to see the little Jones girl; she’sbeen desperately ill, you know. You mustn’t thinkof going, Mr. Lamont. You’ll excuse me, won’t you?—andyou’ll make yourself at home, won’t you?You’ll stay to tea, of course. Just one moment whileI tell the maid.”

“Won’t you please go on telling me more of thewonderful things of your life, Mr. Lamont?” pleadedSue, as her mother returned. “Oh, mother, I havehad such a glorious walk. If you could only haveheard all the interesting things Mr. Lamont has beentelling me. Do tell me more about Planquette. Thinkof it, mother—Mr. Lamont actually knew him.”

[171]“Oh, do!” exclaimed Mrs. Ford. “How interesting—oh,dear! I wish I could stay, but I must see theJones girl. They’ll be hurt if I don’t, you know,deary,” she smiled, nodding to Sue. “But you’recoming again, aren’t you, Mr. Lamont?” she insisted,grasping his hand warmly.

“I should be charmed to,” said he, and bowed overher hand; in fact, he lifted it to his lips, a gesture Mrs.Ford had read about in novels and seen on the stage,but had never experienced. Her startled, embarrasseddelight did not escape him.

“Then you can tell me all about Planquette,” saidshe, beaming over the honor he had bestowed uponher finger-tips. “Planquette! What a wonderful manhe was, wasn’t he? Of course, we’ve all read hisbooks, his ‘Miserables’ was one of my father’s favorites.Grand, isn’t it, Mr. Lamont? So full of quaint pathosand humor. I’ve simply shrieked over it when I wasa girl.”

“But, mother dear,” exclaimed Sue, “we were speakingof Planquette, the composer—not Victor Hugo!”

“Why, of course—how stupid of me.”

“I was just telling your daughter,” he explained,“that I happened to know Planquette, you see, becausemy mother and I used to rent a little villa inCabourg for the summer, not far from his on the Normandycoast. We lived in France several years, Mrs.Ford, long after my schoolboy days there.”

“Think of it! Well, I never; and you really livedin France. Of course you speak the French language[172]fluently. They say the French are so excitable. CoraSpink ought to know. She lived a whole month rightin Paris, among the French. She said they pull andhaul you about so.”

The smile he had been able to repress for the lastfew minutes got the better of him. He grinned.

“I never found them so,” he confessed quietly.“They’re the kindest and calmest people in theworld.”

“S’pose you’ve seen everything,” she affirmed, edging,to Lamont’s intense relief, toward the door. “Theguillotine, and the Opera House, and where Napoleonis buried.”

Her small, pudgy hand hesitated on the big, white-chinaknob, while she added:

“How well I remember my father’s engravings ofthese. They hung in the hall of our ancestral mansionin North Carolina. Mr. Snyder, an artist neighborof ours, told my father—I remember so well—itwas just after he became judge—that they were quitevaluable. Father was a great admirer of the French.I recall him now going down into the cellar himself todecanter some old French brandy we had, the finest,they used to say, in the State of North Carolina, Mr.Lamont—as they always said,” she declared proudly,“what the judge didn’t have under his roof, no otherNorth Carolinian did. Now I must be going. Thatlittle girl’s ears are tingling, I know, to hear moreabout your wonderful discoveries. Good-by—or,rather, au revoir I should say, shouldn’t I?”

[173]She waved her hand lightly toward them both.

“Au revoir, madame,” he returned, with a low bow.

The door with the china knob closed. She wasgone, her step growing fainter down the stairs, andwhen at last she opened that half of the front doorbearing Fortune hugging her sheaf of wheat, closed itwith a click, and had stepped over the whirling dustand two circulars of a dentist celebrated for his cheapprices, and had made her way safely down the stoop,and Sue, with her back to her precious Chippendaletable, started to break the awkward silence that hadfollowed her mother’s departure, Lamont stretched outboth hands to her pleadingly.

“Come!” he exclaimed, softly. “Let us have agood talk. I have so much to say to you. Won’t yousit there?” he entreated, nodding to the sofa.

He saw, with sudden delight, that her lips werequivering, and felt half the battle won.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, tenderly, his handhovering temptingly over her smooth shoulder, thepink flesh veiled by the thin, dark-blue sheen of herblouse.

“Nothing,” she returned faintly, her voice trembling.“Oh! Mr. Lamont, please don’t ask me.”

“Are you lonely, too?” he asked. “Something hashappened—something I’ve said, perhaps——”

He bent over her.

“Tell me. Have I hurt you? Tell me, dear—haveI?”

She did not lift her eyes. Two big, hot tears blurred[174]them, and went their own way down her burningcheeks. His word, “dear,” had had its effect.

“I can’t tell you,” she protested painfully.

“But you must,” he insisted. “I’ve seen a lot, littlegirl. There’s nothing that you could ever tell me thatI wouldn’t understand.”

She made a brave effort to meet his eyes candidly.

“It wouldn’t be right,” she declared. “That is—itwouldn’t be loyal of me. Oh! can’t you understand?I should hate myself—afterward.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Then it is more serious thanI supposed.”

“You couldn’t help me, if I did tell you,” she managedto say at length. “No one can help me. I’vejust got to go on and bear it, I suppose.”

“But I wouldn’t tell a soul,” he insisted, his lipsclose to her cheek. “And perhaps I could help you.Little girl—whatever it is I’ll never tell a soul. There—doyou believe me? Ah! my poor little playmate—youwere so happy this afternoon when wemet.”

“I’m never really happy,” he heard her murmur.“I’ve never been really happy for a whole day in mylife,” she continued, twisting her handkerchief nervouslyinto a hard moist knot. “Oh, can’t you understand?”

“And who has?” he argued cheerily. “Happy fora whole day! Ah, no, my dear! One is never happyfor a whole day. Happiness is never more than aquestion of seconds, and even they are rare. Happy[175]for a whole day! Parbleu! you do not ask much, doyou, little gourmande.”

“So many people are happy,” she faltered.

“You’re not ill?” he ventured. “Bah! Not withthat splendid health of yours. Then what? Tell me,are you in love?”

She started.

“If you are, you’d better get out of it—love’s a terriblegame. It doesn’t pay. It’s about as stupid apastime as being jealous. Your eyes are too blue tobe jealous. Come, be frank with me—am I right?”

“Your life’s so different,” she weakened to explain.

“My life? Ah! my poor little playmate, and so youconsider my life’s a happy one—married to a womanwho never loved me from the first.”

“Oh, please!” she protested.

“Whose indifference,” he continued, “has taken theheart out of me at last, whose entire interest lies inher club and her women friends. I did love her; Iloved her madly—madly, do you understand?—but,what’s the use? Ah, non, mon Dieu!” he cried. “Realhappiness in life lies in a good comrade,” and wouldhave gone on further to explain, but checked himself.“I see,” he said after a moment. “It’s this,” he ventured,sweeping his black eyes dramatically over theugly little room.

She gave him a startled look in protest.

“I don’t blame you, my dear.”

She feared he would continue. He had guessed thetruth, and to her relief ceased speaking, not daring[176]for the moment to touch even as skilfully as he couldupon her impossible mother, or her stepfather, whomhe could imagine by hearsay but had never seen.Nothing, in fact, escaped him; neither the sordid commonnessof the apartment, with its hodgepodge ofbad taste, its dingy semblance of comfort, or themother’s effusive ignorance. He had reached thatperiod in his suit when he felt that he was wastingtime, when he longed to take this little rose that hadtumbled into all this common débris of the boresomeand the ordinary into his arms.

She was again on the verge of confessing to him,innocently enough, at least how much pretty thingsappealed to her. Deep down in her young heart(though she was too loyal to confess it) she saw clearlyher mother’s ignorance and her failings; still deeperdown she abhorred Ebner Ford. Even her respectfor him had vanished shortly after her mother’s marriage.He had even lied to her about the little moneyshe had earned and had given him. And yet she endedby saying simply:

“Mother is so silly at times.” Even this she softenedby the fact that she loved her dearly.

“You seem so out of place in all this,” he declaredtensely, and so suddenly that before she knew it hehad seized her swiftly in his arms. “Sue—listen tome!”

“Don’t!” she gasped faintly, every nerve in herquivering in a helpless effort to free herself.

“Sue! Listen to me—you poor darling!” She[177]strained away from him, covering her lips with herclenched hands while he sought her fresh youngmouth.

“Don’t!” she pleaded. “Oh, please! Please!Plea——”

He stifled her words with his lips, in a kiss that lefther trembling and dazed. Only when he saw the fearin her eyes, did he open his arms and release her. Wellsatisfied with his work, his black eyes gleaming, thememory of her lips aflame within him, and she standingthere sobbing, her flushed face buried in her hands,did not lessen in the least for him the brief ecstasy ofthat moment.

She tried to cry out, to speak, but her voice failedher, despite the revulsion within her—all was so new,so terrible to her. Nothing was new to Pierre Lamont.It had been like a good draft of wine. He had drainedhis glass.

“I hate—you—” she stammered, but he expectedthat. Quick to hold that which he had won, he forcedher burning hands into his own, pleading with her toforgive him, that he was only human, after all; thatshe had made him forget at least one moment of hisown unhappiness; that if she had any pity in her heart,it was time to show it now; that she had haunted himever since that afternoon he had played for her atMrs. Van Cortlandts’, though he was quick to passover any further mention of her name (Rose, whomhe met daily, the days he could not meet her beingspent drinking morosely at his club). Again he begged[178]her to listen to him, to forgive him; he grew even humblein his promises, until she half believed him, andsuffered herself to be led to a seat beside him on thesofa—still dazed and fearing his dominating insistence—poisonedwith that subtle gentleness of his, and thelow, earnest tone in his voice, a voice that promisedher immunity from any further display of his emotions,while she sat there, twisting her moist little handkerchiefinto a harder knot and trying hard to keep backthe tears.

That was exactly what happened, wasn’t it, Lamont?But since you are no fool, you did not jeopardize herwelfare. Life has made you what you are, and ofcourse it is no fault of yours. Who gave you thatpower to hypnotize? Experience; long experience.With your good looks and your clever tenderness youhave won a hundred victories over the defenseless andthe weak that the world has never known, you handsomeblackguard. Some day you will find your match,as you found her once in Paris—that little seamstresswho never liked you—do you remember? The onewho lived next to the creamery on the Rue Blanche andsaved her sous and her sentiment, and who calmlydropped you a word one afternoon, and the next foundyou sailing from Havre. You even took a first-classticket—as if the police are fastidious as to what classa man they’re after travels in.

“What did he think of her? What could he thinkof her?” she thought—afraid to ask him.

“Please go,” she murmured, at length, her breath[179]coming in short gasps. “Won’t you go now?” shepleaded.

“And you’ll forgive me?” he insisted. “We’regoing to be old friends, aren’t we? Just as we werebefore—and forget all about it.”

“I’ll try,” she breathed.

“You know I wouldn’t hurt you for the world—youknow that, don’t you?”

She nodded, in silence.

“Tell me!”

“Yes,” she said, half audibly, meeting his eyes bravely.

“When may I see you again?” he ventured easily,rising to his feet.

“I—I don’t know—perhaps never. It depends somuch on you.”

“There! That’s better—of course, it depends onme. We’ll be good friends—you shall see. I keepmy promises, you know. There—are you happier?”

She did not answer. Before he could speak, hisquick ear and hers caught the sound of the front dooropening, and her mother’s step on the stairs. Instinctivelyshe flew to her room to freshen her tear-stainedface and rearrange her hair. In less time than it tookMrs. Ford to reach her door Sue was beside him,looking remarkably calm and neat under the circ*mstances,he thought, for her age. The next momenthe bent ceremoniously over her hand as Mrs. Fordrushed into the room, bursting with good news overthe little Jones girl, and overjoyed to find him stillthere. Her delight being of short duration, since before[180]she was fully aware of it, he had graciously takenhis leave, allaying her fears with so sincere a promiseto call soon again, that she followed him out into thehall, and sent him three au revoirs down the stairs, asthe last vestige of him passed Fortune and her dustyharvest. Even then she flew to the window, her mouthas small as a button, pursed in expectation, but he didnot look up. He was thirsty and wanted a drink, andwith that foremost in his mind, set out briskly for theHotel Brunswick, where he met Dicky Riggles, whowas drunk, and his bulldog, who was sober—and soon down to Rose Van Cortlandt, who had been waitingfor him in the café of the old Martin, where she halfforgot her bad temper in conversing in her worstFrench to a patient waiter, who spoke it fluently.

And where do you suppose they dined? Close by,on the corner, at Solari’s, that fine old house with itsblinds always closed and its door always open, andwhere Rose became even cheerful over the best green-turtlesoup in the whole world and as mellow andconvincing a bottle of Moulin à Vent as was ever bornon the sunny flanks of Burgundy—a pure and noblewine, discreetly served by an aged waiter. They werethe only persons in the spotlessly clean old dining-room,as old-fashioned as the bar down-stairs, whosemarble statues of “The Three Graces” always seemedto be thinking of the past.

“Well, darling, you have had a gala-day, haven’tyou?” exclaimed Mrs. Ford, bustling excitedly backfrom her disappointed vigil at the window. “Why,[181]my dear, he’s simply charming. Such manners! Didyou notice his rings? Superb, weren’t they? Tellme, honey, was the tea nicely served?”

“Mr. Lamont said he never touches it—so—so wedidn’t have any,” explained Sue, wearily enough forher mother to notice it.

“Headache, honey?” she asked tenderly. “I’m sodistressed about the tea, deary. I did want him tosee my new embroidery.”

“It’s nothing, mother—only one of my old headaches.I’ll be all right after a little nap.”

“I hope he didn’t notice it, darling. Tell me—didI look nicely?”

“Why, of course, mother——”

“Didn’t he think my new hat becoming? Don’ttell me he didn’t, for I know he did. He could hardlytake his eyes off it—such a sweet surprise from father,wasn’t it?”

“Mr. Lamont didn’t mention it, mother.”

“Well,” she sighed, laying the new jet bonnet overthe two-handed copy of “The Storming of Sebastopol”on top of the piano, “I suppose he sees so many,doesn’t he?”

“I’m sure he does, mother,” Sue returned quietly,moving wearily to the new gilt chair he had occupied—anotherone of Ebner Ford’s recent munificent surprises,which she put back in its place next to thepiano, a formidable-looking black upright with a weaktone, its fret-sawed front backed with magenta satin.Then she entered her bedroom and closed her door.

Ever since that memorable tea at Enoch’s, when hehad covered Sue’s hand with his own in the twilight,and sat there under the spell of her voice, Joe had beenworking like a beaver. A whole week had passed, andthough they lived under the same roof, he had onlyseen Sue twice. Once in the presence of her mother,and two days after Lamont’s visit, which she did notmention, when he had taken her to see the menageriein Central Park. Those few moments in the twilightat Enoch’s had made them friends—good friends—abrotherly sort of friendship, which Joe was too frankand honest, and too timid to develop into anythinglike Mr. Lamont’s European love-making, and whichSue was the happier for, since she had not yet quiterecovered from that tragic afternoon that had left herdazed, and in a state of remorse that took all hercourage to conceal from her mother. There is nothingthat wins the heart of a pure young girl more thanimplicit confidence. Yet no one was more in ignoranceof this than Joe. In the Park they talked on beforethe eagle and the bear, the sleepy lioness, and the alertpacing wolves, of a lot of happy, wholesome things,and when he finally brought her home she left himwith her promise to walk with him again “whenever[183]he pleased,” and with that he left her, elated, rememberinghe had also promised her a variety of things,one being that he was going to do his best to makea success in his profession.

To Atwater’s slow amazement, a change had comeover his partner—this time for the better. Joe gotdown to the office on time, and left it late. Atwaterhad a punctilious idea about time that disgusted Joe.He even went so far as to place a neatly ruled pad inthe entrance of their modest office, with a pencil tetheredby a string attached, so that their two aids, theconscientious Swiss draftsman and the silent Swede,whose methodical calculations on building strains guaranteedthat Joe’s artistic architectural dreams wouldnot fall down and kill people, might truthfully recordthe hour of the Swiss and the Swede’s coming andtheir going. Joe considered it an insult. He appealedto the dignity of his partner about it, as suggestingthe rigorous discipline of a sweat-shop or a penitentiary.He argued that both the Swiss and the Swede werehonorable fellows, whose heart and soul were in theirwork, and that it was no way to get the best work outof a man by treating him every morning and eveningwith humiliating distrust and forcing him to swear tohis presence to the minute over his signature. Atwaterwas adamant, however. He could not see theidyllic loyalty which Joe imagined. He explained toJoe that the Swiss was a high-priced man; that timewas money, and that they were paying him fifty dollarsa week; as for the Swede, he got thirty. Then there[184]was that baseball maniac of a red-headed office boy,who got five, and who hoped some day to escape fromslavery and pitch ball for a salary. Atwater provedhe was right. The Swede got to be popular in a near-bycafé, and the conscientious Swiss fell in love with agirl who lived on the horizon of Brooklyn; whereasthe office boy forged the lack of promptitude of bothfor remuneration enough to provide himself liberallywith pink ice-cream and cigarettes. And when finallyAtwater fired all three and replaced them by threeseemingly worthy successors, Joe began to see the wisdomof the time system, and even signed it himself.

There were late afternoons now when Joe lighted thewhistling gas-jet over his drawing-board and kept onworking after the closing hour—Atwater often leavingword with the janitor that “Mr. Grimsby was stillup-stairs.” More than this, Joe had been peggingaway over his new idea in gauche and gray paper, andhad already made a stunning big drawing in color forthe Lawyers Consolidated Trust Company Building,a job he and Atwater had recently tackled in competition,with the result that it was hung in the crypt ofthe Academy, away down underneath the stairs in acorner, where a prowling critic with a lighted matchdiscovered it and gave it an honorable mention in anevening paper.

“A clever and original rendering,” said he, “isshown by Mr. Joseph Grimsby in his competitiondrawing for the Lawyers Consolidated Trust Company.[185]We predict for this young architect a brilliantfuture.” It was on the tip of his pen, no doubt, toadd: “Call again, Joe,” since the beginning of hiscareer as an art critic dated scarcely two weeks previous,when he had been a reporter on the weekly newsof his home town on the Hudson, a journal devotedto live stock and visiting.

What the painters said was different. These stronglyopinionated personages spoke a different language.They considered Joe’s basem*nt effort “clever,” butwere frank in saying that his somewhat amusing trickin gauche and gray paper had no artistic value whatsoever.Certain important members of the hangingcommittee poohpoohed it, hesitated—and condescendedfinally to send it to the basem*nt. Certainlyit was not allowed to mar the ensemble of the galleriesup-stairs, hung with the product of good, bad, andindifferent painters, many of whom had a highly estimatedopinion of their own work, and deplored thelack of artistic sense in the general public to appreciateit. Narrow minds and narrow lives make few friends.For several years Enoch had seen the exhibition open.It always seemed to him to be the same exhibition—revarnishedand rehung. The same cows came downto drink, the same fishing-smacks put out to sea inmelodramatic weather, and the same sweet and unapproachablegirl in the colonial doorway smiled onwith her constant companion, a red, red rose. Therewere soggy wood interiors with rippling turpentinedbrooks; slick sunsets and sunrises, stippled beyond a[186]finish; but what were lacking, Enoch declared, “weremen who saw nature freshly and vigorously, with openeyes, and the dear courage of their convictions tosmash pat upon a canvas something that was reallyreal.”

Enoch had again made his annual tour of the galleriesand came down-stairs in so savage a humor, grumblingto himself over the “rot,” he called it, he hadseen, that more than once he stopped on the broadflight to express his views to a painter of his acquaintance,finally opening up on Mr. Combes, the famouscollector, with so much vibrancy, that it took the oldconnoisseur’s breath away.

“Rot, Combes,” he repeated; “scarcely a canvas inthe lot that has a vigorous note in it. A lot of tomfooleryin paint. That’s what our modern art is comingto—and what’s more, Combes,” he exclaimed outloud (unheeding that he was in ear-shot of others, andnot caring if he was), “it gets worse yearly,” and withthis he started to go out, chucking the catalogue hehad purchased away in the vestibule, when he caughtsight of the small exhibit beneath the stairs, turnedback and glanced hurriedly over it, and to his surpriseand delight found Joe’s competition drawing.

“By the gods!” he exclaimed, rewiping his spectaclesand searching out every inch of the big drawingin gauche. “And so that good fellow did that, didhe? No wonder they stuck it out of sight—too goodfor ’em.”

He sprang back up the stairs after Combes, found[187]him after a search through the galleries, and insistedon his coming down with him.

“Look at it, man!” he cried with enthusiasm. “Seehow he’s handled that sky. Look at the truth andclearness of his shadows. Knew where to stop, too,didn’t he——”

“Very original, Crane,” confessed the connoisseur.“Um! Very original, indeed. A new method, as yousay—but not a very interesting subject——”

“What’s the subject got to do with it?” retortedEnoch testily. “I tell you a fellow who can do thatcan do anything. It opens a brand-new field in water-color.It’s his vigorous handling, never mind the subject.How many architectural drawings have youseen that come within a mile of it? Why, the boy’sa genius.”

“Know him?” ventured the connoisseur, fearing afresh outburst.

“Know him! I should think I did know him. Oneof the cheeriest and best fellows in the world. Livesin my house. Simple as they make them. You’ll hearmore of him some day, my friend, mark my word.”

Then the two strolled out together, Enoch’s exitbeing noticed by more than one painter with relief.He had expressed his opinions openly before in thegalleries, and was not popular. He had also madeseveral speeches relative to his views on modern artat several public dinners, which did not increase hispopularity, either. Furthermore, he had taken thepains to write a series of articles—one upon the lack[188]of good taste in both modern painting and architecture,which made him enemies—strongly accenting, ashe did, the timely necessity of giving architecture afar more distinguished place in art than it was given.“A place,” he would thunder away, “which Greecegave it, and which the world has recognized for centuries.”He used to expound upon the beauty andplain common sense in the classic compared with thehodgepodge of new styles—or, rather, the attempt tocreate a new style, which always amounted to the usualjumble and stupid elaboration. “There’s no jumblein the classic,” he’d declare hotly, with all the vehemenceof his conviction. “Start from the very ground—thefoundations of their buildings, and you can tracea logical growth of base, column, capital, and architrave,to the apex of roof, not an unnecessary detail—morethan that, the Greeks knew the value of aplain surface as a rest for the eye.” At which therewas always sound applause from the architects, and adoubtful grumbling among the painters, whose failingit was, declared Enoch, “always to overelaborate.”

“Some of you fellows,” he’d cry out, “never seemto know when to stop.” It was a favorite expressionwith him to say the next day:

“I got on my hind legs, and gave it to them straightfrom the shoulder.”

If he was often a convincing orator, despite hisalmost savage brusqueness at times, it was because hewas (and few people knew it) a most able lawyer,though his business life was always more or less of a[189]mystery. That he actually had an office was knownonly to a few friends. It was many years since hehad practised law. Somehow that modest office ofEnoch’s in South Street contained memories that weredear to him. He was loyal to it. Did he not pay itsrent in its old age? And now and then came to see it,to spend an hour there in the company of his old desk—asolid, friendly old piece of oak, with eighteen deepand comfortable drawers and plenty of room for hislegs beneath. Here he would sit thinking of manythings of the past, of hard fights that had won legalvictories, under the spell of that pleasing sensationthat no human being could disturb him. Old McCarthy,the janitor, attended to that, and kept hissnug library of law-books very decently dusted, and Iverily believe that faithful Irishman would have goneas far as to tell an inquisitive visitor that “Mr. Cranewas long since dead and buried, and his office sealedup by the estate”—if such a thing were possible.

It was a cheerful, quiet little box of a place, afterall, and the sun when it shone never forgot to send itswarm rays across its worn and faded carpet. Thewhole place seemed to have been asleep for years, andonly awakened now and then to receive its owner.Very few were aware that Enoch owned the building,but he did, the question of lease and rent and paymentpassing through other hands, according to hisorders. How many of its occupants in years goneby had been in arrears and were astonished to findthat no one insisted on their departure! Somehow[190]they always paid in the end, yet they never knew thatthe testy and crabbed old lawyer, whose tirades againstcertain shrewd visitors could be plainly heard as faras the shaky, greasy elevator, was responsible for thekindly delay. He was kind, too, to the book-agent,especially the tired woman in the direst misery, bravelytrying to sell one of those thick and superb volumesthat are so often utterly useless to humanity. Howmany he talked to and sent away encouraged—oftenwith new and practical ideas to better their condition.

He reached home this afternoon, still grumblingover the exhibition, and full of enthusiasm over Joe’sdrawing.

“So Combes didn’t like the subject, did he? Combesis an ass,” he muttered, and arriving at Joe’s door,knocked thrice, found him out, hastily scribbled thefollowing on his visiting card, and slipped it beneathhis door:

Then he went on up to his room, where he made uphis mind to pay his respects to Joe at his office thenext morning. He paced around his centre-table, rubbinghis hands with satisfaction.

“I’ll give him a surprise,” he smiled. “I’ll take thatdear child with me; he deserves it.”

By some miracle, not a word had yet reached his[191]ears of Lamont’s call, though Mrs. Ford had lost notime in telling the Misses Moulton the very first timeshe found their door ajar, prattling on effusively toMiss Ann about Lamont’s charm, his knowledge, andhis princely manners.

As for Ebner Ford, he considered Lamont’s visitand his attentions to his stepdaughter purely in thelight of business prosperity, and already foresaw, owingto Lamont’s social position, the patronage of a vasthorde of fashionable people for his laundry company.More than once he was on the point of hunting upLamont, and having a plain talk with him, of explainingto him clearly, man to man, a proposition whichwould mean dollars to them both. He decided to offerhim something really worth while—a five per cent commissionon the net profits of every client sent by him.He already saw Lamont persuading dozens of housekeepers,whose wealth and social position were renowned,to part with their laundresses and confidetheir delicate fineries to The United Family LaundryAssociation—and had blocked out a circular to the effectthat the most expensive lingerie in the company’s carewould come out unscathed from the wash. If businesswarranted it they would put in a separate plantof machines, exclusively devoted to the fashionable set,replacing any garment damaged, for a price estimatedby an expert, and running ribbons for every lady clientfree of charge. And all this he explained to his wife,whom he had been parsimoniously spoiling of latewith poor little Miss Ann’s money.

[192]“Well, Em,” he concluded, “what do you thinkof it? Pretty encouraging, ain’t it?” Possibly forthe first time in her married life with him she putdown her plump foot firmly in opposition. She grewred and white by turns, and felt like weeping.

“What do I think of it, Ebner?” she replied nervously.“Why, I never heard of such a thing. Why,why, Mr. Lamont would be insulted. Why, he’dnever call on girlie again.” She looked at him withthe set expression of a small owl defying a hawk.

“Insulted, would he!” he broke out. “What’s hegot to be insulted about? Ain’t I offerin’ him a fairprice? Ain’t I? You can bet your life I am. Thereain’t no man yet that ever got insulted over five percent. Know what it means? Course you don’t, oryou wouldn’t talk like you’re doin’. Figger it out foryourself. Them fashionable women send more clothesto the wash in a week than some women do in a month.Think they’re going to stop at an extry handkerchief?Not much. Reg’lar extravagance with ’em. They gottasty, dainty things by the dozens. Take the shirt-waistsand the summer dresses alone. You’ve seenyourself how business has improved lately, ain’t you?”He nodded significantly to the new clock on the mantel,and glanced likewise at the new gilt chair with ahurt expression, as if neither had been really appreciated.“There’s your new bonnet, and your newdress, too, and there’s plenty more comin’ where theycame from, little woman.”

She walked over to him and put her short, fat arms[193]about his gaunt, red neck, begging him tearfully toforgive her.

“There! I shouldn’t have said a word,” she declared,wiping her eyes. “Only I’ve got daughter’swelfare to think of. And, oh, Ebner, you can’t understand,but think of what Mr. Lamont’s friendshipmay mean to her. Think of the entrée into societyhe can and will give her. I’m just as sure of it asmy name’s Emma Ford. He’d never in the worldagree to such a thing. He’s too much of a swell—holdshis head too high, dear.”

“There you go again,” he blurted out, pacing aroundher, his thumbs in the armholes of his fancy waistcoat.“I’ve a good mind to see him now and havea plain talk with him. He won’t refuse it, don’t youworry. He’d be a fool if he did.”

“Oh, please, Ebner, don’t,” she begged. “I’d—I’dbe mortified to death.”

“Won’t cost him a cent, will it, to decide? Anyway,”he returned, softening a trifle, “he can think thething over, can’t he?”

She did not reply.

“Can’t he?” he insisted.

She subsided meekly on the sofa.

“I don’t ask you to promise me anything, dear,”she continued feebly. “I’m not asking anything—amI?—only—” again her voice faltered—“only I’mthinking of girlie. Have you spoken to her about it?”

He wheeled around sharply and faced her.

“Spoken to her! No, I ain’t spoken to her, and I[194]ain’t a-goin’ to. She’s got idees about things thatain’t mine. She’s all dreams and music and singin’.She’s got her own line of business and I got mine.”

“Ebner!”

“Well, what—ain’t I right? If I had to confinemyself to song for a livin’ I’d go and hang myself.Ever see anybody get rich on art?” he sneered. “Iain’t. It’s noble, but there ain’t nothin’ in it. Neverwill be, an’ never was.”

She sat listening to him—the fresh tears starting toher eyes, but she had ceased to protest. What was theuse? He was like that at times, and she had learnedto let him have his say, to the end, like a barking dog.But in the end she felt convinced that for her sakehe would spare her feelings in regard to Lamont. Sheeven ventured that it would be better in any event towait until he became an older friend, and that he finallyagreed to, adding:

“Well, Em, you’ll have your way, I suppose, asusual; you generally do.”

He had been more right than wrong. Lamont wouldhave accepted the five per cent gladly, providing thelittle transaction was kept in secret, like that amiableagreement which existed between himself and his tailorin appreciation of the clients he sent him. Practicallyhalf his clothes were given him free of charge, and theother half for the wholesale price of the cloth alone.The customers he sent paid the difference. If it wasa question of wines, he always recommended a certainbrut champagne from Rheims. In the matter of cotillons[195]and caterers, he also had a marked preference.Indeed, very few among those of his women friendswho entertained lavishly would think of deciding thedetails of a cotillon or a large dinner without comingto “Pierre” for advice. There was nothing he wouldnot do for a woman. He was kindness itself, organizing,arranging, and all with so much good taste ineverything, so much originality, too, that the affair wasbound to be a success. Was it not he who thought ofthe live little rabbits for favors at the Jimmy Joneses’—ahuge success. Some even took them home, wherethey died from fright and rich food, or were given tothe grocer to be cared for and forgotten. Deliciousidea!

That which had not yet reached Enoch’s ears wasimparted to him the next morning by Mrs. Ford whenhe called for Sue, with all the effusiveness that hermother was capable of. Save for a sudden hard expressionthat crossed his face for an instant, and whichSue noticed, he received the news without a word ofprotest or remark. At the mention of Lamont’s nameand the fact that he had called, his square jaw stiffened.He had set his heart on taking Sue to Joe. He did notwish to spoil her morning’s pleasure, but in that briefmoment his disgust and bitterness toward Lamontreached a point which it took all his self-possession tocontrol, but control it he did. Mrs. Ford had neverseen him more gracious or more genial, and so theystarted off together, Sue insisting on walking.

[196]“But it’s a long way,” explained Enoch; “severalmiles, my dear.” She shook her pretty head.

“I don’t care,” she laughed. “Oh, do let’s walk,Mr. Crane,” she pleaded, “unless it’s—that is—unlessit’s too far for you.” And that, of course, settled thematter. They set out at a good pace together, Enochstubbornly holding it, and was amazed to find whenthey got as far as the post-office, that Sue confessedshe was “not in the least tired.” He strode along byher side, feeling younger, she keeping pace with himwith the stride of a slim young girl to whom walkingwas as easy as laughing or breathing. Now and thenthey stopped at the big store windows, Enoch explainingto her a host of interesting things about the methodsin manufacture of the articles displayed. Indeed,he was as well informed as an encyclopedia, and wheremost young girls would have been bored, Sue took alively interest in everything, and kept asking himmore and more questions. He explained to her aboutguns and fishing-tackle—the skill required in makinga perfect hexagonal trout-rod by hand, and how troutand salmon-flies were tied, mostly by young girls andwomen, whose deft fingers were far quicker and moreskilful than a man’s. He described to her in thematter of gun-barrels the difference between “twist”and “Damascus,” pointing out the beauty of the oldhammer-gun, in comparison with the new-fashionedhammerless, which he considered ugly and dangerous,and which, having no hammers, lacked the beauty ofline and the true personality of a fowling-piece. Before[197]the windows of the furriers, she listened to himwhile he told her of the habits of fur-bearing animals,and so they kept on, past the jeweller, the wholesalecobbler, and the fireproof safer—past cotton goods andbabies’ caps—buttons by the million, and hardware bythe gross. It was a far different conversational strollfrom Lamont’s. It was so entertaining, clean, andpractical. There was no subtle passion of Chopin init, and she was rather glad there was not. When atlast they reached State Street and entered the slipperyentrance of the banana and the lemon merchants’building, and had ascended the dingy stairs—dimlyillumined by a single gas-jet flaring under a piece ofsmoked tin, and at the end of a lemon-scented corridorhad opened the door of “Atwater & Grimsby,Architects,” and been sleepily greeted by the newoffice boy, who yawned over Enoch’s card and carriedit languidly into the drafting-room beyond—Sue waitedby Enoch’s side with very much the same feeling thata young girl would who had been persuaded into surprisinga young man who had not the remotest ideain the world she was there, and who, finding that shewas, rushed out, absolutely flabbergasted with delight.In his enthusiasm the young man first gripped Enochby both shoulders heartily, and then stretched forthboth hands in greeting to a young girl whom he consideredfar above all other young girls. Then hedragged them both into the drafting-room, where thetwo new draftsmen at work bowed to them solemnlyas they passed, and where Joe hurried into Atwater’s[198]private office to break the news to his partner, backof its board partition. Atwater heaved a sigh, calmlyrolled down his sleeves, washed his hands, disconsolatelycombed his hair, put on his coat, and came forth,but by this time the loveliest girl in the whole worldwas perched contentedly on Joe’s high drafting-stool,and eagerly poring over a mass of his sketches, Enochbending over one pretty shoulder and Joe over theother, while he explained how bad they were, andreceived in return more than one sincere little compliment,and a look in her dear eyes that thrilled him.

After a few brief moments of awkward welcome,Atwater excused himself and retired to his den, wherehe took off his coat, hung it back on its peg, rolled uphis sleeves again, ran his fingers through his hair, andwas about to say “Hell” very plainly, but checkedhimself and contented himself with “Gee whiz!” instead.They were more Joe’s friends than his, heargued to himself, as he rebent himself over a new lotof plumbers’ specifications. He knew there was nomore serious work for Joe that day. He had seen itin his eyes. He heard it now in his frank, cheerylaugh, that rang out and reached him over the boardpartition of his sanctum. He knew, too, that Joewould be capable of anything to make them feel athome, even to sending out for a little luncheon andserving it himself on his drawing-board. But it wasnot Paris. It was plain, hard, businesslike New York,where the conservative customs of the Puritan stillprevailed. There were no tender chickens, fresh[199]roasted—a half, a quarter, or even a wing—to be hadwithin a stone’s throw; no good-natured marchand devin to send up an excellent bottle of Burgundy fortwenty-three sous, and his wishes for the best of appetitesfor nothing. Here it was all cold pie and business—aplace where even millionaires gobbled their sandwichluncheons standing, a thing which even the poorestworkman in Paris would not think of doing—sinceto eat one must have not only plenty of time, but atable, a chair, a knife and fork, clean plates and deannapkins, hors-d’œuvres, a filled glass, salad and cheeseand coffee and a liqueur—all in a snug corner to hisliking, where he can talk to the proprietor and paycompliments to his wife, and discuss at his leisure anythingthat enters his head to the strong, bare-armedgirl who serves him.

“And what is this?” Sue asked with eager interest.

“Oh, that’s a little house we’re doing on Long Islandfor a bride-to-be,” Joe explained, pushing aside thepile of sketches Sue had been looking over, and revealingthe pinned-down tissue-paper tracing beneath hehad been at work on when they arrived.

“How fascinating!” exclaimed Sue. “Do tell meall about it.”

“Well, you see, it’s one of those modest matrimonialjobs,” laughed Joe, “where the fiancé and the bride-to-bewant luxury and comfort, and a stunning design,and plenty of closet room, and sea view, and sun inevery room, and——”

[200]“For next to nothing,” remarked Enoch.

“That’s it, Mr. Crane. For so little that it isn’teasy. Every foot counts—every inch sometimes.”And he began to explain the planning of the threefloors—placing one over the other, that Sue mightbetter understand their respective relations.

“I’ve given them a corking big dining-room, anyway,”Joe declared. “And here’s the guest-room overit, with two dandy bay windows looking out to sea.”

“And this room to the left?” ventured Sue.

“Oh! That’ll do for a billiard-room—or—or a nursery.It would make a rattling good studio, too—yousee, I thought it would be a good thing to leave themone room they could do what they liked with.”

“But where’s the kitchen?” Sue asked seriously.

“Well, you see—that’s just it. I’m hanged if Iknow where to put the kitchen. They’ll have to haveone, I suppose. I’ve been worrying over that kitchen.”

“Why don’t you put the kitchen up-stairs?” suggestedSue sweetly.

Joe started.

“But they never put kitchens up-stairs,” he exclaimed.

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” she declared. “Ican see a nice, big, airy kitchen under the roof—andthen, of course, you’d get rid of the smell.”

“By Jove! that’s an idea,” he cried. “A bully idea!Why, you’re wonderful! How did you ever happento think of that?”

“Oh! I don’t know,” she laughed, a little embarrassed.[201]“It just seemed to me practical, I suppose.I don’t see why people should always live over theirkitchens. Then you can have the kitchen and theservants all on one floor, out of the way.”

“Corking!” cried Joe. “By Jove, I’ll do it.”

“May I make a mark?” she ventured, picking uphis pencil.

“Anywhere you like—all over it, if you wish,” hedeclared eagerly.

They watched her—Enoch with grim delight, Joe insilent ecstasy, every mark of his pencil that her littlehand made dear to him—while she crossed out the topfloor partitions, indicating the new roof kitchen andthe arrangement for the servants’ rooms, with so muchclever ingenuity and womanly common sense thatEnoch regarded her with pride and amazement.

“There! Will that do?” she laughed, as she laidaside his pencil—warm from the pressure of her fingers—apencil which Joe seized the moment they hadgone, and kept in hiding in his top bureau drawer.

“Do? I should think it would do. It’s glorious,”cried Joe. The marks her pencil had made were preciousto him now.

“What a wonderful housekeeper you would make,my dear,” declared Enoch.

But she only flushed a little in reply and slippeddeftly from the high stool before either Joe or Enochcould assist her.

A few moments later they were gone, and Joe returnedto the throne her trim little figure had abandoned[202]and “got to work.” That is, he sat on hishigh stool and, with his chin in his hands, dreamedover every tender line she had drawn, but it was notarchitecture that absorbed his thoughts.

To Enoch’s surprise, Sue insisted on returning homealone in a car.

“Please don’t bother about me,” she told him ashe saw her aboard. It is quite possible that she divinedfrom his quickened step as they left Joe Grimsby thatEnoch had a pressing engagement, and that it wasalready nearly noon. Enoch did not insist—the factwas he had made up his mind to reach his club assoon as possible, waiting only for her to wave him acheery good-by from the car platform, and then turningat a rapid pace set out for the up-town Elevated.

En route he told himself that Joe was in love withher, but that Sue did not care for him. He felt thisstrongly. She had been too cheery in his presence,more interested in Joe’s work than himself, and hadlacked that telltale silent manner, which is an unfailingsign—the forerunner of melancholy, which is thesign of true love, indeed. Lamont was paramount inhis mind. He wondered what influence he had hadover Sue by his visit. Again he had determined tofind him. When he reached his club he shut his jawhard as he ascended the steps—muttering to himself,unconscious even that the doorman had welcomed himwith a respectful “Good morning, sir.”

A roar of laughter broke from the big front room asEnoch crossed the club’s hall. The volley of hilaritycame from a group of men seated around a small tablelittered with eight freshly drained co*cktail-glasses, asilver-plated bell with a hair-trigger, and three brazenash-trays heaped with cigarette butts. It was one ofthose high-keyed, cackling outbursts that peroratedthe point of a new story and left no possible doubtto the passer-by as to what kind of a story it was.Some stories, like some poisonous weeds, are born andthrive in the shade.

As Enoch entered the room, he saw, to his satisfaction,that Lamont was among the group. It was evident,too, from his manner and his quiet smile, thatthe tale had been of his telling. The merriment subsidedin chuckles; the group, still red to the gills fromlaughter, suddenly caught sight of Enoch, and one ofthose abrupt silences ensued, that told plainly he wasnot welcome. He came forward, however, receiving asullen glance of recognition from Lamont, a half-hearted“Hello, Crane!” from another, and a hesitating“Er—won’t you join us?” from a third, and thethird was Teddy Dryer.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Enoch, and drew upa chair, which they grimly made room for.

[204]“Take the orders, please,” he said, turning to thewaiter hovering back of him.

“They’re taken, Mr. Crane.”

“Take them again,” said Enoch sharply, and satdown.

“You missed it,” wheezed little Teddy Dryer at hiselbow, wiping his small, bleary eyes. “Lamont’s latestfrom Paris—a screamer—go on, Pierre, let’s have another—hotoff the stove this time, old top.”

“Go on,” shouted the rest (new stories were rare).“Encore! Encore!”

“All right,” acquiesced Lamont, leaning forward.“Here’s another,” and the group bent close in greedyexpectation, eager to catch every syllable, pricking uptheir co*cktail-ruddied ears, for it was not the sort ofa tale that could be shouted to the housetops.

Another roar broke forth as he finished—a talethat would have made a scullery-maid blush to herknees.

“Oh, Lord!” they wheezed when they could gettheir breath. “That’s the limit.”

“Where the devil did you get that, Pierre?” chokedTeddy Dryer.

“From a girl in Paris,” smiled Lamont; “a big brunettewho lived back of the Moulin de la Galette.Best-hearted girl you ever met. She said it was afact; that it happened to her.”

Enoch’s jaw stiffened, but he did not open his lips.

A clean tray with nine half-frozen Martinis arrived.The table, relieved of its stale litter of drained glasses,[205]became again the centre of thirsty interest, and thetalk drifted on into past and present scandal, in whichthe varied vicissitudes of those who had been unfortunateenough to marry were freely discussed; at lengtha circle of old friends were touched upon with a certainloyal camaraderie, and their womanly virtues extolled.Enoch was enlightened to the fact that they were all“thoroughbreds” and the “salt of the earth.” Someof them were exceedingly handsome, others still pretty—nearlyall of them, he learned, had cleverly managedto be freed from the bond of matrimony, looking nonethe worse for the experience, with a snug fortune as acomforting recompense. There were incidentally a fewchildren among them as an annoying hinderance to thefreedom their mammas had paid so dearly for, but aslong as there were governesses in the world and fashionableboarding-schools with short vacations, things werenot as bad as they might be.

The talk grew deeper, more confidential, and so lowin tone that the listening waiter caught next to nothing.He had, however, two new stories for the barman,and should have been content.

There were widows whose hearts and whose bank-accountswere large, and whose afternoon teas werepopular; the seasoned group about Enoch knew themall. Indeed, their daily lives would have been dullexistences without them. At their homes they metother charming women—and so it went. New Yorkwas not such a bad place after all. Some of thesefaithful pals of theirs were getting older, but that was[206]to be expected; besides, they were getting older themselves,and the woman of thirty—let us say thirty-six,to be truthful—was beginning to seem young to them.As for “the old guard,” their good hearts and presenceof mind had been tried and proven scores of times,never a reproach, God bless them, never—even whena fellow called after a heavy day at the club, the goodold welcome was there, the same genial gleam ofwomanly affection and understanding. Then thoseformal occasions—a bevy of people to tea when a chapleast expected it, and had to hang on like grim deathto his best manners, and the soberest corner of hisbrain to pass the trembling sandwiches, and keep acup of tea on its saucer with the skill of a juggler.Then on with a fresh whiskey and soda, served farmore daintily than at the club—the heavy, generousdecanter, the tall, frail glass, the Irish-lace doilies.Laughter, the fragrance of violets, those serious littletête-è-têtes which generally amount to nothing. Thewarm pressure of a hand in a formal good-by—bah!it is a dull game to be always drinking with men.Those interminable rounds at the club; the same dullmen and the same dull stories. Men bored Lamont.The horizon of his playground lay far beyond that ofmost of his friends. His knowledge of life, too. Whenthere were a woman’s eyes to drink to he lost no time—tohim the subtle spell of her whole being slipped,as it were, into his glass, quickening his pulse like amagic draft. What did it matter if he was now andthen dragged to the opera, that she might see and be[207]seen? There were moments which amply repaid thesacrifice.

Throughout it all Enoch had not opened his lips.He had absorbed their blasé twaddle about marriage,the hinderance of children, and had drunk in with increasingdisgust their eulogy over their various womenfriends. They had to a man at that table laid bareto him the worthlessness of their lives, their contemptibleegoism, the hollow mockery in which they heldlove. Even at the Rabelaisian tale of Lamont’s hehad held his tongue, but now the slow-gathering pent-uprage within him exploded, as sudden as a pistol-shot.

“It’s a cheap game some of you fellows are playing,”he cried hotly, wrenching forward in his chair and rivetinghis gaze on Lamont.

The rest stared at him in amazement.

“I mean exactly what I say—a cheap game—do youunderstand me?”

The muscles of his jaw quivered. A murmur ofgrumbling protest circled the table.

“I’m talking to you, Lamont,” he half shouted.“You seem to forget, sir, that there are some thingssacred in life.” He brought up his closed fist sharply.“That there are some good women in this world, whommarriage has made happy, whom children have madehappy, whom the love of an honest man has beena comfort and a blessing.”

“Oh! cut it out, Crane,” groaned fat Billy Adams.“We’re not here to listen to a sermon.”

[208]“To whom,” continued Enoch vibrantly, bringingdown his closed fist on the table’s edge, “men withyour blasé worldly ideas, your sapped and satiatedsenses, your ridicule of everything that stands forhonesty and common decency, your mockery of thatwhich life holds dear, are loathsome. That’s exactlythe word for it—loathsome.”

Lamont shifted back in his seat, flicking the ashesfrom his cigarette irritably—a sullen gleam in his blackeyes.

“I don’t see where my private affairs concern you,”he said evenly, while the rest watched him with batedbreath, wondering with lively interest if the next wordfrom Enoch would start a worse quarrel.

“Your private affairs concern me,” ripped out Enoch,“when they concern those who are dear to me. I neednot make it clearer—you understand perfectly whom Irefer to.”

There was a louder murmur and a raising of eyebrowsin quick surprise.

“I warned you, Lamont, you remember—sometime ago—I thought that would be sufficient. I havelearned since that it was not.”

“See here,” cried Lamont, “you leave my affairsalone. My affairs are my affairs—not yours.”

“You’re right,” put in fat Billy Adams, and wasseconded by a chorus of approval.

“They’re mine, I tell you,” snapped Enoch, “aslong as they concern those who are dear to me; thosewhom I have every right to protect.”

[209]“Protect!” sneered Lamont. “Ah, mon Dieu!” heexclaimed, lapsing into French with a low, easy, laugh,“the one you refer to does not need your protection.I assure you she is quite capable of taking care ofherself. Don’t worry; she’s no fool; let me tell youthat Miss——”

Enoch’s eyes blazed.

“I forbid you,” he cried, facing him savagely, “todrag that child’s name before this company.”

“You seem to be extraordinarily interested in younggirls for a man of your age,” sneered Lamont. “Yourattitude in this trifling matter, barring its insolence, isamusing.”

“Trifling matter!” retorted Enoch, half springingout of his chair. “Yes, you’re right—it is a triflingmatter. You are trifling, sir, with the affections of achild. Your attentions to this child are damnable, sir!You seem to be determined to continue them; verywell, let me tell you once for all, that it will bemy business to put a stop to them, and I intend todo it.”

“A child,” chuckled Lamont. “At about what agemay I ask do you consider childhood ceases? I’m notinterested in children, though I know a good manyold gentlemen who are, who become doddering idiotsover a girl of sixteen, until they find she is twenty. Iknow that fatherly sentimentality of yours. Paris isfull of it.”

“Stop, sir!” cried Enoch.

“The Bois de Boulogne is full of them any afternoon,”[210]continued Lamont. “Old beaux who go totteringup and down the Avenue des Acacias—tous cesvieux gagas—ces vieux marcheurs,” he laughed, lapsingagain into French. “There’s the Compte de Valmontier—he’sone of them; he’s eighty if he’s a day. Youcan see him any afternoon with his valet back of himto keep him from falling, and his victoria and pairfollowed him in waiting.” Lamont turned slowly, andfor the space of a few seconds gazed at Enoch, withhis black eyes half closed and his mouth half open.

There are some expressions far more insolent thanwords.

“But the Compte de Valmontier is a gentleman,”he added coldly. “He does not choose his club todenounce a fellow member in, over an affair whichdoes not concern him—among a circle of friends wherehe is not welcome.”

“S-sir!” stammered Enoch, white and quivering, asthe group about him rose to a man.

They had had enough of “that choleric old fool,”they agreed among themselves. In fact, before Enochcould utter another word, they had risen and left himalone, bearing away with them their boon companion,Lamont, to the more exclusive locality of the bar,where, between two more rounds, they damned Enochsoundly for his impudence—his “unbelievable impertinence.”

“If that old fossil thrusts himself upon us again,”said Teddy Dryer, “I’ll have him put out of the club.’Pon my word, I will——”

[211]“Didn’t you ask him to sit down?” growled fatBilly Adams. “What in the devil did you ask himto sit down for?”

“He’d have sat down anyway, old chap,” declaredTeddy. “I know his kind. He’s a pest. You mightas well be polite to a gorilla.”

“I’d like to see him try that trick in a club in Paris,”put in Lamont. “He’d have a duel on his hands intwenty-four hours. Really, you’ve got some astoundingpeople in America—damned if you haven’t. Allhis tommyrot about that kid. You’d have thoughtI’d abducted her—” at which they all roared.

Enoch still sat before the deserted round table—alone,grim, white, and silent, the muscles of his jawtwitching, both fists clenched in his trousers pockets.

In this attitude Teddy Dryer, strolling nervouslyback into the big front room, found him. He wasmuttering to himself, his legs outstretched, sunk lowin his chair, oblivious of Teddy’s presence, until thatthin young man slipped into the empty chair at hiselbow and bravely ventured the part of a peacemaker.It would not be fair to say that Teddy was drunk,and as much of an exaggeration to infer that he wasanything like half-seas-over, or well in his cups, butthere was no gainsaying that his British pronunciation,gleaned from several trips to London, had lost its usualclearness and purity, and that his small eyes were asbright as a squirrel’s.

“Mosh distressing, don’t yer know,” he began courageously,in his high-keyed, nervous little voice.[212]“Hadn’t slight-tush idea—I mean to say—not slight-tushidea—you and he didn’t hit it off together. Moshshocking ordeal for all of ush. Rather.”

Enoch did not turn his head or reply.

“Awf’ly upset ’bout it—Pierre—’pon my word heis. Horribly angry—old chap. Went off ripping mad—sensitive,yer know—slight-tush thing offends him.Awf’ly clever, Pierre—I say—you were mighty roughon Lamont. Rather. Besh sort in the world. Poorold Pierre wouldn’t hurt a fly. Ought to really ’polgize—goodidea—’polgize—eh?——”

Without a word Enoch rose, tapped the bell, andordered a little Bourbon and seltzer.

“Put it over there,” said he to the waiter, indicatinga small table by the window.

“Mosh imposh’ble old brute,” muttered Teddy tohimself, as he left the club to lunch with a widow.

Matilda’s coal-black cat was the first to hear it.

She had slipped up from the kitchen to the top-floorlanding unseen, and had chosen a spot on the fadedcarpet to complete her morning toilet, warmed by asunbeam that pierced the paint and dust of a diamond-checkeredskylight—color of chocolate and clothesbluing.

She sat undisturbed at her ease, her tail curledsnugly about her, while she diligently nibbled betweenthe toes of her velvety paws. This done, she lickedher strong black chest with her clean pink tongueuntil it shone as glossy as sable; thoroughly licked hersleek flanks, passed a moistened paw over and overher ears, scrubbing them well, reclined with exquisitegrace, stretched to her full, sinuous length, her pawsspread, yawned, and was busily licking and nibblingthe extreme tip of her tail, when she suddenly sat upright,motionless, her ears shot forward, listening, thedepths of her yellow eyes as clear as topaz.

A door had brusquely opened below, and over itsthreshold poured forth, rose, and reverberated up thestairs the angry voices of two men.

Crouching, her tail swishing nervously from side toride, she craned her head with slow caution betweenthe banisters and peered down. Back in her street-cat[214] days she would scarcely have given the incident asecond thought. Besides, in the street there wasalways an area gate to slip under out of danger. Inthe house it was different. Experienced as she wasin the art of eluding her enemies, she had a horror ofbeing cornered. She knew the exit to the roof to beclosed as tight as a blind alley. In the event of pursuitshe would be obliged to pass her enemy in herflight back to the kitchen. There was the pot-closetwith its comforting barricade of old brooms and singedironing-boards, and safer refuges under the damp coal-hole,and unfathomable depths in the cavernous cellar,veiled by cobwebs—but of all these she preferredMatilda’s aproned lap for safety.

The row four flights below continued, punctuatedwith sharp retorts, vehement denials, curt threats—allunintelligible to her, save that their savage tone kepther where she was, and on the qui vive.

She was not the only one listening now. The hubbubbelow had brought Miss Ann Moulton out to herlanding. She, too, was listening, fearing to be seen,peering cautiously over the banisters.

“No, sir! I tell you my client declines to settle onany such basis,” declared a stranger below—a big-shoulderedman with a thunderous voice. But the catcould only see his heels and the muddy rims of histrousers, and now and then his big clenched hand ashe swung it angrily toward the banisters in speaking.Miss Ann could see more. She could see the breadthof his great shoulders and a fringe of curly red hair[215]shadowed by the brim of a brown derby with a mourningband.

“We’ve given you more than ample time to settlethis matter, Mr. Ford,” continued the stranger; “forcash, do you understand! You promised to settle upon the twentieth. That’s a week ago.”

“Didn’t say no such thing,” retorted Ebner Ford,out of view of his listeners. “What I said was I’dsee she got half by the first——”

“The first, eh? We’ve no record of that.”

“Hold on now, my friend—no use of us both talkin’at once. I said half by the first, and the other halfsix months from date. That’s what I told her—Iguess I know what I told her.”

Miss Ann leaned forward with bated breath.

“See here. There’s no use of your arguing thismatter further,” returned the other. “Unless you settleby to-morrow noon——”

“Serve me with a summons, eh? Is that it? Ain’tI give you enough guarantee of good faith?”

“We do not consider your good faith a guarantee,”retorted the stranger. “What my client wants is hermoney—all of it. I give you fair warning. You’llsettle by to-morrow noon with a certified check orwe’ll bring the matter to court.”

Ebner Ford strode forward into the hall, slamminghis door shut back of him.

“You tell Mrs. Miggs,” he cried, “she’ll get hermoney all right. You tell her she’ll get it on the datesI promised her, and not before. You can’t bulldoze[216]me. You ain’t the only lawyer in this here town.I’ve got one as smart as you, and when you come tosettle up this matter you’ll find it’ll cost you a damnedsight more’n you bargained for. You tell her that.Don’t you dare insinuate I ain’t treated her fairly.”

A strange numbness seized Miss Ann.

“You sold my client stock,” shouted back the lawyer,as he turned down the stairs, “that is worthless;that you knew at the time wasn’t worth the paper itwas printed on. We’ve got a case of embezzlementagainst you that’s as plain as daylight. There isn’ta judge on the bench that would take four minutesto decide it. Good morning.”

The floor upon which the little spinster stood seemedto rise and fall beneath her trembling knees. Her frailhands gripping the railing for support grew cold. Sheheard the heavy tread of Mrs. Miggs’s legal adviserdescending the stairs; almost simultaneously the frontdoor and Ebner Ford’s closed with a slam.

For a long moment Miss Ann stood there trembling—sickand faint.

“Oh!” she gasped feebly. “Oh! Oh!” With aneffort she reached her door, entered her room, andclosed it.

The cat cautiously withdrew her head between thebanisters. The sunbeam had vanished, a sickly chocolate-and-bluelight filtered through the dusty skylight.Close to Enoch’s door-mat she found a fly crawlingwith a broken wing. She played with it for a while,coaxed it half dead twice back to life, and, finally tiring[217]of it as a plaything, killed it with one quick strokeof her paw. Then she fell slowly asleep—a doublepurr in her throat, her topaz yellow eyes half closed,one white tooth showing, drowsily conscious that twofat little sparrows were chirping cheerfully on the roof.

Fear overwhelmed Miss Ann. Fear led her totteringto the nearest armchair, until she fell weak and tremblinginto it, pressing her cold hands to her throbbingtemples. Fear stood by while she fought to controlherself, to think, to reason, to catch at the smallestglimmer of hope as to Ebner Ford’s honesty. Thelawyer’s denunciation had overweighed any vestige ofdoubt. It was convincing, terrible in its briefness andtruth.

Ebner Ford had swindled old Mrs. Miggs!

The very tone in his voice had belied his guilt. Thelawyer’s thunderous denouncement still rang in herears. “You sold my client stock that you knew at thetime wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on....We’ve got a case of embezzlement against you that’sas plain as daylight.” Embezzlement! No manwould have dared say that to another unless he hadproof. Her money—their money—Jane’s—half of allthey possessed in the world.

She fell to weeping, her flushed, drawn cheeks buriedin her hands—a sense of utter helplessness and lonelinessswept over her. “Oh, Jane!” she moaned. Shethanked God she was out, that she had not heard—andin the next breath prayed for her return.Could she tell her? Was it wise to tell her? And[218]yet she felt she must. It was their money. She mustknow the truth, ill as she was. Why had she beenweak enough, fool enough to have believed him? Whyhad she not waited, thought the matter over, gone tosome one for advice? There were moments when shethought she would go mad, and during these she pacedup and down the room, wringing her poor, weak hands.Once or twice she felt like rushing frantically to EbnerFord and demanding an explanation—of appealing tohis sense of pity—of begging him to give her back hermoney. Twice she rushed to her door, but fear heldher back—a dread now of him whom she had believedin. True, there have been some magnanimous andtender-hearted thieves in the world who have beenknown to restore certain cherished keepsakes to theirvictims—a watch, a ring. Ebner Ford was not oneof these. He lacked even the “honor” of the professional.He belonged to that class of suave scoundrelswho dare not rob men, but who confine their talent topreying upon the confidence and ignorance of helplesswomen, of inveigling them into their confidence, bullyingthem, if needs be, and railroading them to disaster.

A healthy, determined girl would have gone downand had it out with him, and failing to get satisfactionwould have gone in search of a lawyer, a detectivebureau, or even a policeman. Miss Ann was too timidfor that. Like the cat, she had even been afraid todescend the stairs during its occupation by the enemy.There was also something else that had checked her.Eavesdropping to a woman of Miss Ann’s delicate[219]sensibilities was dishonest, ill-bred, and vulgar. To beobliged to confess to Ebner Ford she had been listeningto words not intended for her ears—a commoneavesdropper—she shrank from the thought.

Neither anger nor the craving for revenge had everentered her heart. She was capable of neither; allshe was capable of was bravely living through herdaily share of anxiety and patient suffering. Shethought of wiring her brother to come at once; thenshe reasoned how undependable and useless he was;how he had mismanaged most of her affairs; how timeand time again it was she who had helped him whenin trouble—and Jim Moulton was always in trouble,having an inordinate distaste for real work. He stillpreserved, however, the remnants of a gentleman,both in his manners and his pleasant voice, though hisdress was somewhat seedy; even to-day his languagebespoke a man who had once been a scholar. Hereduced his plain rye with plain water, which reducedhim in turn to the society of the men who sold it.Out in his small Western town he dabbled along lazilyin piano, real estate, and sewing-machine rentals, allunder the same ceiling, next door to the best saloon intown. He was one of those who, convinced he wasstronger than the rest of humanity, have tried tomake a boon companion of alcohol, and survive—afeat of strength which no man yet has accomplished.Any old bartender could have told him that. No;there was no use in wiring Jim.

Now that the first effects of her shock were over,[220]Miss Ann grew visibly calmer. At least she ceasedwringing her hands, and returned wearily to the armchair,where she tried to decide what must be done,what could be done. Her sister had not returned,and not a sound had broken the stillness of the housesince Ebner Ford had slammed his door shut.

Suddenly a firm, rapid step on the stairs made herstart. It was Enoch’s. He passed her door and ascendedto his own, stopping to stroke the sleepy caton his landing, a caress which awakened her and startedher purring. She had never been afraid of Enoch.

During that swift moment when Mr. Crane hadpassed her door, a desire had seized Miss Ann to intercepthim, to pour out to him the whole story of hermisery and despair, and ask his advice; and yet fromsheer timidity she hesitated. She had let him pass.She felt all the more keenly this lost opportunity asshe heard his door close above. He was in his roomnow, and if she would see him, she must go up andrap, a thing she had never done unbidden in her life.She thought of ringing for Moses, of telling him to“ask Mr. Crane if he would mind calling on MissMoulton over a matter of immediate importance,” buta haggard glance at herself in the old-fashioned mirrorabove her mantel wisely checked her. Had Mosesseen her, he would more likely have rushed down forMatilda, telling her that Miss Ann was ill.

For another long moment she struggled with herself;then mustering up all her courage, she quicklyopened her door and climbed Enoch’s stairs.

[221]“Mr. Crane,” she called feebly, and knocked; atthat instant she felt like running away. In reply tohis sharp “Come in,” she tried to turn the knob, buther courage failed her. Enoch flung open his doorwide and stood staring at her haggard face.

“My dear Miss Moulton,” he exclaimed, “what hashappened?”

She tried to speak.

He strode across his threshold and laid his hand tenderlyon her frail shoulder, and without a word gentlyled her into his room.

“Mr. Crane,” she faltered, fighting to control herself,“I—I am in great trouble.”

Enoch led her to his chair, went back, closed hisdoor, and waited for her to grow calmer.

“You would not have come to me unless you werein great trouble,” he ventured at length, in a kindlyway, breaking the silence. “Your—your sister is—er—isnot worse?” he asked.

Miss Ann shook her head.

“What, then?” he insisted firmly, seating himselfquietly beside her. “You’ve had a shock, Miss Moulton.Won’t you be frank with me?”

For a moment she buried her face in her hands anda low moan escaped her trembling lips. Then in avoice so hesitating, so painful, that he dared not interrupther, she told him the whole pitiful story—ofEbner Ford’s visit, of his persuading her to invest halfof all she and her sister possessed in the world in hiswringer stock, of his glowing eulogy over the Household[222]Gem’s selling qualities, and old Mrs. Miggs’sgood fortune, of those tragic moments when she hadlistened on the stairs to the lawyer’s denunciation,and of her fears for her money in the hands of a manshe had trusted implicitly, and who had been openlydenounced as an embezzler.

Through all this painful, halting confession, Enochdid not open his lips, his keen sense as a lawyer keepinghim silent until her final words, “What am I todo?” left her mute and trembling, with a look in hereyes of positive terror.

Enoch rose with a deep sigh, a strange, hard glitterin his eyes, and stood before her, his strong handsclasped behind his back.

“The old game,” he muttered tensely, gazing atthe floor with a knitted brow. “Always a woman,”he exclaimed, his voice rising, “a helpless, trustingwoman!” he cried, with slow-gathering rage whileshe sat before him, the picture of desolation. “Justwhat I might have expected. Despicable hound! Andas long as there are trusting, innocent women in thisworld there will always be scoundrels to rob them.”

“Oh! why did I not wait—why did I not considerthe matter?” she moaned.

“Such hopeful safeguards as wait and considernever enter these cases,” came his brief reply. “Underthe clever, steady persuasion of these scoundrels awoman of your trustful nature never waits or considers.What did you give him?”

“A check,” she faltered.

[223]“For how much?”

“My check for seven thousand five hundred dollars,”she confessed faintly.

Enoch’s under lip shot forward. “Ah! my poorlady!” he sighed.

“Which he informed me he deposited,” she addedpainfully.

Enoch brightened. “Then he has a bank-account,has he? A bank at least. That’s one favorable vestigeof hope. Seven thousand five hundred, you say?”

She bent her head, twining and untwining her fingersnervously.

“Mr. Crane, what am I to do? My sister’s welfare—hervery life depends on this money.”

“Do!” cried Enoch savagely. “Do! My dear lady,you are to leave this matter entirely in my hands.That’s what you are to do.”

She looked up at him breathlessly.

“Entirely!” The word rang out convincingly.“You leave Mr. Ebner Ford to me. I’ll attend tothat individual.”

So far the thought of Sue had never entered his head;of what her stepfather’s ruin and disgrace would meanto her; his one dominating interest being absorbedin the pitiful facts before him, his sense of justice toMiss Ann obliterating everything else.

“It is safe to say he cannot have spent all of yourmoney,” he went on vibrantly. “What he’s got leftof it he’ll return to you. That I promise you.”

Miss Ann drew a sharp breath of relief.

[224]“And the rest he’ll make good,” cried Enoch.

“But suppose,” ventured the little spinster timidly,“that he—he has not got it, Mr. Crane?”

“He’ll get it,” came Enoch’s sharp reply.

She met the savage gleam in his eyes wonderingly—twograteful tears blurring the vision of him whomshe had feared to come to, and who now seemed to bea pillar of hope.

“You tell me you feel in duty bound to tell yoursister,” he continued again, seating himself beside her.“Why? It would only worry her—uselessly.”

“She has been too happy over our coming greatgood fortune,” she explained. “We’ve made plansfor the summer. These must be changed, you see.Even if I do regain the money—things will be no betterfor us than before.”

“Better wait,” replied Enoch. “I shall get at thismatter at once. One thing—you are not to worry.No; I wouldn’t tell your sister if I were you. Promiseme you won’t.”

For the first time the vestige of a smile lightenedher anxious face. “Then I won’t tell Jane. Do youknow it is the first thing I have ever kept from herin my whole life, Mr. Crane? We have never had asecret we have not shared.”

He took her frail hand comfortingly in his own.

“This is no longer your secret,” he declared. “Itis mine.”

For some moments she was silent.

“Mr. Crane, if you only knew how grateful I am[225]to you,” she tried to say and keep back the tears,“how my whole heart goes out in gratefulness toyou——”

“If there is any one who ought to be grateful,” hereturned, with a slow smile, “it is I—for your havingcome to me in time,” he added reassuringly. “Onething,” he continued seriously, “you must be extremelycareful of—not to give him, should you meethim, the slightest suspicion that you know anything—thatyou doubt his honesty. What I intend to dois to interview this individual to-morrow; by to-morrownight I should have better news for you. There! nowyou are to think no more about it. Go to your room,my dear lady, and try and meet your sister as if nothinghad happened. If you have to tell her a fib—doso. I’ll be responsible for it.”

Again he smiled, and this time he pressed her fraillittle hand warmly, and helped her gently to her feet.

“Oh, Mr. Crane!” she breathed. “With thatlovely stepdaughter—and his poor wife—how myheart goes out to them!”

“Only two more of his victims,” was Enoch’s grimreply. “That dear child, and worse, that poor motherwho is married to him, believing in him—um!—a difficultquestion.”

Again he laid his hand tenderly on her frail shoulderas he opened his door.

“You are not to worry,” he repeated, as she wentdown the stairs.

Miss Ann smiled back at him bravely. Enoch[226]waited until he saw her reach her door, and for somemoments stood listening. Having made up his mindthat Miss Jane was still out, he returned to his room,wrote a brief note, and rang for Moses.

There were but five lines in the missive, but theysaid much to Ebner Ford. They informed him thatEnoch might be exceedingly interested in his laundrystock, and that if it was still at par, he would be pleasedto see him without fail at his office in South Street thefollowing morning at ten o’clock.

Ebner Ford had passed a bad quarter of an hourwith himself after the lawyer’s departure. Finally hehad sat himself down at that roll-top desk of his withits worthless contents, and began drumming with hislong fingers, trying to sharpen his wits as to the bestway out of the matter, and reluctantly coming to theconclusion that the only means of silencing old Mrs.Miggs and her attorney was to settle the eighteenhundred dollars she claimed, and to do this he wouldbe obliged to pay her out of his lucky nest-egg—MissAnn’s money. He was turning over in his mind thisunfortunate turn in his affairs, when Moses rapped andhanded him Enoch’s note.

“Well, say!” he exclaimed, brightening into a broadgrin as he read it. “Interested at last, is he? Thatsaves my bacon. He’ll pay for Mrs. Miggs.”

South Street had more to do with seafaring menthan lawyers. It was a strange thoroughfare alongwhich to have searched for a legal adviser. Enoch’soffice, which we have already peeped into, and whichso rarely saw its owner, lay tucked away as snug asa stowaway in the old building he owned, sandwichedin between two even older structures, two long-establishedship-chandler’s warehouses, whose lofts werepungent with the odor of tarred rope, and whose iron-boundthresholds led to dark interiors, where onecould be accommodated with anything from a giantanchor down to a vessel’s port and starboard lights.

A raw, cold street in the short winter days, takingthe brunt of blizzards and cruel winds, whirling snowand biting cold, fog-swept, or shimmering in heat,greasy and roughly paved. A street to stand roughknocks from rough men, who owned the clothes theystood in, and little else; clothes in which they worked,drank, and quarrelled, joked, and swore, shipped onlong voyages, and returned; men whose sentiment wasindelibly vouched for by the ballet-girl tattooed ontheir brawny arms, and whose love of country wasguaranteed by the Union Jack or the Stars and Stripes—oftenby both—pricked in indigo and vermilion on[228]their solid chests and further embellished with hearts,true-lovers’ knots, and anchors.

It was an odoriferous, happy-go-lucky sort of street,where things had an odor all their own. Bundles ofrawhides lay stacked on greasy platforms. Draftyinteriors held stout casks of oil, gallons of the bestspar varnish, sails, pulley-blocks, and tow for calking—scoresof ship necessities in solid brass and galvanizediron made for rough usage in all kinds of weather—capstans,rudders, cleats, robust lanterns, reliablecompasses, their needles steadily pointing north—anda saloon within reach of every reeling sailor.

It was the street of the stranger from far-off lands,of able seamen whose sturdy boots had knocked aboutthe worst sections of Port Said, Marseilles, Singapore,or Bilbao—a street where honest ships poked theirbowsprits up to its very edge, a long, floating barrier,a maze of masts, spars, and rigging, of vessels safe inport, whose big hulls lay still in the flotsam and jetsamand swill of the harbor, where the hungry, garrulousgulls wheeled, gossiped, and gorged themselveslike scavengers.

There was an atmosphere of adventure, of the freedomof the sea along its length, that the staid oldbusiness streets back of it could not boast of; thatcharm, sordid as it was, that holds the sailor and hisnickels in port, close to his quay, for he rarely venturesas far inland as the city’s midst. At night jewels oflights hung in the maze of rigging, others gleamedforth a broad welcome from the saloons. When these[229]went out, only the jewels in the rigging remained,leaving the old, busy street of the day dark and deserted,save for an occasional prowler of the night—ora stray cat foraging for food.

There were women, too—fat ogresses in cheap finery,skeletons in rouge and rags, their ratlike eyes everwatchful for their prey—and now and then some shufflinghuman derelict, those who have no definite destination,neither friends nor home nor bed nor bunkto go to; worse off even than the poor sailor in port,robbed, cajoled, flattered, tempted, and always enticed,down to his last nickel.

None knew them better than Enoch. Many anempty pocket he brightened with a coin. Others hehelped out of more serious difficulties. Had he acceptedall the chattering monkeys and profane parrotshe had been offered from time to time in gratefulremembrance, he would have had enough to havestarted a bird-store.

It was along this street that Ebner Ford picked hisway the next morning to Enoch’s office, eager for theinterview, and never more confident of selling himenough of his laundry stock, to be rid of old Mrs.Miggs and her lawyer forever.

At five minutes to ten his lean figure might havebeen seen dodging among the trucking, slipping aroundcrates and bales, and only stopping now and then toverify the address on Enoch’s note.

So elated was he over the prospect of the interviewthat he entered Enoch’s building whistling a lively[230]tune, continued snatches of it up in the shaky elevator,insisted he had “an appointment at ten with Mr.Crane,” and was led half-way down the corridor bythe Irish janitor to Enoch’s modest door, which heopened briskly with a breezy “Well, neighbor, ain’t aminute late, am I?” and with a laugh, ending in abroad, friendly grin, shot out his long hand in greeting.

Simultaneously Enoch swung sharply around in hisdesk chair with a savage glance; not only did he refusethe proffered hand, but left his visitor staring at himbewildered.

“Sit down!” snapped Enoch.

“Well, say!” drawled Ford. “Ain’t you a littlemite nervous this mornin’, friend?”

“Sit down!” repeated Enoch curtly, indicating theempty chair beside his desk. “Do not delude yourselffor an instant, sir, that you are here to interest mein your laundry stock.”

“Well, that beats all,” declared Ford. “Youto be all-fired interested in your note. That’s whatyou said, wa’n’t it?”

“I’ve been enlightened as to the precise value ofthat laundry stock of yours, sir,” came Enoch’s sharpreply—“your gilt-edged securities relative to theHousehold Gem as well.”

Ford started.

“Have, eh? Well, it’s at par. That’s what youwanted—er—that’s what you said you wanted,” heblurted out, slinking into the empty chair and fumblinghis dusty derby nervously.

[231]“Par!” snapped Enoch. “It’s at zero, and youknow it. Below zero, I should say, judging from allreports.” And before Ford could reply: “Let us cometo the point. You are in arrears for your rent, sir.”

Ford gaped at him in amazement.

“I refer, sir, to your apartment in Waverly Place;with the exception of your first month’s payment, youhave not paid a dollar’s worth of rent since you movedin, not a penny, sir; rents are made to be paid, sir, notavoided. You have not even made the slightest excuseor apology to your landlord over the delay. Anyother landlord would have ousted you from the premises.”

Ford laid his dusty derby on the desk, planting hislong hands over his bony knees, his small eyes regardingEnoch with a curious expression.

“Oh, I haven’t, have I?” he exclaimed. “Wouldn’tlike to take a bet on it, would you?”

“No, sir!” cried Enoch, squaring back in his seat.“You have not, not a penny of it. Can you deny it?”

“What’s my rent got to do with you?” returnedFord. “You seem to be almighty interested in otherfolks’ rents.”

“I’ve let you run on,” continued Enoch firmly, “sofar without troubling you.”

“Oh, you have, have you? Well, say, you take thecake! Talk as if you owned the place.”

Enoch sprang out of his chair, his under lip shotforward.

“I do,” said he.

[232]“You what?” gasped Ford, opening his small eyeswide. “You don’t mean to tell me that there houseis yourn?”

“Yes, sir—it’s mine, from cellar to roof. If youwant further proof of it,” he cried, wrenching open adrawer of his desk, fumbling among some papers andflinging out on his desk the document of sale in question,stamped, sealed, and witnessed, “there it is.”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!”

“Jiggered or not, sir, your lease is up! You arebehind in your rent, and out you go.”

“Well, hold on now; I guess we can fix up this littlematter,” returned Ford, with a sheepish grin. “Hadn’tno idea it was you, friend, who owned the house, or Iwouldn’t have kept you waitin’.”

“I can assure you,” retorted Enoch, “there is nofriendship concerned in this matter. You will desist,sir, in calling me your friend; that phase of our acquaintanceshipnever existed.”

For a moment neither spoke.

“See here, neighbor,” Ford resumed by way of explanation,and in a tone that was low and persuasive,“with our increasin’ business I’ve been under somemighty heavy expenses lately; new machinery hasexacted heavy payments. Our long list of canvasserson the road’s been quite an item in salaries. S’poseI was to let you have a little of our gilt-edged at par,as collateral for the rent?”

“Stop, sir!” cried Enoch. “Do you take me for afool? Your laundry stock is not worth the paper it[233]is printed on—wasn’t at the time you sold it to Mrs.Miggs.” He slammed his closed fist down on thedesk. “There is not a judge on the bench that wouldtake four minutes to decide a case against you forembezzlement. It’s as plain as daylight.”

Ford stared at him dumfounded. He started tospeak, but Enoch cut him short in a towering rage.

“You’ve swindled my friend, Miss Ann Moulton,as well,” he cried. “You took seven thousand fivehundred dollars from her in payment for your worthlessstock—from a helpless lady—half she owned inthe world, you despicable hound—from a helplesswoman.” Ford reddened. “Half, I say—from thesupport of a sister who is ill—a poor, pitiful wreck ofa woman dying of consumption.”

“Oh! Now see here, Crane—go slow—let me explain.”

“Systematically swindled her, robbed her, talkedher into it—persuaded her until she gave you hercheck. Your kind stop at nothing.” His voice rangout over the half-open transom and down the corridor.Ford sat gripping his chair.

“I tell you, Miss Moulton ain’t lost a penny ofher money,” he stammered. “What I done for herI done out of neighborly kindness.”

“Stop, sir! Don’t lie to me. Answer me one question.How much of Miss Moulton’s money have yougot left?”

Ford glowered at him in silence.

“Answer me! How much have you got left? I[234]intend to get at the bottom of this damnable business.What you’ve got left of Miss Moulton’s money, you’llreturn to her.”

“Why, there ain’t a penny of it missin’,” declaredFord blandly, paling visibly.

“You call a credit in your bank of five thousandtwo hundred and some odd dollars, nothing missing?Where’s the rest?”

“Who told you that?” cried Ford, half rising, witha sullen gleam in his eyes.

“Your bank!” cried Enoch sharply. “Its president,my old friend, John Mortimer, told me. Undercriminal circ*mstances such information is not difficultto obtain.”

Enoch drove his hands in his pockets and started topace the room. Ford was the first to break the silencethat ensued. His voice had a whine in it, and mostof the color had left his lean cheeks.

“You don’t want to ruin me, do yer?” he saidthickly.

“Ruin you! No one can ruin you! You wereborn ruined! Answer me—where’s the rest of MissMoulton’s money?”

“Spent,” faltered Ford. “You don’t suppose aman can live on nothin’, do yer? We all have ourlittle ups and downs in business. Fluctuations, theycall ’em. Why, the biggest men with the biggest businessacumen, in the biggest business deals in theworld have ’em. I ain’t no exception. That’s whatall business is—chuck full of little ups and downs.[235]No man ever complains when business is boomin’—onlyboomin’ is never regular. Good times pay forthe bad. A feller has to have grit to weather ’em.Then, if we didn’t risk nothin’, we wouldn’t havenothin’. What does the Bible say? Sow and yeshall reap.”

His voice faltered weakly.

“See here,” returned Enoch. “If I’ve got theslightest pity for you, you personally are not responsiblefor it. Your stepdaughter is adorable. Yourwife is an honest woman.”

“There ain’t no better,” declared Ford meekly,moistening his lips with a long finger that shook.“Girlie, too; her ideas ain’t mine, but I ain’t gotnothin’ agin her.”

“Good gad, sir! I should hope not. You havenot a thought in common! No dearer child ever lived!The very soul of honesty and sincerity—a joy to myhouse, sir! A joy to every one who has come in contactwith her. That you should have so little loveand respect for her as to have acted as you have isastounding!”

“Girlie thinks an awful lot of you,” returned Ford,heaving a sigh, Enoch’s tender allusion to his stepdaughterbringing with it his first ray of hope. “Everstopped to think,” he went on, with sudden courage,“what this hull business will mean to her when sheknows it? See here, neighbor, you’re human, I takeit. ’Tain’t human in no man to crowd another fellerto ruin like you’re crowdin’ me. It’ll like to kill my[236]wife when she hears it. As for girlie—well, you knowwhat it’ll mean to her—her little home gone, after allI’ve tried to do to make it pleasant for ’em both.S’pose I was to tell you I’ll make good—only you’vegot to give me time; that I’ll pay the rent and giveevery cent back to Miss Moulton—square her up asclean as a whistle.”

Enoch turned sharply.

“On what, I’d like to know? And when? Out ofthe chimeric profits of your vast laundry business, Isuppose?”

“Hold on, neighbor, not so fast. I ain’t told youall. S’pose you was to give me a couple of weeks’time. I’ve got a little property I’ve been bangin’ onto up-State. Four neat buildin’ lots on the swellestoutskirts of Troy—Fairview Park, they call it—neatestlookin’ place you ever see; gas and water pipedright from the city. I’ve been waitin’ for the rightparty, but if I’ve got to sell now, Crane, I’ll do it.At the lowest figger they’ll square up all these littledifferences between us—Mrs. Miggs and Miss Moultonwill get their satisfy, you’ll get your rent, and girlieand Emma won’t know no more than if it never happened.”

“You’ll pay Miss Moulton first,” declared Enochfirmly. “I am not concerned with Mrs. Miggs’s affairs.Her own lawyer can attend to them; as for the rent,I wish you to understand plainly, that if it was not foryour wife and stepdaughter——”

He ceased speaking. His teeth clenched. There[237]was little doubt in Ford’s mind that the worst wasover; that Enoch was softening. He already felt moreat his ease, and for the first time leaned back in hischair, and with the vestige of a forced smile crossedhis long legs, feeling that half the battle was won.What he exactly intended to do he had not the slightestidea. Mrs. Miggs’s lawyer had given him untilnoon. It was now past eleven. He decided to wirehim: “Sending check to-morrow.” Meanwhile Enochhad resumed his pacing before him, muttering to himselfwords that even Ebner Ford’s quick ears did notcatch.

“How about this property of yours?” cried Enochwith renewed heat. “Your four lots in Troy? Youare rather vague, sir, about their value. This FairviewPark you speak of? Anything there but gasand water-pipes and a chance for the right party, asyou say to come along? Any railroad or street-carcommunication that would persuade any one tobuild?”

Ford’s lean jaws, to which the color had now returned,widened in a condescending smile over Enoch’sabject ignorance.

“Fairview Park!” he exclaimed with quick enthusiasm.“Why, neighbor, it’s a bonanza! Has anyone built on it? Well, I guess yes! Take the Jenkinsmansion alone—the candy king. Mansard roof alonecost a fortune, to say nothin’ of a dozen other prominenthomes—brand-new and up to date—not a fencein the hull park. Everybody neighborly. Course,[238]soon as we get our railroad-station things will boom.Quick transportation to the city and plenty of freshair for the children. Come to think of it, I waslucky to have bought when I did. Got in on theground floor, ’twixt you and me, and ain’t never regrettedit. Big men like Jenkins have been pesterin’me a dozen times to sell, but I’ve held on, knowin’I could double my money. Property has already advancedfifty per cent out there in the last few years,friend, and is——”

“Stop, sir!” cried Enoch. “I believe we have alreadydiscussed the question of friendship betweenus.”

“Oh, well now, see here, Crane.”

“In future, sir, you will address me as Mr. Crane.I trust that is clear to you, Mr. Ford.”

“Well, suit yourself. What’s the use of our bein’so all-fired unfriendly? Neighbors, ain’t we? Livin’under the same roof!”

“You are living under my roof, sir! Not I underyours! That you continue to live there is purely dueto the presence of a woman who has had the misfortuneto marry you, and a stepdaughter—thank Heaven,she is not your daughter—whom I hope, with all myheart, some day will be rid of you forever. You askme for two weeks’ time. Very well, you shall have it.I trust you fully realize your situation. Remember, Ishall hold you to your promise in regard to MissMoulton. Mr. Ford, I have nothing more to say toyou—good morning.”

[239]Ford picked up his dusty derby slowly from thedesk, and as slowly rose to his feet.

Enoch, with his hands plunged deep in his trouserspockets, stood grim and silent, gazing irritably at thefloor; if he saw Ford’s outstretched hand reach towardhim slowly across the desk between them, he did notmove a muscle in recognition.

“Well, so long,” ventured Ford.

“Good morning,” repeated Enoch gruffly, withoutraising his head.

“Well, now, that’s too bad,” drawled Ford, slowlywithdrawing his hand. “I was just thinkin’ if youand me was to go down for a little straight Bourbonyou’d feel better.”

Enoch jerked up his head.

“Drink with you!” he exclaimed sharply. “Drinkwith you!” His keen eyes blazed.

“Well, now, that wouldn’t hurt the quality of thewhiskey any, would it?” grinned Ford. “Sortersmooth down the remainin’ little rough places betweenus—warm us both up into a more friendly understandin’,seem’ I’ve agreed to do for you all any mancan do for another—give you my bona-fide guarantee.”

Enoch sprang forward, his clenched hands plantedon his desk, his face livid.

“Get out, sir!” he shouted. For an instant hisvoice stopped in his throat, then broke out with aroar: “Out, sir! Out! When you have anythingmore substantial to offer me than an invitation to arum mill I will listen to you.”

[240]Before this volley of rage Ford backed away fromhim, backed out through the door that Enoch swungopen to him, and the next instant slammed in his facewith a sound that reverberated through the wholebuilding.

Any other man but Ebner Ford would have turneddown the corridor, dazed and insulted. As for Enoch’sdoor, it was not the first that had been slammed in hisface. He could recall a long list of exits in his businesscareer that were so alike in character they hadceased to make any serious impression upon him. Hisrule had been to allow time for the enraged person tocool off, and to tackle him again at the earliest opportunity—preferablyafter luncheon, when experience hadtaught him men were always in a more genial and approachablehumor.

All of his past interviews, however, had been trivialcompared to this with Enoch. He had entered hisoffice keyed up with confidence and exuberance, andhad backed out of it under the fury of a man whohad laid bare his character and every secret detailof what he chose to call his “own private affairs”;bad enough when he arrived but ten times worsenow as he realized the man he had to deal with.

Three things, however, were comforting. Enoch’saffirmed respect for his wife and stepdaughter in regardto the overrent; his open, almost paternal affectionfor Sue, and his word that he would give him twoweeks in which to settle with Miss Moulton. As for[241]old Mrs. Miggs, he decided to send her a check forhalf the amount out of Miss Ann’s money and seewhat would happen.

That he drank his Bourbon alone on the first cornerhe reached, the bartender agreeably changing anotherone of Miss Ann’s dollars, only helped to sharpen hiswits. He stood on the sawdusted floor of the saloon,at the bar, hemmed in between the patched elbows ofa boatswain’s mate and a common sailor, ruminatingover the overwhelming events of the morning.

Now that he was out of Enoch’s drastic presenceand voice, he felt at his ease, and more so when hehad laid another one of Miss Ann’s dimes on the bar,freshly wiped from the beer spill, and ordered a secondBourbon.

“Thinks a heap of girlie,” he mused. “Wa’n’t sosavage about the rent, after all.” As he thought ofSue there flashed through his mind an idea, so suddenthat he started, and his small eyes sparkled, so perfectlylogical to him that he grinned and wonderedwhy, during the whole of the strenuous interview, hehad not thought of it before.

Instead, he had clutched at the idea of “FairviewPark,” his entire acquaintance with its existence datingfrom a real-estate advertisem*nt he had read ina newspaper several weeks old, he adding to its popularityand magnificence by capping the mythical mansionof the candy king with a mansard roof worth afortune, and further embellishing its undesirable acreswith the hope of a railroad-station. Only the air[242]changed in Fairview Park; the rest had lain a flatfailure for years, the home of crows and the sign-boardsthey avoided, announcing the best cigar andthe cheapest soap.

That Enoch would investigate the truth of hisstatements gave him little apprehension. He wascertain he had convinced him of his good faith, buildinglots and all. What elated him now was his suddenidea—an inspiration-and his first step in thatdirection took him out of the saloon and on his wayto see Lamont.

On a crowded corner in Fulton Street a newsboybawled in his passing ear:

“Here yer are! Git the extry, boss! All aboutthe big club scandal——”

Ford stopped and glanced at the head-line, “MillionaireSlaps Clubman’s Face,” and below it saw theface in question.

It was Jack Lamont’s.

Gossip, that imaginative, swift-footed, and altogetherdisreputable slave of Hearsay, who runs amuck,distributing his pack of lies from one telltale tongueto the next eager ear, rich in clever exaggerations,never at a loss for more—far-reaching as contagion,and heralding all else but the truth—seldom affectsthe poor.

In certain congested, poverty-stricken quarters, itis the basis of their easy, garrulous language, andas current as their slang or their profanity. Thosewho are both poor, humble, and meek are seldommentioned—since they do nothing to attract attention.They may be said to be philosophers. Gossip,stealthy as the incoming tide, sweeps wide; like thesea’s long, feathery fingers, it spreads with a rapiditythat is amazing. Gossip runs riot in a village. Ittears down streets, runs frantically up lanes, and intohouses, short-cuts to the next, flies around corners,climbs stairs, is passed over neighbors’ fences, seeksout the smallest nooks, is whispered through cracksand keyholes, and even bawled down cellars—lest thereshould be any one left below ground who has not heardthe news.

Among those whom riches have thrown laughinginto the lap of luxury and elected to the pinnacles of[244]the most expensive society, women who move in thosefashionable and exclusive circles, where every detailof their private lives, from their gowns and jewels totheir marriages and divorces, the press so kindly keepthe public informed of—over these gossip hovers likean ill-omened forerunner of scandal.

Scandal is the prime executioner; when scandalstrikes it lays the naked truth bare to the bone—stark,hideous, undeniable. It takes a brave womanto stand firm in the face of scandal. Some totter andfall at the first blow; others struggle to their feet andsurvive. Some hide themselves.

There is something so frank and open about scandalthat it becomes terrible—merciless and terrifyingin its exposure of plain fact The hum of gossip maybe compared to the mosquitoes, whose sting is trivial;scandal strikes as sudden as a thunderbolt; it shattersthe four walls of a house with a single blow, and turnsa search-light on its victim in the ruins.

That “Handsome Jack” Lamont should have saidwhat he did to pretty Mrs. Benton as they met bychance coming out of the theatre, and that prettyMrs. Benton’s husband, having gone himself to-nightin search of his carriage, discovered it far down theline, signalled to his coachman, made his way againthrough the waiting group of women in theatre wrapsand their escorts, and reached his wife’s side at theprecise moment to overhear Lamont’s quick questionto her, caught even her smiling, whispered promise tohim—was unfortunate. The attack followed.

[245]Before either were aware of his presence, Bentonstruck Lamont a stinging blow from behind, knockingoff his hat. As he turned, Benton struck him again—twovery courageous blows for so short a little man,red with rage and round as a keg. Pretty Mrs. Benton,who was tall and slim—an exquisite blonde—screamed;so did several women in the group aboutthem, falling back upon their escorts for protection—butby this time, Lamont had the enraged little manby the shoulders and was shaking him like a rat, denouncinghis attack as an outrage, demanding anapology, explaining to him exactly what he said, thatnobody but a fool could have construed it otherwise,that he was making himself ridiculous. Pretty Mrs.Benton also explaining, and both being skilful liarsin emergency, the dramatic incident closed, to thesatisfaction of the two stalwart policemen, who hadstrolled up, swinging their long night-sticks—recognizedBenton, the millionaire, as being too wealthyto arrest, and Lamont as an old friend of their chiefat headquarters—dispersed the crowd with a “G’wannow about yer business”; waited until the lady andher still furious husband were safe in their carriage;shouted to the coachman to move on, and a momentlater followed Lamont around the corner, where heexplained the affair even more to their satisfaction.In their plain brogue they thanked him, and expressedtheir admiration over the skill with which he hadpinioned the excited arms of the little man; that admirationwhich is common among men at prize-fights[246]when the better of the two antagonists refuses togive the final knockout to the weaker man.

“Sure ye had him from the first!” they both agreed.

It had all happened quickly. By the time Lamontleft the two patrolmen the theatre was dark and thedoors locked for the night.

Let us discreetly draw down the dark-blue silkshades of the Benton equipage upon the scenes thatensued on their way home. Let us refrain from raisingthem even an inch to catch sight of the pretty faceof the now thoroughly indignant though tearful lady,or the continued tirade of her lord and master, asthey rumbled over the cobbles.

Was she not lovely and convincing in her grief—and—andpurely in the right? How preposterous tothink otherwise! To disagree with an angel! Heavens!Was she not blond and adorable? Bah! Howsilly husbands are! What a tempest in a teapot theymake of nothing—to misconstrue the simplest andmost innocent of questions and the most natural ofwhispered replies into high treason! Did not Bentonowe Mr. Lamont the most abject of apologies? Ofcourse. He owed a still deeper apology to Mrs. Bentonfor “mortifying her beyond words.” Innocencein the hands of a brute! A lily in the grip of a brigand!She who had given all to him—her love—herdevotion—could he doubt her for an instant? Hadhe ever doubted her? Had she ever been jealous ofhim? How lucky he was to have a wife like her.[247]Henceforth he could go to the theatre alone—forever—nightly—aslong as he lived—and stay there untilhe died.

Passionately, with a sharp cry of contempt, sheslipped off her marriage ring, and flung it away foreveron the floor of the brougham, where he groped for itout of breath, and returned it to her imploringly, seizingher clenched hand and begging her to let himrestore it to its rightful finger. That he restored itfinally came as a reward for a score of humble promises,including his entire belief in her innocence, andthe meekest of confessions that his undying love forher alone had been responsible for his uncontrollablejealousy. Her slim, satin-slippered foot still kepttapping in unison to her beating heart, but victorywas hers. It shone in her large blue eyes, in the warmglow overspreading her delicate cheeks, her lovelythroat and neck. Her whole mind exulted as shethought of “Jack.” How she would pour out to himin a long letter all of her pent-up heart. She couldhardly wait for morning to come in which to writeit, upon the faintly scented paper he loved, and whichhe could detect in his box at the club among a dozenothers by its violet hue.

After all, what had Lamont said to have raised allthis tragic row? To have been struck like a commonruffian in the public street, before the eyes of peoplehe knew, and several of whom he had dined with—orhoped to—and for what?

Nine of the simplest words, all told, were what Benton[248]had overheard, and not a syllable more. Lamont’squick question, “At three, then?” and her smiling,whispered promise: “No—at three-thirty, impatientchild.”

What could have been more innocent? Has a gentlemanno right to hurriedly ask the time—and besweetly chided for his impatience?

Far better had he refrained and discreetly sent hera note by some trusted servant to her dressmaker’s(for he kept tally of her “fittings”)—far better—oneof those brief notes, whose very telltale briefness readsin volumes. They are always typical of serious affairs.

Alas! the affair had only begun. The two patrolmenrecounted the incident on their return from their“beat” to the sergeant at the desk, interspersing theirnarrative with good-humored laughter and some unprintableprofanity.

“’Twas him,” they said, referring to Benton. Theyexpatiated on his riches and the good looks of hiswife, emphasized their own magnanimity in refusingto arrest, and covered Lamont’s level, handsome headwith a wreath of glory—all to the delight of a youngreporter hanging around for an instalment, and eagerto “make good” with his night editor.

In little less than two hours the whole story was onthe press—that most powerful gossiper in the world!Needless to say, it printed the story to a nicely—agiant high-speed press, capable of thousands of copiesan hour. It even took the trouble to fold them ingreat packages, which were carried on the shoulders of[249]men and thrown into wagons, that dashed off to waitingtrains, which in turn rushed them to distant cities.

It made the young reporter’s reputation, but itnearly ruined pretty Mrs. Benton’s, and brought JackLamont before the public eye by a wide-spread publicityhe had never dreamed of.

Needless to say, too, that the unfortunate lady didnot write the note the next morning; she becameprostrated and lay in a darkened room, and could seeno one by her physician’s orders—not even her enragedhusband.

Let us pass over the heartrending details whichensued—of her return to her mother; of their longtalks of a separation, providing it could be obtainedwithout pecuniary loss to the injured daughter. Bothof them, you may be sure, held Benton wholly responsible—or,rather, irresponsible, being unfit for anywoman to live with, owing to his ungovernable jealousy.

Poor Phyllis! She was born much too beautiful,with her delicate skin like a tea-rose, and her fine,blond hair, that reached nearly to her knees, andwhen up and undulated left little stray wisps at thenape of her graceful, white neck. She should neverhave married a man like Benton—round like his dollars.What a stunning pair she and Jack Lamontwould have made! But what a dance he would haveled her! Lucky he was to have the wife he had, whoforgave him everything and paid his debts and livedher own life, which was eminently respectable, firm inher devotion to her charities, and as set in her opinions[250]at her women’s clubs—a small, pale woman with large,dark eyes—a woman whom he seldom saw, neverbreakfasted with, and rarely lunched or dined with athome, since he came and went as he pleased; now andthen they met at a reception, now and then at a tea,his cheery “Hello, Nelly,” forcing from her a “Hello,Jack,” that convinced every one around them theywere still the best of friends. Even the account ofthis latest affair of his in the papers did not surpriseher. For a day or two she was annoyed by reporters,but her butler handled them cleverly, and they wentaway, no wiser for having come. Not a word of reproachto her husband passed Mrs. Lamont’s lips.If there was any money needed over the affair, sheknew Jack would come to her; further than that, sherefused to let the matter trouble her.

Nothing could have been more convincing thanLamont’s side of the affair in the afternoon papers.This remarkable document from the pen of a closeclub friend of his—a talented journalist—was satisfactoryin the extreme. It not only evoked public sympathyfor the injured lady, but put her insanely jealoushusband in the light of a man who was not responsiblefor his actions, and should not be allowed towalk abroad, unless under the care of an attendant.As for Mr. Lamont, he had done nothing or said aword that might have been misconstrued to warrantso scandalous an attack. The same thing might havehappened to any gentleman whom common courtesyhad led to speak to a woman of his acquaintance on[251]leaving the theatre, and further went on to state that“Mr. Lamont’s many virtues were vouched for by hishost of friends; his fairness as a sportsman, and hispopularity in society being too widely known to needfurther comment.” Lamont remained sober until hehad read it; then he went on the worst spree in tenyears.

It is erroneous to suppose that men of birth andbreeding seek luxurious places to amuse themselves in.They often seek the lowest. To a worldly and imaginativemind like Lamont’s nothing in his own strataof society amused him at a time like this. A gentlemanmay become a vagabond for days and still remaina gentleman. Men are complex animals. The animalis simpler, wholly sincere; it possesses but one nature;man has two—his intellectual and his savage side—distinctone from the other, as black from white.Women have but one nature; the ensemble of theircharacter changes only in rare exceptions. They arewhat they are born to be, and remain so. That thisnature “goes wrong” is erroneous. Psychologically, itgoes right. It reverts to its true nature at the first realopportunity. Birth and breeding have very little todo with it. Environment may often be likened to ajail, and since it is the nature born of some women tocrave to escape—they do. A woman who is fundamentallysaintly remains a saint. She has no desireto be otherwise. Temptation leaves the really goodalone.

[252]Lamont, however, was a man, and a worldly manat that, a man whose eyes were accustomed to gazecalmly at those illusive jewels called pleasure, withtheir variegated facets of light, and to choose the onewhose rays most pleased him. Strange, is it not, thatred has always stood for evil?

This worst spree in ten years of his should rightlyhave begun with him at Harry Hill’s, at Crosby andHouston Streets, for he had been a familiar figurethere, and a keen enthusiast over the boxing. Hill’swhite front screening the old room, with its boxes, itswomen, its old bar down-stairs and its prize-ring above,had been closed by the police. Such places, however,as Donovan’s, Dempsey’s, and Regan’s were still wideopen to receive him. Of the three he preferred Regan’s,and, indeed, nearly the whole of his five days’spree was spent there, down in that sordid basem*nt,with its steep iron stairs, its bouncer, its famous banjoplayer, accompanied by a small Sunday-school melodeon;its women, its whiskey, and its smoke. Not abreath of scandal ever entered the place, save when itwas permanently closed at last for a murder. Gentlemanlydeportment was rigorously exacted, and thefirst signs of trouble meant a throw-out. It was afine place to be forgotten in and to forget the Worldabove ground. This place, like Bill Monahan’s, hadits small virtues; Bill Monahan himself never touchedliquor, his clean pot of tea, which he drank from liberally,being always simmering within his reach.

Lamont had not a single enemy at Regan’s. He[253]spent his money freely to the twang of one of the bestbanjo players the world has ever known. That a gentlemanof so much innate refinement should havechosen a dive to amuse himself in—a place that reekedwith the odor of evil, and through whose heat, andsmoke, and glaring lights the faces of so many lost soulsstared at one like spectres—seems incredible. Wherewould you have him go? Back into his own dull environment?Free and drunk as he was? Nonsense!He would have become conspicuous. No one wasever conspicuous at Regan’s. Hell has no favorites.The place had not sunk so low as to have clean sawduston its floors. It was run rigorously for coin. Itswaiters, silent, experienced, and attentive; its women,confidential in the extreme; and the eye of the bounceron and over them all. The bartender, the melodeon,and the banjo player did the rest. It was they whokept up its esprit—changed an old hard-luck storyinto new luck, tears into laughter, and desperationinto a faint glimmer of hope. In the lower worldeverything is so well understood, there are no novelties—stalelove—stale beer—stale everything.

The last we saw of Ebner Ford was when he glancedat the extra announcing the scandal. He who rarelybought a paper, bought this. He handed the newsboya nickel, waited impatiently for his change, and leapedup the Elevated stairs, reading the account.

He read as he ran, glancing at Lamont’s portraitframed in an oval of yacht pennants and polo-mallets,[254]with a horseshoe for luck crowning them all. Hethrew another nickel on the worn sill of the ticketwindow, received a coupon from a haggard ticket-seller,and kept on reading while he waited on thedrafty station at Fulton Street for an up-town train.Nothing could have happened to better further hisidea. Was not his friend Lamont in trouble? Whatbetter excuse to call on him and express his sympathy?He began as he boarded the train to frame up whathe would say to him. “Sympathy first and businessafterward,” he said to himself. How he would cometo him gallantly as a friend—slap him on the backand cheer him up. “Help him ferget—all them littleworries”—and having gotten him sufficiently cheered,talk to him man to man over his little scheme. Hetold himself that there was not a chance in a thousandof its failing; that Lamont could not very well refusehim. “Takin’ all things considered,” he mused, ashe hung to a strap—“dead stuck on girlie, that’scertain—one of them little bargains that a feller likehim will snap at.”

He began to wish that it was he instead of Lamontwho had gotten into so much free print. “Wouldn’thave cost me a cent,” he reasoned, “and given memore solid advertisem*nt than I could have bought fera thousand dollars. Ain’t nothin’ like publicity tobring a feller into the public eye.”

All New York was reading the account. Thousandsof others would read it all over the country, he declared.He decided he had better go to Lamont’s club first,[255]in the hope of finding him, and failing in this, to hishouse. Then he thought he had “better go homefirst and see Emma, and brush up a little,” and withthis in view left the train at 9th Street and walkedrapidly across town to Waverly Place.

In the meantime Enoch had left his office; he, too,had bought a paper, which he read grimly, with mingledanger and disgust. Later came Lamont’s side ofthe affair in the afternoon edition. This Enoch read,taking it for precisely what it was worth, his angerrising as he thought of Sue and of her acquaintancewith a scoundrel. After all said and done, the incidentthat had happened before the theatre was ofslight interest to the public; thousands of them kindledtheir kitchen fires with the whole of it the next day,and having cooked breakfast over the cheerful flames,forgot that the unfortunate incident had ever happened.

A few women of Lamont’s acquaintance still gossipedover it to their intimate friends at tea and alongFifth Avenue—and forgave him. The butler at Lamont’sresidence opened the door wide as usual, graveas the statue of an illustrious citizen, and as for Mrs.Lamont, she resumed her philosophic life as well.

“Handsome Jack” was drinking heavily somewhere—noone knew where; all they knew was that he hadnot returned; whom he hobnobbed with he had onlya vague idea of himself. The mornings were the worst,the afternoons grew better, and he really only began[256]to live steadily at midnight and beyond into thosestale hours of the morning, until the chill of graydaylight sent the best banjo player’s best banjo intoits worn leather case, closed the little Sunday-schoolmelodeon, locked it, and sent its tired player to bedfor the day, sent the scrub-woman to her knees, andgave the bouncer a well-earned rest with the rising sun.Possibly the only woman who knew where Lamontwas was “Diamond” May, a large blonde, whose languagewas as refined as she could make it for the occasion,and whose quick, gray eyes were those of a retiredthief’s.

She called him “Jack”—but mostly “deary,” “listen”and “deary” occurring as frequently in hervocabulary as “and” or “the.” Jack swore by herafter midnight. She was proud of him, being a gentleman.She was proud, too, of being in the presenceof his money and his crest ring, which to her vouchedfor both their respectabilities.

Luck comes to a man without the slightest warning.Strangely enough, it is the result after repeated failure.Luck arrives when least expected. It is as elusive asquicksilver and full of surprises. Neither the toilernor the gambler can by long study control it; as forthe latter, all his pet systems of play break down,unless luck is with him. He spends all his life tryingto beat the game, and in the long run the game invariablybeats him. And as luck can never be a steadycompanion, few gamblers die rich. The game itselfimpoverishes both the proprietor and his clients.[257]There are some who acquire the habit of gambling;others are born gamblers, and Jack Lamont was oneof these.

Had Ebner Ford found him to-night, he would havediscovered him winning heavily in one of the best-knowngambling-houses in town. Here, also, he wasknown as “Jack,” and any check he signed for wasaccepted. The old negro at the door, sliding backthe small grated panel, knew him instantly on thedark, high stoop, opened the door immediately, bowedlow in his brass-buttoned livery, and called him“Mr. L.”

Up-stairs, in the shadow of the shades casting theirbright light over the long, green roulette table, othersknew him as “Jack” Lamont. The faro dealer, withhis precise, pale hands, knew him, too, but contentedhimself with a friendly nod of greeting—omitting hisname.

The proprietor was an honest man—a man whonever did an unkind act or said an unkind thing toman, woman, or child in his life. This man had rarevirtues—he never drank, he never smoked, he neverswore; he loved his wife and children; he stood at theelbows of the riffraff of weak humanity in his house,and yet, apart from them all. He possessed the mannersof a prince and the heart of a gentleman, for hedid kind things nightly. The college youth who lost,and whom he knew could not at all afford it, he wouldapproach in a way that even the youth, heated withdrink and gaming, could not take offense at. Little[258]by little, as the boy lost, he would persuade him tostop. He would explain to him “that he had strucka run of bad luck; that the same thing had happenedto him a score of times in his life—suppose you let metake your last hand?”

This over a game of poker in the small room up-stairson the third floor. Then somehow he managedto lose to the boy, lose all he had won from him, gavehim a free supper of jellied quail and champagne, andsaw that he reached his college train in time, withwhat he had entered his gambling-house with safe inhis pocket.

“You have one of those peculiar streaks of bad luckon,” he’d repeat. “Leave the game alone for sixmonths, son; I never knew luck to change in less.”

There was something lovable in his character, inhis gentle, well-modulated voice, in the gleam of hishonest blue eyes, brilliant in a face exceedingly pale,crowned by fair hair silvered at the temples. Talland slim he was, a straight and graceful man, with aclean-cut profile, a blond mustache, and clothes thatwere positively immaculate: The white silk ascot tie,with its single pearl, the long gray Prince Albert coatand trousers, the trim patent-leather shoes. And hishands! What wonderful hands he had—pale, ringlesshands, yet denoting strength and character. And hisspotless white cuffs, and the plain gold links his wifehad given him. This tall, pale man, who rang trueas gold, he, too, was a born gambler, but he playedlike a gentleman, and could go to bed at daylight[259]owing no man a grudge, and with the sincere beliefthat that which he had won he had won honestly.

Lamont played on—played on as he had luckily thenight before, and the night before that. Flushed withhis luck, when he finished this morning at five, he hadover six thousand dollars of the house’s money. Theold negro saw him out with a smile, and he handedhim a five-dollar bill for his trouble.

He still had sense enough left not to go back to hisold haunts. The only wise thing to do he did—wentto a respectable hotel, locked his door, and slept untilhis bank opened for depositors. With his great goodluck, his old, sordid haunts had lost their glamour,somehow. His thoughts turned to sweeter things.

He longed to see Sue. He was very much in thesame condition of mind as many a man has been before—andwho, having bathed, shaved, and dressed,goes out and buys a clean, fresh rosebud for his buttonhole.

She had been waiting for him at the top of thestairs, had been waiting for him, indeed, half the morning,and now at the sound of his key in the lock ofthe front door, slipping in between Mercury and Fortune,who kept a constant vigil over tenants, peddlers,or intruders, she rushed again to the banisters.

She was flushed, her small mouth wore a pinchedexpression, and her whole manner indicated suppressednervousness.

“Well, Ebner!” she exclaimed with a sigh, and inthe voice of a woman who had been waiting in vainfor a husband who had stayed out all night.

He raised his lean head as he climbed, the morning’sextra sticking out of his overcoat pocket, his eyesstudying his wife curiously.

“Well, Em!” he returned, with a cheerful drawl,having a scot-free conscience apropos of the night andbeing cold sober.

“Ebner!” she exclaimed tragically, as he followedher into the sitting-room.

The flush over her round, apple-like, stupid littleface deepened, her small, pinched mouth drooped painfullyat the corners; she seemed about to weep, andunder the pressure of emotion the skin trembled andshowed white under the first crease of her double chin.

[261]She turned by the centre-table and faced him nowwith the look of a woman about to announce the suddendeath of an old friend.

“Ebner!” she repeated painfully, “have you heardthe news!”—and with that her small hands coveredher eyes.

“Heard? Heard what news? What’s ailin’ you,Em?”

“Ebner!” she exclaimed solemnly, “you don’t meanto tell me you haven’t heard? Why, there it is stickingright out of your pocket, and you mean to tellme you haven’t even read it? Oh, Ebner!” she halfsobbed, “isn’t it terrible!”

“Oh, that!” he grinned, wrenching out the extra,flinging off his overcoat and coat, and chucking bothon the sofa. “’Bout the slickest piece of free advertisem*ntI’ve seen in years.”

The grin broadened.

“Didn’t cost him a cent.”

“Oh, Ebner! How my heart aches for his poorwife!”

“Poor? You don’t call a woman poor who’s got abrownstone front all her own—horses, three meals aday, and a butler—do yer? Any one’d think half theworld had come to an end and the other half wasabout to fail in business.”

“To—to think!” she faltered. “Oh, I’d like tobelieve, Ebner, there wasn’t a word of truth in it—Ijust would. I’d just like to believe the whole thingwas—just—just—like some awful dream. It’s so terrible—a[262]man of his refinement and position, married!Oh! why do you stand there looking at me? Whycan’t you say something, Ebner? Can’t you see howterrible it all is—just as he was becoming an oldfriend—girlie’s happiness and all! What can we expectnow? Society will close her gates to him—yes,she will—I’m just as sure of it as my name’s EmmaFord. We’ll have to begin all over again, dear——”

“Close her gates, eh? Not to any alarmin’ extent,”he declared. “I’d give a cool hundred if I was in hisshoes. You bet your sweet life I would! Don’t yougit to worryin’ about society’s gates, Em. They wa’n’tnever so wide open to him as they be now. Ain’t hein the public eye? Ain’t he? Well, I guess yes—rightup in the limelight! Ever stop to think whatthat means? Why, it’s credit, it’s friends, it’s business.It’d mean sales to me—only I ain’t got it. I’mone er them fellers that Fortune seldom winks at—andif she did I’d feel like payin’ her fifty per centfor her trouble.”

She shook her head disconsolately.

“You needn’t worry a mite about Lamont now,”he continued. “He’s on the right railroad tack.He’s flyin’ along the Grand Trunk line to success, andif I ain’t mistook, he’s passin’ small stations withouteven ringin’ his bell.”

She was silent as usual under his bombastic speech,knowing it was useless to interrupt him.

“Didn’t feature no portrait of the feller that hithim, did they?” he went on with enthusiasm. “Not[263]much. Ain’t that proof enough Lamont’s the favorite?Hadn’t thought of that, had yer? You ain’tseen no picter of the other feller, have yer? No, sir.And you won’t, neither; they ain’t got him framed upin no flags or croquet mallets and a horseshoe for luckthrown into the bargain. That’s what I call a tenstrike!” he cried, slapping open the extra. “Got himall dolled up, natural as life. Any idea what thatfront page is worth? Be a little surprised, wouldn’tyer, if I was to tell yer five hundred dollars couldn’tbuy it. Take the picter alone——”

“Ebner!” she intervened bravely, with bated breath.“You don’t suppose they’d have dared print it if itwasn’t true?”

“Pshaw!” he laughed. “You don’t know ’em.Besides, Em, how do you know the whole thing ain’ta put-up job? One er them little flimflam hoaxes fernotoriety.”

“Ebner!”

“Well, the more I come to think of it the more Idunno but what I’m right. Where’s girlie?”

“She’s out, dear. It would have broken your heartto have seen her when she read it.”

“What’d she say?”

“You know how she is, dear. She just went out.She said she was going to luncheon with the Jacksons.She looked positively sick—awful shock to her, Ebner.You know how independent and silent she is whenanything affects her.”

“Suppose she thinks her good time’s all knocked in[264]the head, eh!” he returned, striding over to the closetfor his alpaca coat. “Well, they ain’t by a long shot.Why, Em, it ain’t nothin’ but a joke—more I thinkof it more I know I’m right. Remember Sol Edmunds,Em—the time he hit Bill Sanders fer courtin’ his wife?Remember how it was all a put-up job to give SheriffBrown the haw, haw?” A vestige of a hopeful smilecrept to her flushed face. “Well, they got their namesin the papers, didn’t they? Whole column, if I rememberright, in the Springville Leader.”

“Oh! Ebner, and you really think, dear, it’s—itisn’t true; that——”

He flung himself into a chair with an easy laugh.He gave her to understand that she was not supposedto have his long, worldly experience in life, but whatevertruth there was in it he’d find out for her andtell her.

“If there is any truth in it,” he remarked quitegravely, “I’ll go to him as a friend and find out—maybeI can help him. I wa’n’t never known todesert a friend in trouble, Em, and you know it.”

“I know, dear,” she said meekly. “Ebner, I’d goto him. I want you to express to him my sympathy,”she added, subsiding wearily in the corner of the sofa.“Our deepest sympathy. I can’t believe it true ofhim—say what they may.”

“Go to him? Well, now, little woman, that’s justwhat I intended to do. Thinks I, I’ll go to him, manto man—a friend in need, Em.”

“I know, dear. You’ll do what is best.”

[265]“Don’t I always do what is best?” he smiled, andwent over and planted a sound kiss on her flushedcheek.

For a brief moment she held his long hand in hers,pressing it affectionately.

“Yes, dear,” she murmured, “you always do. It’sgirlie I’m thinking about. If you only could haveseen her, Ebner.”

“Well, now!” he drawled. “I ain’t such a thick-headbut what I can imagine it did shake her up considerable.You know how girls be, Em. Slightestthing upsets ’em. Last thing they do is to stop andreason. Take a fact always fer granted without divinin’the source.”

Ford went to Lamont ostensibly to offer his condolences.His intention was to borrow enough moneyfrom him to pay back Miss Ann. That he shouldhave succeeded in borrowing a dollar even from thatwayward gentleman seems incredible, and yet oneof those strange changes had come over “HandsomeJack.” Having played the fool, things took with hima more serious turn of mind. He thought of Sue, andas is often the case with men of his kind, he fell suddenlyhead over heels in love with her. Not findinghim at his house, Ebner Ford found him some dayslater at his club.

It proved to be a winning day for Ebner Ford.Luck was with him from the first. He explained toLamont, “man to man,” all that had happened. Hefound Lamont exceedingly nervous after his spree, but[266]generous, his latter condition of mind, no doubt, dueto his heavy winnings and his desire to stand well infavor with Mrs. Ford.

The two men had a heavy luncheon at a near-bychop-house, and at the end of it Lamont would nothear of Sue leaving the apartment. That was out ofthe question. Over a long cigar he drew breath, andtherewith on the spot a check ample enough to makeup what Ford owed Miss Ann, and for which he took(not without some polite protest) enough of the UnitedLaundry Association’s gilt-edged preferred as security.He could not believe but that Sue would be overwhelminglygrateful. He intended, also, to hold theloan over Ford, if he ever got ugly over his attentionsto his stepdaughter. After all, he reasoned, Sue wasnot Ford’s daughter. By his generosity he also wishedto defeat Enoch of his desire to get the Fords out ofthe house. Ebner Ford left him at a little after three,every nerve in him tingling over his good luck.

“There ain’t no one can beat me,” he said to himself,as he sauntered out of the greasy door of thechop-house and down Broadway, “when it comes toa crisis. I went to him man to man.” He smiledwith satisfaction. “Well, I pulled off the trick, didn’tI? I got what I wanted.” Now and then his lean,long hand felt in his inside pocket to see if Lamont’smagnanimous check was still safe, and having foundthat it was, he crossed over to a drug-store and boughta fifty-cent box of stale candy for his wife.

“Business acumen,” he muttered, still musing as[267]the clerk wrapped it up and handed him his packageof chocolate creams and his change. The stimulus ofsudden and easy money buoyed him up into grandgood-humor. “Talked to him like a Dutch uncle,didn’t I? Not one man in a thousand could havedone what I done to-day.” And in this he was right.

Farther down the thoroughfare he thought ofgirlie, of the part she had unconsciously but valuablyplayed in the transaction. For all of half an hour hewandered around a department store looking for abargain to please Sue, but finding they were all expensive,wandered out again and decided some day tosurprise her with a new umbrella. “The best moneycan buy,” he declared, as he boarded a green horse-car,and lighted a fresh cigar Lamont had given him.He stood on the front platform back of the driver,whose big gloved hand had polished continually theknob of the steel brake handle, and whose whip hunglimp over the dashboard. They talked of horses ingeneral, and the weather in particular, the toughnessof winter especially, and mentioned a few aldermenbesides, and the chances on the next election for“ivery dacent hard-workin’ man,” as the veterandriver expressed it. Meanwhile the car rattled on,all its windows shivered and shook as with the ague,and the smell of its kerosene-lamps was noticeableeven on the front platform. Now and then the steaminghorses stopped for a second’s hard-earned pantingrest, while a passenger got on. Now and then Fordnodded back to the conductor to go ahead, but at[268]Madison Square he swung off with an easy “So long”to the driver, and turned into the Hoffman Housewith an air of a man who had suddenly been liftedout of his troubles forever.

Success is a dangerous stimulant. Ford fearednothing now. What he saw ahead was a wider marketfor his stock. It is possible he saw in his optimistic,visionary way, in his abject ignorance of menat large, other Lamonts whom he could cajole to aluncheon they paid for and extract from the victimother checks to help him out of “the little ups anddowns,” as he called them, of the business world.To Ford to-day the horizon of his affairs had clearedto its zenith, and from that great distance thingsseemed to be coming his way in droves in so vast aproportion that on his return to Waverly Place hegarrulously confessed to his wife all that had happened—evento his interview with Enoch; of Lamont’sdevotion to them, and of the stanch and generousproof of his friendship. He explained it all to her asmerely natural; that in the business world such littleincidents were of daily occurrence, and that no reallylegitimate business was free from them—and, poorsoul, she believed him. The news that Lamont wastheir friend overshadowed anything that had happened.

Could she have kept the joyful news to herself?Impossible! Scarcely had Sue entered the door, whenher mother told her everything. Let us pass over thispainful scene—of Sue’s humiliation and rage, of howthe poor child went straight to Enoch, of how she[269]sobbed out her heart to him, and how he comfortedher like a father, glad in his heart that her eyes wereopen at last to the worthlessness of a man like Lamont,whom he had openly denounced, whose acquaintancewith her he had feared from the very first.

Only when Sue had left him did the torrent ofEnoch’s rage burst forth. All that had previouslyhappened was nothing compared to this—that EbnerFord should have used Sue, his own stepdaughter,as a means to an end; that he had dared obtain moneyfrom Lamont, giving him his worthless stock, givinghim as collateral carte blanche, as it were, to continuehis attentions to Sue as he pleased.

“Good God!” he cried aloud. Then he felt weakand sank into his chair.

For the first time Enoch Crane was beginning tofeel how helpless he was to protect a child he loved.After all, what had he accomplished? Denounced ascoundrel in his club, denounced him before his intimatefriends, threatened him with what? Then thescandal in the newspapers. Even that had turnedout well for the man he despised. “Good God!” hekept murmuring to himself. “What next?”

He sat there white, livid, the muscles of his jawworking, sat there beating a tattoo on the arm of hischair with both hands, a savage gleam in his eyes.

Suddenly he leaped out of his chair and rang forMoses, and presently that servant appeared.

“Yas, Marser Crane,” said Moses, poking his graywoolly head in the door.

[270]“Tell Mr. Ford I should like to see him at once,”said Enoch, so sharply that Moses opened the whitesof his eyes wide. “Tell him I wish to see him immediately,”declared Enoch again.

“’Spec’ somethin’s gone wrong with you, MarserCrane,” ventured Moses gently.

“Wrong!” Enoch shouted. “Wrong! Nothing’sgone right in this house since Ford entered.”

“Dat’s suttenly de truth, Marser,” agreed Moses.“What’s a been a-goin’ along ain’t suttenly goneright—I seen it frum de fust; ever since he movedin.”

“You will go down at once, Moses, and tell him Iwish to see him.”

“I’se on my way,” smiled Moses. “I’ll tell himwhat you done said to me—’meadiately—dat you won’ttake no for an answer. Dat’s it—’meadiately.”

Moses withdrew. In less than five minutes he returned.

“Well?” asked Enoch, as he opened his door.

“De—de—” (he was about to say gentleman,but checked himself) “de—de—man says—dat he’sobleeged to you fer your invitation, but he ain’ta-comin’. Dat’s his very words, Marser Crane.”

Enoch started.

“You’re sure that’s what he said?” he exclaimed,shooting forward in his chair angrily.

“Dem was his very words,” declared Moses. “Hol’on—he done repeated, as I recollect, he ain’t a-comin’.”

“He said that to you, did he?” said Enoch slowly.

[271]“Dat suttenly was his very syllables,” declared theold darky, scratching his woolly head.

“How did he say it?” snapped Enoch.

“Dere ain’t no use er makin’ any bones ’bout deway dat man talks to me,” Moses declared. “Talkslike my ole overseer, ’cept he ain’t got no whip tocut me with. Fust day I laid eyes on him I sez toMatilda, he ain’t no gen’mun—seen it de way he wasa hollerin’ an’ flambastin’ round de movers.”

“You may go, Moses,” said Enoch quietly.

“Yas, sir. Thank yer, Marser Crane,” and he wasgone.

For a long while Enoch sat there, muttering tohimself. Before him on the table lay his check payableto the order of Miss Ann Moulton. In caseEbner Ford failed her he had decided to come to therescue.

Whew! A breath of fresh air!

Joe Grimsby had gone to the woods—to the veryheart of the Adirondack wilderness, an old stamping-groundof his—primitive enough in these days, longbefore the millionaire and his money had invadedand gilded the silent places. Even Atwater did notobject to Joe’s going—he had worked hard, and neededa change. Their final set of competition drawings forthe big building of the Lawyers’ Consolidated TrustCompany had been handed in for decision; the remainderof their work, two cottages on Long Island, werein the hands of the builders, and the office was takinga well-earned rest. So Joe packed up his things,boarded the Montreal express one evening early inAugust, got off at daylight on the edge of Lake Champlainat Westport, and found his old friend and guide,Ed Munsey, waiting for him at the small station witha hired team and buckboard.

Ed’s quick blue eye caught right of Joe as he steppedoff the sleeper.

“Wall! Wall!” grinned Ed, with a hearty handshake.“Knowed ye’d come. Freme Dubois’s boybrought me your letter—let’s see, Thursday, wa’n’t it?No—come to think of it, it was Friday—’bout noon;I’d been off straightening the trail over to the big[273]south medders, fer the survey with Bill Williams.Gosh all whimey! We done some travellin’ in thatthar swamp. Goll, sez I, I knowed ye’d write. Haowgoes it, Joe?”

“Fine, Ed. Lord, but I’m glad to get here.”

“That yourn?” remarked Ed, noting an Englishsole-leather trunk by itself on the platform, well scarredand labelled, guaranteeing its travels to Venice, theTyrol, and beyond.

Joe nodded.

“Reminds me of Hite Pitcomb the time he fellthrough Hank Jenkins’s sawpit. Thar wa’n’t a spoton him big’s your hand, that Doc Haines didn’t sticka plaster on. Let’s see, got yer gripsack?” andglancing at the big pigskin bag beside Joe, he slungthe trunk on his back, Joe following him to the waitingteam.

As Ed tucked the yellow horse-blanket snugly aroundJoe’s knees and picked up the lines, his keen blue eyeslooked him quizzically over.

“Lookin’ kinder peaked ’round the gills, ain’t ye?”he remarked, as he clucked to the horses. “Wall,you’ll git over that, soon’s we git to camp—gee up!”

The team started for Keene Valley at a brisk trot.

“If I’d a-knowed you was a-comin’, I’d er fixedup my old lean-to to the head of the pond—roof wasleakin’ bad last time I come by thar—a feller’d gitkinder moist, as the feller said, if it come on to rain.”

As the springy old buckboard rattled on, the raremountain air, pungent with the perfume of balsam[274]and pine, sent a glow to Joe’s cheeks. He drew adeep, long, delicious breath.

“That’s what I want,” he cried, with his old breezyenthusiasm, “and plenty of it! Whew! What air,Ed!”

“Help yerself, friend, it’s all free,” returned his companion.

The two talked on—Joe plying his old friend with ascore of questions. “Eph Hammond’s girl got married,”he learned. “Yes, yes—run off with the drug-storefeller down to Alder Brook. Old Man Stimsonwas dead at last. Jim Oldfield had cut himself badwith an axe, over to Lily Pond—but deer were plenty,and the still water at the head of the Upper AusablePond was chock full of trout.”

They talked on as they passed through Elizabethtown,and clear of the village, some miles farther on,Joe’s eyes feasted upon the first glimpse of the greatdistant range of mountains that presently loomed upahead of them—a range he knew every foot of andhad loved for years. As they neared Keene Valley,the mountains became majestic; on the left, the blacksides of Giant Mountain glistened in the sunlight;beyond, at the extreme end of the long, green, peacefulvalley, the peak of Noon Mark peeped above therifts of morning mist. Now and then a red squirrelskittered across the road. To the left flashed in ripplesof light the swirling current of the Ausable River,clear as crystal. The air grew cooler as they dippeddown a short hill and skirted an alder swamp, out of[275]which two woodco*ck whistled up and disappeared inthe deeper forest.

“Gee ap!” cried Ed to the sturdy team. Theylivened into a brisk trot. It was playful going forthe mares after drawing logs all winter down lumberroads of sheer ice, where often a fall, a shifted load,or the snapping of a trace-chain meant death to them.

The big woods had weathered another winter ofcruel winds and biting cold, deep in millions of tonsof snow. Formidable mountain torrents, like John’sBrook, had lain for months frozen and choked undera mass of white domes marking its big boulders; downbeneath this coverlet the black water gurgled andswirled. Here and there, during the hard winter, anair-hole disclosed the icy water purling beneath, quarrelling,talking to itself, and where for all these longwinter months the trout lay like prisoners in the dark,scarcely moving. Above them the big hemlocks hadcreaked, groaned, and cried under bitter onslaughtsof sleet and wind. Now and then a tree strung tensewith the cold gave out a report like a pistol-shot.From the great boulders hung huge yellow icicles,like the stained beards of old men. Tracks wereeverywhere, a vast labyrinth of telltale goings andcomings of the hungry and the wary. The fox cross-trackedthe wolverene, circling over the clean snowwere noiseless tracks of lean white hares and thestraight, mincing tread of partridges. Now and thenthe solid, nimble track of a panther, prowling whilethe bears slept soundly in their caves. Here and[276]there tiny tracks, the timid trot of a mouse, his tailmaking a faint gash in the snow. Spring had comeas a relief at last, freeing all things. To-day thewoods basked in the kind old summer. The big brookhad become again a roaring torrent. Birds sang again;the hermit-thrush, the last to sing at evening. Nocturnalanimals went their several ways under the gentlelight of the moon, and every early morning broughtthat pirate, the kingfisher, like a flash of azure downJohn’s Brook, chattering with devilish glee as he drovethe smaller trout in a panic ahead of him, and filledhis belly with the one that pleased him, an insolentand arrogant thief, vain of his strong beak and hisgay plumage.

To Ed the woods were an open book, and he readthem as easily as some do a printed page, though hecould scarcely spell, and wrote with difficulty. Hisshock of hair, seldom combed except for dances, funerals,or weddings, was sandy; his heart was big and hiseyes of a clear, penetrating blue. He could see fartherthan most men in the woods, and could shoot straightunder difficulties when many a man would have missed.He was as garrulous as a magpie at times, and silentat others, though his voice, like that of most menliving in the wilderness, was low-pitched, a soft, earnestvoice. Once a year he dyed his mustache blue-black;that it wore green to one side did not botherhim. He had a pet fancy for a stub of a brier pipe,stuffed generally with his “favorite” tobaccos—“BlueRuin” or “Honey Comb”—and wore gay suspenders[277]and two thick blue-flannel shirts to keep him warm.He had never ridden on the cars. They were theonly thing he was afraid of, never having tried them,though they had tempted him more than once to takehim as far as the fair at “Ticonderogi.” He had ahabit of talking seriously to inanimate things abouthim. His fire that slowly kindled in a rain, sticks thatrefused to “lay daown” to kindle, again to the dullededge of his long-handled, double-bitted axe—a rareoccurrence, for he kept it as sharp as a carpenter’schisel. Often he spoke to the weather.

“Goll ding ye!” he’d say, between his teeth, glancingup at the low-lying clouds. “Ain’t ye got yersatisfy? Ain’t ye got dreened aout yit?”

Joe loved him and he loved Joe. They were closepals. Ed had guided him ever since he was a littleshaver of fifteen, taking care of him as if he was hisown son—and for all of these precious services heasked nothing, and only accepted their remunerationafter long persuasion from Joe and bashful protests—scratchinghis shock of sandy hair awkwardly anddeclaring: “By gum! that he wa’n’t worth it—that itwas a goll-dummed sight too much in dollars, friend.Ain’t we hed a good time?” He’d argue: “Wall—ain’tthat enough?” Ed always “cal’ated” it was.Now and then he managed to send Joe a hind quarteror a saddle of venison; once the skin of a wolverene, aprime pelt killed in December; and twice, when hisbear traps yielded over in St. Armand Valley, he sentJoe the skins—ears and all—forfeiting the reward[278]from the State, and never mentioning it, either.Though he was seldom at home, he had a snug cabinwith a dirt floor down by the river, four hound dogs,a wife, a melodeon that nobody could play, two strappingdaughters, afraid of no man alive, and a suspensionlamp.

They were only details in his life. He preferredthe deep woods, often travelling in the wilderness forweeks alone, sometimes off with the State Survey, whoalways got him when they could, since he possesseda bump of location, a sense of direction that was phenomenal;often he was fishing or still-hunting for deer,or following his line of sable traps as far up as PantherGorge and the summit of Mount Marcy. He couldspend a week in the woods with no more than a dozenmatches; when one got damp he rubbed it dry in hishair.

The two spent the night in the valley at the oldwhite hotel with the green blinds. Early the nextmorning they provisioned up at the small store andpost-office opposite, smelling of dried herrings, calico,cheese, baby’s shoes, and lumbermen’s new brogans.

Half a dozen habitués who had known Joe for yearsslid off the counter close to the cheese screen to griphim by the hand in welcome.

“Wall! Wall!” they exclaimed, and that was aboutall, except they added that, “Ed had been expectin’ye and that your letter come all right.”

By noon they were en route to camp on the UpperAusable Pond, by way of the muddiest lumber road[279]in the world, mud hub-deep, black mud, coveringpatches of sunken corduroy, treacherous roots andhidden rocks that snapped their full share of axlesduring a season, spilled off provisions, burst flour-sacks,and brought forth a string of profanity alongits entire contrary length. Ed and Joe trudged onback of the buckboard. To ride was impossible.Now and then the strong team, guided to-day by BillDubois’s boy, also on foot, strained, plunged on, andstopped for a panting rest. Moreover, the old roadwas steep, only reaching its height of land as it cameinto a glimmering view through the trees of the LowerAusable Pond, that lay below, still and mirrored betweenthe flanks of the great mountains. To the rightrose the Gothics, and beyond, sheer up above theirgranite flanks, the high peak of Mount Marcy.

Once in sight of the Lower Ausable, the air becameeven rarer. A gentle breeze that shirred the surfaceof the long pond, set the silvery leaves of a clump ofpoplar-trees shivering and the water slopping alongthe rocky shore. Here, too, they said good-by toBill Dubois’s boy. By the time they had rowedthrough the Lower Ausable, made the carry of a mileand a half between the twin ponds, and reached Ed’slean-to at the head of the upper pond, it was nearlydark. Ed’s frail green boat, loaded down withinthree inches of the water-line, slipped up to a smallpatch of sand that served as a landing before thecleared spot in front of his primitive camp. Ed sprangout and steadied the boat for Joe. The next instant[280]he had picked up the heaviest of the two pack-baskets,slid his strong arms through its broad leather straps,and with a grunt slowly staggered with it to his feet,over a hundred pounds dead weight.

“Hold on!” cried Joe. “Let me help!” he insisted,in vain, as Ed started up the bank. “Pretty heavy,isn’t it? Looks as if it weighed a ton to me.”

Under the dead weight Ed turned and grinned.

“Wall,” he drawled, “it ain’t no earring.”

He set down the pack-basket with a thump beforethe lean-to and glanced about him. Finally, he decidedon a group of dry balsams to the left, a fewstrokes of his keen axe levelled three. These he cutinto lengths, and hauled before the camp. Then hewent in search of a rotten stump, broke out from itscentre a handful of “punk,” gathered a few shreds ofbirch bark, arranged his fire, struck one sulphur matchon the seat of his thick, gray-woollen, homespun trousers,and soon had a cheery blaze crackling and snappinga welcome.

Nothing is worse than a fireless camp. The fire iseverything; it is almost meat and drink.

As it grew darker it made the spot a home. An owlhooted across the silent pond. Beyond the limit ofthe firelight lay the hushed wilderness, stretchingafar, and it is safe to say that the only other campfireto-night for miles was Si Skinner’s, whom Ed“cal’ated was floatin’ for deer clear over to the BoreasPonds.”

Out came Ed’s magic “fry-pan.” With the fragrance[281]of the coffee and the scent of sizzling bacon andbeans Joe became ravenous. He could hardly waituntil Ed cried, “Supper!” and added, with a shoutthat echoed across the pond: “Daylight on zee swamp,and beans on zee tab’, git up, you peasonuers!” beingan old lumberjack’s shout in calling the Canuck Frenchelement in camp to breakfast.

“We’d er done well to hev took thet little whiffetdorg of Bill Saunders along,” declared Ed, as theysat smoking in the warm glow of the fire after supper.“Cunningest little cuss you ever seen to run a deer.Me and Bill killed four ahead of him last fall. Hedon’t make no noise—Bill learned him that; got avoice on him ez weak’s a kitten’s. Then, thinks I,we won’t hev no trouble gitten a deer jackin’ if itkeeps up ez warm ez this. Flies hev begun to trouble’em considerable nights. They’ll be sloshin’ down intothe still water soon. Bill come through here, it wa’n’tmore’n a week ago, and seen four—three bucks and adoe—jest this side of the Gull rock, not forty rod fromwhar you shot at the otter two year ago. ’Bout ezneat a shot as I ever see.”

The two lay smoking on their backs on a fresh andspringy bed of balsam boughs, a fragrant mattressskilfully thatched by Ed, their boots off before thewarm blaze, while they talked on of many things—amongthem two dances over in New Russia Valleythat Ed was sorry Joe had not been up to go to.

The dance Ed recounted “over to Jedwins’ folksChristmas night” was a great success. More than a[282]dozen sleighs had brought the crowd. The Williamsboys fiddled; the coonskin coats were piled as high asthe ceiling. They had moved out the stove in thesquare kitchen of the log cabin, and had danced untilbroad daylight.

As Ed continued his narrative, Joe could almosthear the tramping, swishing feet, for he had gone tomany of these dances; hear the laughter and the roughjokes; could see a score of rosy-cheeked, healthy girlssitting in the room off the kitchen, and being beckonedto by their partners to dance; and the jigs theyplayed, swift jigs to stir the blood—“The Pride ofMichigan” and the “Cat in the Cabbage” scrapedout with a will, with a speed and a rhythm that ischaracteristic of these backwoods fiddlers; and abovethe music the shouts: “Alley mand left! Alley mandright! Dos a dos! First lady in the centre, and allhands around and swing your own!”

They pounded the floor; often they broke it inplaces, and in every hip pocket was a flask.

“Let’s have a song, Ed,” pleaded Joe, kicking upthe fire into a shower of sparks, and returning to thefragrant bed of balsams, and though Ed tried to begoff, Joe insisted.

Finally Ed cleared his throat and began in a sing-songdrone:

[283]He wiped the green side of his dyed mustache withthe back of his hand, and began the second versedrowsily, quavering on the high notes:

Here he paused.

“Go on,” coaxed Joe. “How about the part onthe parade-ground. Remember?”

“Hold on—let’s see. Kinder slipped out of mymind—been so long since I tried to sing it.”

But Joe was again insistent, and after a little thinkingEd resumed:

Again the singer stopped.

“Now, hold on, there’s a fourth verse,” declaredJoe eagerly.

“Let’s see—so there is,” confessed Ed sleepily, andafter a long pull at his pipe, resumed slowly:

[284]“Thar! thet’s all I kin remember,” he declared.

It was one of those old lumberjack songs that hadcome from no one knew where. As far as Joe knew,this favorite backwoods ballad of his had never beenwritten, like scores of others gleaned out of the lumbercamps.

But it was growing late, and both were drowsyafter their long tramp. The fire had sunk to embers.They stacked it up for the night with the remainingnigg*red ends of the dry balsams, and before anotherfive minutes had elapsed the two were rolled up andsnoring in their blankets. Then all was still, savethat at intervals the owl hooted hoarsely from acrossthe pond, or a muskrat plunged down by the landing,close to their boat. When they awoke, the warm sunwas streaming in upon them, and the pond, still as aplate of glass, lay under a blanket of rosy mist. Thatnight Joe had dreamed of Sue.

To Joe the still water at the head of the pond had astrange fascination, a silent stream, black as onyx, itscurrent bordered by the deep forest of spruce and pine,with now and then a giant hemlock, centuries old,lifting its shaggy top above them. So perfectly werethe trees mirrored in the stream that it was often difficultto tell where the water-line began.

The stream this year was swarming with trout; seldomhad its gravelled spawning beds yielded betterfishing. Here, too, the deer came to drink. At nightthe winding stream became ghostly and as silent as[285]death, save now and then the slosh of a leaping troutor the plunge of a muskrat.

There was something of the unfathomable and theunknown in this weird, lonely river, buried as it wasmiles back of civilization.

To-night the slim, green boat moved up it, andturned to the right and left in its varied bends, hemmedin by the black trees. The boat, like the two menwithin it, did not make a sound, and though Ed’spaddle kept constantly in motion under water, heavoided lifting it clear of the current. In the absolutestillness even its drip would have been heard. In thebow where Joe sat in the chill air, with a Winchesteracross his knees, glowed with a peculiar ghostly lightan old-fashioned jack-lantern; back of its stub of acandle Ed had nailed a semicircle of hemlock bark,whose inner slippery peel, white as ivory, served asa reflector, obliterating from view the boat and itsoccupants. It was an ideal night to float for deer—themoon not yet up.

It was past midnight when they stealthily turnedto the right up a stretch of water, swinging along undersome alders that shaded in daylight a patch of shallowwater with a clean sand bottom. Suddenly Ed’spaddle gently backed water. Joe did not know hispaddle had reversed, but he felt an almost imperceptibleshake to the green boat, cautiously lifted his rifle,and, peering ahead of him, saw a grayish object closeup to the alders. Half a stroke of Ed’s paddle, andhe saw more plainly an animal that resembled a sort[286]of phantom horse but was in reality a small spike-hornedbuck. He had been drinking, and now raisedhis trim head and stood gazing into the lantern’sghostly light. Like a flash he started to spring tothe bank, but Joe was too quick for him; down hewent with a shot that broke his neck.

“By goll, Joe, you done well,” came Ed’s quietremark, as together they lifted the deer in the boatand started for camp. They had barely reached theGull rock when the moon rose, flooding the pond withits soft radiance, changing the chill low-lying mist toa silvery veil.

When they reached camp they turned in and sleptlate, and it was nearly noon before Ed had the fatspike-horned buck “dressed out” and hung.

They kept a saddle and a fore quarter with them,and the hind quarters and the other fore quarter theytook down to the lower pond, where they hung it forsafe-keeping close to the shore in a small cavern belowsome big boulders known as the Ice Cave. Herenature had provided for the hunter an excellentrefrigerator, inasmuch as it held several tons of ice allthe year round, possibly due to its being entirelyscreened from the sun’s rays, and the fact that a colddraft of air whirled through it constantly.

These were the good old days when rich clubs andimprovement companies had not penetrated the wilderness;macadamed roads, luxurious camps, electric-lightedhotels, French chefs, automobiles, and golfcourses did not exist. The big woods still held their[287]mysteries and their hardships; they held natives, too—big-heartedmen like Ed Munsey, simple as childrenand full of dry humor. It was a vast paradiseof things beautiful and real, and of constant adventure.

Already Joe looked like a different man; you wouldhave scarcely recognized him as the smiling but ratherpeaked Joe, who had stepped off the stuffy sleeper.No fellow could have been more constantly in a betterhumor; the girth of his already broad shoulders seemedto have increased—at least Ed “’lowed” they had—andthere was a healthy, solid ruddiness about himthat made Ed’s heart glad. Moreover, though it wasAugust, they had the upper pond, so far, to themselves.The four or five other modest open lean-tocamps along its shore were still fireless and deserted,and though a small party of hunters in two boats afew days later passed through the ponds en route tothe Boreas country, they did not stop.

The weather held fine. Sharp, cold nights, splendidcrisp, sunny mornings, the pond boiling in mist, lazynoons and peaceful twilights, when Joe cast for troutup the silent, still water. The little camp was dryand in perfect order. Wasps crawled into the jam-potwhenever they could get a chance, or droned overthe warm ashes of their fire, their only other visitorsbeing a few friendly chipmunks and a family of cedar-birds.

Be it said in passing, that if we have been at painsto describe in detail the exact environment in which[288]Mr. Joseph Grimsby found himself these days, carefreeas a gypsy and as brown and healthy as a lumberjack,it is because this very spot marked, ten dayslater, the turning-point in his life. To receive a telegramin camp generally means bad news. We instantlythink of an imperative order to return at onceto civilization, or worse, the serious illness of thosenearest to us—even death. The telegram addressedto Joe was brought into Keene Valley by the mailstage at noon, and handed to the postmaster in thesmall country store, who, having got hold of Bill Dubois’sboy, sent him off with it to the upper pond.

It must be said to his credit that Bill Dubois’s boy,whose name was Henry, and who was called Hi forshort, made the trip up to camp at his best speed.That he only arrived after twilight was no fault ofhis. There was his father’s flat-bottomed scow hidin the bushes at the end of the lower pond, and itleaked badly; besides the pond, unlike its mate above,had roughened up under a sudden breeze, and he hadto pull with all his long-legged, long-armed, red-earedstrength to reach the carry, at the other end of whichthe boat he had counted on he found had been takenby the party going to the Boreas country. There wasa vague and overgrown trail, however, skirting theshore, that he knew Joe and Ed were camped on, andhaving hallooed for some minutes in vain in the hopeof their hearing him, he took to the trail, no easy goingin the fast deepening dusk, stumbling over fallen logs.Finally he began to reach the head of the pond, and[289]presently came out upon the small clearing beforethe lean-to.

Not a human being was in sight, and though he hallooedand shouted again, no one answered him, savea loon about thirty rods from shore, whose shrill, diabolicallaugh seemed to mock him. He searchedaround, found the lantern, lighted it, brightened upthe smouldering fire, made himself some tea, discovereda square of raw pork “freshening” in the dewon a stump, cut off a slice with his jack-knife, slippedit between two hardtack biscuits and, having eatenit, washed it down with the rest of the tea. Then heflung himself on the bed of balsam and was soon snoring,the telegram stuck conspicuously in an axe-cuton the lean-to’s ridge-pole.

By this time Joe and Ed, who had fished far up thestill water, were making their way back to camp. Astheir boat came out into the pond and clear of theGull rock, Ed was the first to catch sight of theirbrightened fire.

“Wall, I swan!” he exclaimed. “I presume likelywe got a visitor, Joe.”

“Looks like it, Ed.”

“Some pitiful cuss hez got lost, mebbe,” reasonedEd, and sunk his oars deep, lifting the frail craft withevery stroke as they made for the flickering fire.

“Halloo thar!” shouted Ed, but neither the loon’slaugh nor Ed’s halloo awakened Hi Dubois. He layon his back, one freckled hand thrown across his openmouth. Ed shook him into consciousness as Joe[290]caught sight of the telegram. He tore it openanxiously. He could scarcely believe the news. Hisbreath came quick, and his eyes gleamed as he readit again under the lantern.

That night Joe scarcely slept a wink. He was toohappy to sleep. Sleep! And you ask a young manto sleep under the stimulant of as much sheer, unexpectedhappiness as that telegram contained? Hegot up a dozen times and paced around the fire. Joyhad made him too nervous to lie down. Finally heabandoned the fire and, slipping on his moccasins,went down to the edge of the pond, where he sat ona log, his eyes wide open, dreaming. The first vestigeof dawn, that peculiar gray light which is neithernight nor day, and which first favors the open places,crept over the pond, awakening the loon, who laughedat him and instantly dived. Joe still sat there—tryingto realize it all—to reason out how it had happened.He had thought the old pond enough of a paradiseuntil now. It was nothing compared with what itwould be.

Sue was coming!

He had never met the Jacksons, though Sue hadcasually mentioned them. Were they old or young?How many Jacksons were there? The whole thing[291]seemed incredible. Why had Enoch Crane sent thetelegram? Only Atwater knew where he was.

These thoughts and conjectures passed in a floodthrough his mind. A kingfisher, making his earliestmorning round of the shore, chattered by him. Heheard Ed yawn, and knew he was awake. Ed wastalking now to the Dubois boy. Presently he heardthe sound of his axe, lopping down some fresh firewood.It brought him to his feet and out of his revery,waking him up to his responsibility and the practicalside of the situation. Joe knew there was nocamp among the four or five lean-tos on the pondcomfortable enough for women. They were like Ed’s,primitive shelters, roofed with bark and sadly outof repair. A good weather-tight, open lean-to must bebuilt with a separate one as dressing-room for theladies. All this he discussed eagerly with Ed afterbreakfast. They rowed Hi Dubois down to the carry,and Joe having rewarded that faithful messenger,they returned to camp.

Here Joe’s pent-up enthusiasm broke loose.

“By the gods!” he cried. “We’ll build a dandy,Ed!” in which he was seconded by the trapper, whoseblue eyes already twinkled over the scheme. A weekstill remained before the Jacksons’ arrival, and theywent to work with a will, clearing a space beside theold lean-to, Ed chopping and Joe hauling.

By the next night the three log sides of the newcamp were notched and in place, and before anotherforty-eight hours the roof was on. The next morning,[292]a few rods behind it, they started a smaller one. Thiswas to serve as a dressing-tent for the ladies, for inthose days, friends, chaperons, boys and girls, sweethearts,cousins, guides, and aunts, all shared the sameroof and the same open fire at their feet. Ah! thegood old days—they’re gone now.

The millionaire attended to that.

Before noon of the seventeenth the new camp wasready, and “ez neat as a piny,” as Ed expressed it,its double roof of bark water-tight, its open front facingthe pond, and its bed of balsams deep and longenough to comfortably sleep ten if need be.

That afternoon, leaving Ed in camp, Joe startedalone down to the valley to meet them on the morrow.Despite all his joyful expectancy, he had his keenmoments of doubt and fear. What were the Jacksonslike? he wondered. Somehow he could not help fearingthey would bring with Sue some impossible girl—someselfish, fastidious niece, perhaps. He wasready for anything, however, as long as they broughtSue.

He spent that night at the old hotel, and most ofthe next morning between the middle of the road andthe porch of the store. The faintest sound of wheelsbrought him out to the highway.

Suddenly he caught sight of a distant buckboard.It drew nearer. There was no mistaking it. Joe’sheart beat like a trip-hammer. There they were!Bill Dubois’s boy was driving; next to him sat a short[293]gray-haired, middle-aged man in a slouch-hat, shadinga genial, round countenance; behind them a ladywearing a green veil, and beside her—Sue.

Joe was waving frantically. Jackson waved botharms wildly in the air, Sue waved her pocket-handkerchief,and Mrs. Jackson, untying her green veil,waved that.

They had arrived, and there was no niece—onlytheir baggage, roped on behind.

“Well, here we are!” exclaimed Mr. Richard Jackson,as he jumped from the front seat and grippedJoe’s hand. There was a smile playing all over hisround, genial face, and a twinkle in his eyes. “We gothere, you see, safe and sound. Whew! What air!”

Joe felt they were friends already.

“Mr. Grimsby,” Sue ventured, turning to AliceJackson, by way of presenting him.

“I’m going to call you Joe,” she said frankly, stretchingout her gloved hand to him across Sue’s knees.

The moment he had looked into her brown eyesand heard her speak, he knew she was “a dear.” Itwas evident she was some ten years younger than herhusband, a slim, energetic little woman, with a smilethat was merry and sincere. He noticed, too, thather dark hair was just turning gray. She was charming—thatcharm that comes from frankness, intelligence,and refinement.

“I’m going to call you Joe, too,” declared her husband,gripping Joe heartily by both shoulders, “anddon’t you forget that my name’s Dick.”

[294]No one would have taken this jolly man of forty-fivefor the auditor of one of the largest systems ofrailroads in the country, but he was. He, too, neededa well-earned rest.

Ah, yes—there was another one standing now bythe empty buckboard who called him “Joe”—but hersmall hand lingered in his the longest.

That very night, with big Jim Turner as extra guide,they reached the Upper Ausable and camp.

It did not take Ed, Joe, or Jim Turner long to findout that the Jacksons were used to the woods. Theyhad a camp of their own in northern Canada, wherethey had fished and hunted for years, but it was toofar away for this trip. As for Sue, she was gloriouslyhappy. She went into ecstasies over everything—thebeauty of the ponds, the water, the silence, the snugcamp, the table of rough boards, and the crackling fire.

Never had she seemed so dear to Joe, more attractivethan ever, in her sensible short skirt of greenish-brownhomespun, her trim camping boots, and a verybecoming little felt hat, which Joe lost no time inmaking gay with three scarlet ibis and a silver doctorfrom his fly-book.

That night at supper came another surprise; underJoe’s tin plate lay a letter, which Sue had slippedthere under strict orders from Enoch.

“He will understand, my dear, when he reads it,”he had said to her, and, furthermore, that she shouldhide it under his plate their first night in camp. Eventhe Jacksons did not know of its existence.

[295]“Hello!” cried Joe, as he seated himself and discoveredit. “Mail, eh! Why, there isn’t any stampon it. Who of you three dear people brought this?”

The Jacksons’ innocence was evident at a glance.

Joe looked at Sue and smiled.

“You?” he asked. “Come, confess.” But her eyesalready confessed it.

“It’s from Mr. Crane. Hadn’t you better read it?He said it was important.”

He tore open the envelope and scanned the following.Then for an instant his eyes opened wide and he halfrose. It ran as follows:

Two weeks passed—two whole weeks of memorabledays. No jollier party had ever come to the pond.

Then came their last evening, when that mysteriousmagnetic spell of the dark old still water drew theirgreen boat far up its silent stretches, Joe at the paddleand Sue lying wrapped in a camp blanket in thebow. There were long moments when neither spoketo-night—their last on the old stream together. Suelay motionless, gazing up at the great star-strewn[296]heavens above her, framed by the dark spruces. Despitetheir millions of stars, it was so dark under thetrees that Joe in the stern could scarcely make outher silhouette. Now and then her ears caught thedrip-drip of his paddle. The silence was intense. Itseemed to Sue almost a sacrilege to break it by words.

What could she say!

To-morrow meant good-by to their paradise.

Two weeks ago they were rich in days—now theycounted the hours.

She lay there trying to be brave, to reason, to begrateful for all those days of comradeship. It hadbeen her first experience in the woods. She felt as ifshe dreaded ever seeing the city again, the dingy oldhouse, the hot, stifling streets, and the lessons. Thegreen boat moved noiselessly around another bend.Sue closed her eyes.

Joe felt strangely silent, too. Something grippedat his heart, but he kept on bravely at his paddle.Finally, with a feeling of desperation, he drove the boatstraight into the overhanging alders.

“Sue!”

She heard him call softly to her and opened her eyes.

“Yes, Joe.”

“Hold fast to that branch, please—quick! That’sit—hold tight——”

She did as he bid her, freeing herself quickly fromthe blanket, gripping the branch with both hands, forthe current ran strong there.

Joe drove his paddle into the swift shallow water,[297]burying it deep in the sandy bottom. He lashed hispaddle with his belt-strap to an oar-pin, stepped forward,leaned over Sue, made the bow chain fast to ahalf-sunken snag, and crept down beside her.

“Sue, are you cold?”

“No,” she murmured; “that is, not—very.”

He wrapped her again snugly in the blanket andsought her small hand beneath it.

It was like ice.

“Sue, you are frozen.”

“I’m all right,” she declared faintly.

“Sue!”

He felt her hand tighten in his own. He bent overher, his heart beating.

“Sue—it’s our last night.”

Her lips quivered. The small hand in his own trembled,but she did not speak.

“Sue, do you realize it all—that to-night you andI must say good-by to this dear old stream; that itmay be years before we shall ever see it again—live itagain—perhaps never?”

“I know,” she breathed, scarce audibly.

“You can never know what it meant to me to getthat telegram. To know that you were coming. Thatwe should be together—day in and day out. Sue, I’vetried to be a good playmate—just as you wished—justas I promised I would.”

“Oh, Joe! It’s been so wonderful; just like somewonderful dream—every day of it, every hour of it,”she exclaimed softly.

[298]Impulsively he slipped his strong arm beneath herfair little head, and drew it gently to his shoulder.

“Oh, Joe—don’t—don’t make it any harder!” shepleaded. “I—I can’t bear it.”

She made an effort to strain away from him, herface, though close to his own, only barely visible inthe dark.

“Sue!” he cried tensely—with a sudden tighteningof his arm, “can’t you see how hard it is for me? ThatI love you—that I love you with my whole heart andsoul?”

He felt her tremble.

“Can’t you believe me? Can’t you feel what Isay is true?”

She felt weak—only half conscious now of his voice.

He was past all reasoning.

“I love you,” he whispered against her smoothyoung cheek, wet now with the tears she could nolonger keep back.

“Joe, you—you must not—oh, Joe, please——”

“I love you,” he repeated, his lips wet with hertears. “I didn’t think it square to say so before; butnow things are so different—with the big building ours.Can’t you see——”

She drew a quick, tense breath and a stifled sobescaped her quivering mouth—that warm, yieldinglittle mouth his lips sought now and gained.

She had no longer the strength to resist.

“Sue,” he pleaded, against her lips; “Sue—will—willyou be my wife?”

[299]For an instant he released her.

“Will you?” he pleaded.

“Yes,” she whispered in his ear.

“Yes,” she repeated tensely, and her young armwent strong about his neck.

“Yes, I will be your wife,” she breathed.

“Tell me you love me,” he insisted.

“Ah, Joe—how can you ask!” came her quick replybetween two kisses, seeking his lips of her own freewill.

Frail as she was, he felt her strength, felt her youngheart beating against his own, and for a long whilehe held her close in his arms.

Beneath the green boat the dark stream flowed on,purling, eddying, chuckling to itself. It is safe to saythat never had so strange a thing happened in thathushed and lonely spot, to which the strong sprucescan to this day bear witness, as well as an old owl (behe still alive), who saw it all from the hemlock withhis big yellow eyes.

Before another month had elapsed, society learnedof the engagement.

Society was “appalled”!

That the distinguished young architect, Mr. JosephGrimsby, was about to throw himself away for lifeto marry a little nobody—a girl who sang for a living—wasbeyond their exclusive comprehension. Moreover,that there were several worthy mammas withdébutante daughters who had actually set for him oneof those splendid matches that nine times out of tenturn out badly, cannot be denied. In a twinklingthis popular young man became the sole topic of gossip,having fallen so low in their estimation that theyput him down as an erratic Bohemian—clever, nodoubt, but a disgrace to the name of Grimsby.

They prattled on at teas and dinners apropos ofhis “ridiculous engagement,” of the shock to hisfamily, though the only near relative left to the boywas his uncle, both his father and mother having diedwhen he was little. They discussed his good looks,which he still possessed; his brilliant career, which infact had only just begun, though it bid fair to leadhim to the foremost rank as an architect. Theyremembered his breezy good nature, which he stillgave out as easily as he laughed or breathed to every[301]one he came in contact with—all these society discussed,argued, and gossiped over at their leisure—allsave the fact that they loved each other.

“I should not have been at all surprised, my dear,”declared Mrs. Gulliver Jones, whose diamonds trembledin unison with her years, and who rouged atsixty, “had he chosen a dancer—some low person ofthe stage,” she confided, wrinkling her beak. “Why,my dear, his family comes from the bluest of the blue.Of course you know his mother was a Pierrefont, anoted beauty, my dear, in my day. We were girlsat school together. I can see her now at her firstCharity Ball. Why, I’ll tell you who her sister married—JohnnySelwyn—why, my dear, Mrs. SelwynRivers’s own first cousin. The Selwyns were greatswells in my day. As I told Gulliver yesterday, whatare our young men coming to! Who is this young person,anyway? This Miss What’s-her-name? Preston,you say? They tell me she goes about giving lessons;that she can be actually hired for performances—paidin the hand—paid in the hand, my dear, like a mountebank,or a minstrel. You say she sang at Mrs.Van Cortlandt’s,” she cackled on. “I am not surprised.Do tell me what has become of that wretchedwoman! That extravagant creature! That she droveher poor husband to suicide does not at all amaze me.Vanity, my dear. What a fool Joe Grimsby has madeof himself. Have I seen her? Certainly not. Neitherhas any one met the mother as far as I am able to discover.They tell me that both mother and daughter[302]live in the same house as the young man—engagedand under the same roof—shocking state of affairs—andthat if I am to believe my ears, her stepfather,who lives with them, takes in washing—or is in thelaundry business?—or something of the sort as equallyimpossible. Suppose he does marry her—who willreceive them? Certainly not I. Not a door will beopen to them, mark my word. For heaven’s sake, mydear Elizabeth, if you have the slightest influence overhim, do go and tell him he is making a fool of himself.I almost feel it is my duty to go myself, if it were notthat I dreaded meeting those wretched people.”

Much of this tittle-tattle reached Emma Ford’s ears,who received it with resignation. She neverthelesssuffered keenly from a sort of disappointment of whatmight have been, and which she was thoroughly incapableof defining. Having given her consent, shehad begun to prepare herself for the inevitable, andbecome as satisfactory a mother-in-law as circ*mstancespermitted. So much had happened in thepast few months to shatter her hopes and ambitions.Her dream had been to see Sue placed upon the pinnacleof her social aspirations, surrounded by luxury,living in a continual reception, the centre of admiration,the daily recipient of armfuls of American beautyroses, bonbons, and applause. Never once had shethought seriously of her some day marrying—all thatwas in the vague, comforting future, if that werereally to happen—but it had. Sue with her usualfrankness had gone straight to her mother on her[303]return from the woods, and had told her everything.Mrs. Ford was at first overwhelmed. Then she burstinto tears. Then she sent for Joe. The usual scenehad ensued, during which his gentleness and his courtesyhad touched her. There is no gainsaying that ithad its effect. Even she could not deny his sincerityor his love for Sue. She had embraced him in theend, and under the stress of emotion and her fast-returningtears (for she had a tender heart, poor soul)had patted him affectionately on the shoulder, declaringthat she was sure he would make Sue a good husband.Ebner Ford standing by, ready with his bestdeportment and his long hand for the fifth time duringthe interview to congratulate him.

What worried the promoter most was what the newbuilding for the Lawyers’ Consolidated Trust Companywould cost. He already began to compute theAtwater-Grimsby percentage as being more or less ofa personal asset to himself. All things reflected upon,he considered “girlie’s latest move” in a promisinglight. The only thing he regretted was that the awardhad not been for a colossal hotel as big as the FifthAvenue. In that case he felt that his prerogative asa father-in-law would entitle him to supplying itssubterraneous portion with a steam-mangle plant, andgive him a ten-year contract for the entire wash ofthe establishment, from guests to barber-shop.

There was one gentleman, however, who lived onthe top floor, whose heart beat with entire approval.If any one had been instrumental in bringing about[304]this happy state of affairs it was he. Had he not atthe first inkling from Sue that her friends, the Jacksons,were thinking seriously of going to the woodsand had begged her to be their guest in camp, somewhere—theirown in Canada being too far for a shortvacation—had not Enoch immediately invited thethree to dine at Delmonico’s?—an excellent and exceedinglydiplomatic little dinner, during which heconvinced the Jacksons that the most sensible thingthey could do was to join Mr. Grimsby—eulogizingon that young man’s charm, character, and knowledgeof the woods in such glowing terms that the trip wasdecided upon then and there.

Even before they had risen from the table he hadsent Joe the telegram by a trusted waiter, who hadserved him for years. Three days later, at a meetingof the board of directors of the Lawyers’ ConsolidatedTrust Company, his deciding vote had given Joe andAtwater the building.

“You seem happy, Crane,” remarked his old friendGresham at the club that night. “Look as if WallStreet had handed you a million.”

Enoch gripped his hands behind him and lookedsharply up at his questioner.

“Millions do not make happiness, Gresham,” hereturned curtly. “Why the devil are you fellows alwaysthinking about money?”

One thing he could rub his hands over with satisfaction.He had nothing more to fear from Lamont’sattentions to Sue. He had checkmated that[305]gentleman for all time and had wiped him off theboard.

Needless to say, at the news of Sue’s engagement,Jack Lamont avoided Waverly Place now as he wouldhave the pest. Bitter as he felt toward the stepfathersince he had been fool enough to give him whatwould clear him out of his difficulties, he sufferedeven a deeper humiliation that his generosity hadbrought him nothing in the way of forcing his wayinto Sue’s favor. He had called upon her twice—onceto find from the maid she was out, and again todiscover from the same servant that she had left theday before with the Jacksons for camp. He hadplayed and lost—a new experience for Handsome Jack,when it involved money and the pursuit of a girl thatpleased him. More than once he decided to put thescrews on Ebner Ford and bring him to account.After all, he had given him his check of his own freewill, accepting his gilt-edged preferred as collateral.Man of the world as he was, he ended by shrugginghis shoulders and considering the affair in the light ofa bad investment. Moreover, his mind was occupiedwith a far graver affair these days, that threatened asit developed to drive him out of New York. He evenwent to Rose Van Cortlandt for advice, begging herto ransack her feminine ingenuity and rid him of awoman who was making his life daily unbearable.Both he and Rose were much too old and worldlypals not to have talked the affair over sensibly together—atleast she was not fool enough to believe[306]that she alone was the only one who could lay claimto him.

Rose had changed. She was no longer the graciousspoiled Rose Van Cortlandt of old. Her widowhoodand the Bohemian life she had led since Sam VanCortlandt’s suicide had left its imprint. She was stilla seductive, remarkably handsome woman, but shehad grown harder. This showed in certain lines abouther still glorious eyes, especially when she smiled; herlips were thinner, the angle of her jaw squarer, thesubtle curves of her once lovely throat and neck lessinteresting. Strange to say, she still preserved herfigure, her white skin, and her splendid arms. Shelooked upon life now with more of the view-point of aman of the world than of a woman. Much of herfemininity had gone. She had grown calmer, morecalculating; men no longer disillusioned her, thoughshe still trusted them more than she did women. Ofthe latter, she could still count a few among her acquaintanceswho came to her studio apartment inWashington Square. All of them she had met sinceher husband’s death; but mostly her friends were men.Like the women, they, too, had come into her lifeafter the tragedy. She still regarded Jack Lamont,however, as her oldest friend, the one who understoodher best, and no one understood Jack Lamont betterthan Rose. Both had reached that stage in theirfriendship when they knew each other perfectly. Illusionno longer existed between them. Between twosuch people there are no secrets—even jealousy is absurd.[307]It was now nearly the middle of September.He had called upon her to-day a little before five.She saw at a glance that he was worried and depressedand extremely nervous.

She flung herself down on the big divan in the cornerof the studio, stretched forth a bare arm from theflowing pink sleeve of a tea-gown, picked up a freshcigarette from a green jarful on a small smoking-tableclose to the mass of cushions, and after a few whiffs,half closed her dark eyes, and with an amused smile,began to question him.

“Where did you meet her, Jack?” she asked, stillsmiling. “Do sit down. You make me nervous,walking about like a caged lion. Come! Where didyou meet her?”

He drew up a low stool beside her, lighted a freshcigarette himself, blew the smoke through his nostrils,and said with a shrug:

“At the Grand Central Station—oh, months ago—inJanuary—waiting for an incoming train—the Buffaloexpress, I remember. Snowed up and two hourslate.”

“Ah, I see! So you decided she was too good-lookingto be left alone, was that it?”

“That was about it—she was.”

“Dangerous game, Jack,” she returned quite seriously.“You ought to be old enough not to do thatsort of thing—picking up an acquaintance with awoman you knew nothing about.”

“I’ve always been able to take care of myself,” he[308]started to explain, half in protest, but she raised herbare arm to interrupt him.

“Demure, of course—sincere, frank, too good-lookingfor you to resist,” she continued evenly. “Toldyou a little of her history without telling you anything.Worried over her aunt possibly, who she felt mightbe aboard the express. What sort of woman—I meanas far as station in life—young?”

“Twenty-eight, I should say—though she saidtwenty-five——”

“Well-dressed?”

“Er—yes—neatly.”

“Blond?”

“No, dark—darker, even, than you.”

“Startled—when you spoke to her?”

“A little embarrassed, of course—but we got talking.”

“You mean you got talking. Any one she knewaboard the express when it arrived?”

“Not a soul.”

“Anxious—tearful?”

“Both.”

“Invite her to dinner?”

Jack nodded.

“So that was the beginning, eh? Champagne?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“McGowan’s Pass Tavern.”

“I see. When did she begin to hint at the breach-of-promiseidea?”

[309]“Oh! about two months ago. She was gettingpretty savage about that time, used to follow me,wrote me twice a day, even hung around the club.”

“Scenes, hysterics, threats of suicide—and all thatsort of thing?”

Jack nodded again with a furrowed brow.

“Plenty of them. Bluffed to kill me twice. Finally,when she found out I was married——”

“How did she find out that? You were not foolenough to tell her, I hope?”

“She found out. I don’t know how she found out,but she found out.”

For some moments neither spoke.

“What’s her final offer?” resumed Rose.

Lamont lifted his head with a worried look in hiseyes.

“Twenty-five thousand and quits,” he said slowly,tugging at the end of his gray mustache with a handthat trembled visibly.

“Ridiculous! Modest, to say the least. Plainblackmail, Jack. If you pay that woman a cent you’llnever get rid of her.”

“Call it what you like,” he returned gloomily, “butI’ve got enough of it.”

Rose half raised herself among the pillows, and fora long moment regarded him intently.

“Does your—does Mrs. Lamont know?” she ventured.

He threw up his head with a jerk.

“Yes; Nelly knows,” he declared curtly.

[310]“What did she say?”

“Nothing.”

“How nothing?”

“She said it was my own affair,” he retorted withsome heat. “Not much consolation in that,” headded, “is there?”

“Is that all she said?” she questioned him, claspingher knees, her chin buried in her hands.

“Not exactly all—I’ve still got the yacht; she suggestedmy getting some sea air.”

“I don’t see what you’ve got to worry about,” shereturned, after a pause, a vestige of a smile playingabout the corners of her mouth. “Jack, you’re a fool—forgiveme, but you are. Here you are—prettyclose to a nervous wreck—mooning over the threatsof this cat of a woman, with a free course out of yourdifficulties wide open to you.”

“All that’s easier said than done,” he returnedgloomily.

“You mean the expense?”

“Of course I mean the expense. Do you knowwhat it costs to put the Seamaid in commission?She’s small, I’ll admit, and she’s been freshly overhauled—Ieven put two new staterooms in her lastyear when I was flush—but you know what yachtingcosts, Rose. It isn’t so much the craft, or her crew,or even her coal bill—it’s the life. There’s no use ofsailing—whanging around by your lonesome, withoutfriends aboard. I tried that once.”

“There is no need of your going alone,” she returnedsoftly, meeting his eyes.

[311]She stretched out her bare arms to him.

“Come,” she said quietly. “Come and sit herebeside me. Ah, my poor old Jack! What a babyyou are!

“There! That’s better,” she said, as he seated himselfbeside her on the divan.

He bent and kissed her, smoothing back her darkhair.

“Rose, I love you!” he exclaimed. “You’re thebest—how can I ever——”

She sealed his lips with her hand.

“Come, let’s talk sensibly,” she resumed, stretchingback against the pillows. “You’ve got a lot tobe thankful for as far as I can see—your wife, I mean.Almost any other woman would have sued you fordivorce.”

“I know,” he confessed. “Nell’s all right.”

“Jack, will you do as I say?”

“I’ll try,” he returned. “That depends.”

“Trying is not promising—and I want you to promiseme.”

“Well, what?”

“Promise me that you will not communicate withthis woman, or give her a cent; that if you meet her,that if she follows you, you will not open your lips toher.”

“She threatens to bring the matter to court. Igot a letter from her yesterday, saying she hadput the matter in her lawyer’s hands,” he explainednervously.

“Threats! Her lawyer! They’ve always got lawyers,[312]those women. Don’t worry about threats, Jack.The more a woman threatens, the less she does. Nothinghas happened yet, has there?”

He shook his head. “You don’t know her, Rose;she’s a devil incarnate. Sometimes I think she’s reallyinsane.”

“She’s a good actress, Jack; most women are whoget control of a man’s nerves. Suppose she does bringsuit—you won’t be here.”

“I don’t see how I can very well get away,” hedeclared with a shrug.

“A question of money?”

“I’m afraid so, Rose.”

“Jack, you’ve been gambling.”

“A little.”

“You never gamble for a little. Why will yougamble?”

“Why does any one gamble—or drink—or do anythingin life?”

She did not reply.

Finally she said, after a pause:

“Don’t worry about the money. I’ve got plenty ofmoney.”

“Rose!”

“I don’t see why you should worry,” she smiled,“as long as I’ve got it.”

He started to speak, but she sealed his lips again,this time with the tips of her fingers. “What I’dlike to know is, how you like Gladys Rice?”

“Who—little Mrs. Rice?”

[313]“I heard you call her ‘Gladys’ the last time youmet her here,” she smiled.

“Perhaps I did.”

“There’s no perhaps about it. I heard you.”

“Why—er—she’s charming—pretty—and clever,”he exclaimed, brightening.

“She’s more than that,” she declared. “Gladys isa trump. She’s been a good friend to me. We becamewidows about the same time. Her husband diedin California, you know.”

“Yes, she told me.”

“Then there’s Billy Bowles—fat, jolly Billy Bowles—mightygood company, Jack.”

“Well, what of it?”

“And Johnny Richards. Did you ever see Johnnyin a bad humor? I never did.”

“Rose, what are you driving at?”

“I was only thinking they’d make a splendid trioon the Seamaid. We could run first to Bermuda—thenjust to any old place we thought of. I’m sickof New York.”

He looked at her, his whole face alight.

“Rose!” he cried. “You’re the best—” He bentover her, his black eyes gleaming. “Rose, I wantto— Ah! what’s the use of trying to thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, Jack. Promise me what I’veasked. Will you promise me? On your honor, Jack?”

“Yes—I promise you. I give you my word ofhonor, Rose, I’ll do as you say.” He lifted her handto his lips in gratefulness.

[314]“Feel better?” she asked, smiling into his eyes.

“Better? Why, I feel ten years younger.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll trust you, Jack. Youkeep your promise to me, and I’ll keep mine. Don’tworry about the money.”

“But I do!” he cried, springing to his feet dramatically.“If I wasn’t so deuced short, Rose, I wouldn’thear of it. One thing you’ve got to promise me—thatyou’ll consider it as a loan,” he insisted.

“I’m going to consider it as I please,” she returned,reaching for a cigarette. “Your yacht—my money—that’sfair, isn’t it?”

“As you please,” he said, with a helpless shrug.“As you please, madame,” he returned with a smile,and bowed.

He was his old debonair self again. He felt like aman who had been given a new lease of life. Rosehad lifted him out of his anxiety. The woman whohad persecuted him seemed harmless to him now.

Again he took his seat beside her on the divan.

“You’ll dine with me to-night,” he ventured.

“That’s nice of you, Jack. Yes, of course I will.”

“There’s a lot to talk over,” he explained, “aboutgetting the Seamaid ready.”

“How long will it take,” she asked, “to get her incommission?”

“Oh, about a week. How about little Mrs. Rice—Imean Gladys—Bowles and Richards—can you counton them to go?”

“They’ll go,” she declared. “Leave that to me.”

[315]“You’d better dress, dear,” he said, snapping outhis watch. “It’s after seven. We’ll go around toSolari’s.”

Her hand went back of the pillows. She touchedan electric button to summon her maid.

Marie was still with her.

“Bon soir, Marie,” said Lamont to her pleasantly,as she appeared.

“Bon soir, monsieur,” returned the girl cheerily.“Monsieur va bien!”

“My black chiffon—high neck, Marie.”

“Bien, madame,” and the maid left the room.

“One moment, Rose,” he said, detaining her as shestarted to rise from the divan. “There is somethingthat I can’t quite understand.”

“Come, Jack! I must get dressed,” she protested.

“Forgive me,” he persisted, “but I can’t help wonderinga little. Only last week you were worryingabout your dressmaker’s bill, and now you are financinga yacht—with guests.”

She had risen to her feet, despite his detaining hand,and stood looking down into his eyes with an amusedsmile.

“You are indiscreet, monsieur,” said she, and rushedto her bedroom.

He waited for her to dress, striding impatiently upand down the polished studio floor, still wonderingover her unexpected generosity and the real secretof her sudden wealth. Like most women left withan income, she had, as he knew, already made dangerous[316]inroads into her capital. There had been times,too, when her old love of extravagance had led herfar beyond her means—even to the pawnbrokers.

Through the half-open door of her bedroom familiarsounds reached him—the faint tinkle of hairpins fallingupon a silver tray, the swish and rustle of a gownas Marie helped her mistress into it, the click-click ofa button-hook—all favorite music to Lamont’s ears.

“Getting tired, Jack?” she called to him, rattlingback into place the gilt cover of a crystal jar andslapping the powder from her hands. “What timeis it?”

He glanced at his watch under the glow of the tallpiano-lamp Marie had lighted.

“Ten minutes past eight.”

“I’ll be ready in a moment,” she called back to him.

Presently she came to him, drawing on her longgloves, followed by Marie bearing a marvellous wrapof steel blue, lined with chinchilla.

“How do you like it?” she asked, half turning forhim to admire her gown.

“Exquisite!” he declared, running his eyes over theblack chiffon. “Where did that come from?”

“Paris,” she said, as Marie helped her on with herwrap, and disappeared in the bedroom to pick up herthings. “Where else do they make pretty gowns?”

“It’s charming,” he declared. He seized her glovedhands impulsively. “Rose! Forgive me, if I wasindiscreet a moment ago. There’s always a reasonfor good fortune—for sudden luck. Naturally, you old[317]darling, I could not help asking—after your generousoffer. Natural, wasn’t it? We’ve never had anysecrets between us, Rose—besides, I think I have aright to know why you’re flush—under the circ*mstances;that is, since we are to be shipmates.”

“Ay, ay, captain!” she laughed, touching the brimof her becoming hat in salute.

“Rose, be serious—for once.”

“And if I were to tell you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Have I ever doubted you?”

“Suppose I give you three guesses,” she smiledteasingly, her lips close to his own. “Would thatsatisfy you, Mr. Inquisitive?”

“This is no guessing matter,” he returned, halfirritably, tucking her sleeves deep into her wrap, hisfingers lingering in the warm chinchilla. “This fromParis, too?”

“Don’t you adore making guesses?” she smiled mischievously,ignoring his question.

“You know I loathe guessing,” he retorted. “Iabhor conundrums. I have an absolute horror ofriddles and all that sort of thing. Come! Whywon’t you be frank with me? Why are you in luck?Have you been gambling?”

“Perhaps,” she returned gently, watching himclosely, “but not at your game.”

“What then—Wall Street?”

“I had enough of Wall Street with Sam. My dearJack, has it occurred to you that I am famished?Come, let’s go to dinner.”

[318]She drew him toward the door, and he followed herdown the gaslit stairs in silence.

At the mention of her dead husband’s name, a newthought came to his mind. Was some other manenriching her? And though she detected for an instanta gleam of jealousy in his eyes, he questionedher no further. He brightened up over the good dinner.After all, he told himself, he had enough to begrateful for without pinning her down to facts.

Nine days later the Seamaid cleared, bound forBermuda. Never had the yacht been more luxuriouslyprovisioned. True to her promise, Gladys Rice, BillyBowles, and Johnny Richards were with them.

“Out of sight out of mind” is an old adage, thatproved itself to Lamont before they were many hoursat sea. The woman who had threatened him seemedonly an annoying memory now. He lapsed into thelazy, genial life aboard as easily as a cat takes to thefireside. With Rose’s money and his yacht, life seemedperfect. Not once did he question her as to its source.

There was something in fat Billy Bowles’s insidepocket, however, which would have enlightened him—possiblyhave destroyed some of his peace of mind—thestubs in his check-book.

Matilda had knocked at Enoch’s door this crispSeptember morning and, getting no response, felt forhis key under the mat, found it, and entered. To hersurprise, not a chair or a book in the sitting-room wasout of place. The fire she had built the day beforewas precisely as her black hands had left it.

“Fo’ God!” she exclaimed, as she entered the smallbedroom and saw the untouched counterpane andpillow. “He ain’t been to bed.”

Never had Enoch, upon the rare occasions whensome public dinner had called him out of town for thenight, gone without letting either she or Moses know.Indeed, he was most punctilious about this—invariablyleaving with them his telegraphic address. Fora brief instant, Matilda stood by the bed—her bosomheaving. Then she turned anxiously to the closetwhere he kept his clothes, got down on her knees,groped in its depths, and, seizing a valise which healways took with him, drew it out with a tremblinghand.

“Ain’t done—even took—his gripsack!” she faltered,her anxiety growing as she noted its emptiness.

Her fear told in her voice now as she summoned[320]Moses, who had just entered the Grimsby-Atwaterliving-room with a scuttle of coal.

“Monstus strange,” declared Moses solemnly, as hestood with his wife before Enoch’s untouched bed.“It suttinly am monstus strange, Tildy,” he repeated,shaking his woolly head dubiously. “Dar’s his gripsacksho’ ’nouf,” he exclaimed, opening the closetdoor. “Yo’ sho’ he didn’t say nuffin ’bout gwineaway? Rack yo’ brain, honey, an’ stop yo’ tremblin’,won’t do no good to go on dat-a-way.”

“Last time I seen him,” declared Matilda, “was yisterdaywhen I was breshin’ up de sittin’-room. He sotover dar yonder in de big chair a-readin’ of his mail.”

“An’ he didn’t say nuffin ’bout gwine away?” Mosesinsisted.

“Nuffin mo’en ‘good mornin’, Matildy.’ Bimeby Idone got through ma dustin’, an’ was a-gwine in tomake his bed, when I seen him open one er de letterswhat come dat mornin’. He tar it open like it wasa-hidin’ some news from him. Den he done read itanxious like. Den he jump up from de big chair an’grab his hat an’ overcoat, an’ slap out de do’, lickety-split.Didn’t even close de do’. Den I run an’ lookout de winder, an’ I seen him. He was a-walkin’ fast—likehe couldn’t walk no faster—an’ a shakin’ ofhis head. I tell yo’, nigg*r, somethin’ was monstusheavy on his mine. I never seen Marser Crane likedat befo’.”

“Which-a-way was he a-goin’?” asked Mosesanxiously.

[321]“I dunno which-a-way he was a-goin’, but he doneturned de corner leadin’ to de Broadway.”

When that night Enoch did not return, and noword had come from him, Moses and Matilda couldno longer keep their fears secret. They informed thehousehold. Joe seemed to be less alarmed and morephilosophical than the rest. It was more probable,he assured them all, that Enoch had been hurriedlycalled away on important business, had even sentword of his intended absence, and the letter or telegrammiscarried.

When the next night he did not return Joe, too, becamealarmed. He called at three of Enoch’s clubs,only to learn that Mr. Crane had not entered any ofthem for over a week. Neither had he been at hisoffice in South Street.

Ebner Ford now assumed the rôle of optimist, whichfar from easing Joe’s mind, exasperated him, for hedeclared in his blatant way that “Crane wa’n’t nofool, and so all-fired mysterious and peculiar thatthere was no tellin’ what he’d do next.”

At an opportune moment he nudged Joe meaninglyin the ribs, winking one eye screened from his wifeknowingly, and whispering something about “lettin’him have his little fling”; further suggesting that “hewa’n’t the first man overdue on account of the affectionsof a lady friend, or a run of luck at poker.”Even following the silent but indignant Joe into thehall, and despite that young man’s disgust, recounted[322]to him, with a sly and confidential grin, similar littleabsences of his own.

Late that afternoon, any one in passing the old housein Waverly Place might have seen Enoch going up thestoop. There was something about his whole personality,as he went wearily up the brownstone steps, tohave arrested the attention of even a casual acquaintance.His shoulders were bent, and there was a grimlook about his face—a strange pallor, the eyes sunkenand haggard, like those of a man who had notslept.

He reached the vestibule, slipped his key in thedoor, opened it, and slowly ascended the dark stairs.No one so far was aware of his presence. It was onlywhen he reached the third-floor landing that he encounteredany one. Here he came face to face withMoses. For a brief moment the old servant’s surpriseand relief was so great he could not speak.

“Praise de Lord!” he broke out with, in a voicethat quavered with joy. “You done come back,marser. Praise de Lord!”

“Yes, Moses,” returned Enoch wearily. “I’mback.”

“I’se been most crazy, Marser Crane. Matildy, too—an’de hull house a-watchin’ an’ a-waitin’ fo’ yer.”

“Is Mr. Grimsby in?” inquired Enoch.

“Spec’ he’s out—Marser Crane—I sho’ ’nouf ain’tseen him.”

“Tell Mr. Grimsby—when he comes in that—that—Ishould like to see him.”

[323]He spoke with an effort, as if each word was painfulto him.

“Dat I suttinly will, marser,” declared Mosesand watched him in silence as he continued up theshort flight of stairs leading to his door—awed bythe change in him. Then he rushed down to tellMatilda.

Enoch entered his sitting-room, felt in the desk forthe matches, lighted the Argand burner on the centre-table,turned its flame low, struck another match,kindled his fire, drew a deep sigh, laid his overcoatand hat on the table, and sank into his chair.

For a long while he sat there immovable, staringvacantly into the slowly kindling fire. How long hewas not conscious of. Now and then his lips moved,but he uttered no sound; a thin tongue of flame strugglingup between the hickory logs played over hishaggard face, rigid as a mask. His hands lay motionlesson the broad arms of his chair. Thus an hourpassed, an hour full of tragic memories. So absorbedwas he that he did not hear Joe spring up-stairs andrap at his door.

Joe rapped again.

“It’s Joe!” he called sharply.

Enoch slowly roused himself.

“Come in,” he said hoarsely, clearing his throat.

“Good heavens,” cried Joe, entering briskly, “whereon earth have you been? The whole house has beenworried about you.”

Enoch did not speak.

[324]Joe strode over to the motionless form in the chairand caught sight of the haggard face.

“Mr. Crane!” he exclaimed. “Why—you’re ill—whathas happened?”

“Sit down,” returned Enoch slowly. “Joe, I havesomething to tell you. My wife died last night.”

“Your wife!”

“Yes, my boy—my wife. Rather alters a man’slife, Joe. I had been hoping for twenty years shewould pull through—some of them do,” he added,staring into the flames. “I saw some indications ofit last Sunday,” he went on before Joe could speak.“I spent the morning with her as usual—again lastnight—for a brief instant I saw what I believed to besome recognition—a faint hope. It was only a flashbefore the light went out.” He raised his hands helplesslyand let them fall.

Joe, who had not yet taken his seat, turned to thecrackling fire, and stood for a long moment lookingdown at the flames.

“I did not know you were married,” he said atlength, breaking the ensuing silence—“that—your wifewas an invalid.”

“She was insane,” replied Enoch evenly.

“Insane! Oh! Mr. Crane!”

Enoch lifted his head.

“She has been insane since the first year of our marriage,”said he. “Sit down, won’t you?” he pleaded,motioning to the chair in the shadow of the chimney-piece.“I have much to tell you. Come a little[325]nearer—there, that is better—my voice is not over-strongto-night. You are surprised, no doubt. I donot blame you, my boy. That is why I want you tounderstand. So few have ever understood me. None,I might say, in all these lonely years. A man cannotlive under what I have suffered, and not be misunderstood.To be separated from the one who is nearestand dearest to you in life. Far worse than a strangerto her, since for years I have passed out of even hermemory. The past has been a blank to her. Shebecame another being. It was that flash of supposedrecognition which gave me hope last Sunday. I feltshe remembered me; knew me at last; that little bylittle her mind was clearing. The physicians thoughtso, too. We were mistaken.”

He paused, leaning forward in the firelight, hishands clasped over his knees; Joe silent, waiting forhim to continue. His heart went out to him, he triedto say something to comfort him, at least to expresshis deep and sincere sympathy. Before Enoch’s tragicrevelation, the words he struggled to frame seemedtrivial and out of place.

“We were children together,” resumed Enoch, in avoice that had grown steadier. “We grew up togetherin fact—in Philadelphia—my wife was barelyeighteen when we were married, and I just your age.One year of happiness is not much in a man’s life. Ithas been my lot—yet I am even grateful for that.Then came her serious illness, due to an operationthat it was a miracle she lived through—only her will[326]and her nervous, high-strung nature saved her. Theresult was the beginning of acute melancholia. Wetravelled, we went abroad. I felt that constant movingfrom place to place would distract her mind. Wespent two winters in Egypt, but she grew worse, evenviolent at times, and I was obliged to bring her home.Our home-coming marked the period of my exile. Itmeant that I could no longer keep her with me. Theend came last night.”

He paused again.

Joe did not speak. Somehow he felt that he, who,little by little, was revealing to him the secret historyof his life, wished to continue uninterrupted.

“You, my boy,” continued Enoch; “are beginningyour life; mine is ended. I shall move away fromhere. Travel, perhaps; I must decide something,though it matters so little where I go. There is alimit to all suffering. I had hope before. To-nighteven that is gone. I tell you all this, for I want youto know.”

He passed his hand wearily over his brow.

“I must eat something, I suppose,” said he. “Ihave not eaten anything since yesterday afternoon.”

“You must have something at once,” declared Joe,rising. “I’ll ring for Moses.”

“No, not yet,” protested Enoch; “but I’ll have aglass of port, I believe. Would you mind getting it?It’s over there in the bookcase. There are some crackers,too, on the lower shelf; next to the glasses.”

Joe brought him a full glass of port and he drained[327]it, ate a cracker, and resumed, strengthened by thewine.

“You have grown very near to me, Joe; more thanyou realize, perhaps. The glorious beginning of yoursand Sue’s happiness is a comfort to me, even in thesesad hours. Your success, your love for one another,mean much to me.”

“I’m glad of that,” returned Joe. “Sue will feeldreadfully when she hears you are going away. AndI—well, you know how I feel about it. Somehow Ican’t imagine our wedding without you. Must yougo?”

“When are you to be married?” he asked, lookingup.

“Well, you see, it is not exactly decided yet. Suehas set her heart on before Christmas.”

“That’s right, my boy, have as many Christmasesas you can together,” he returned thoughtfully.

“Although the job’s done,” declared Joe, “as faras my part is concerned—specifications all in—andthe last of the full-sized details went to the contractorstwo weeks ago—but our first payment, you see, onthe new building is not due us until February. I donot see how we can very well manage to get marriedbefore.”

“Who is to make this payment to you?” askedEnoch.

“The committee, we are told.”

“It has always been the duty of its chairman toattend to such matters,” Enoch remarked, not letting[328]him know it was he who had acted in that capacity;then, before Joe could question him, he added seriously:“Promise me something. I do not wish youto mention my wife’s death to Sue. It would do nogood—only worry her uselessly. I have carried italone and will continue to. I tell you of her death,because its effect on my movements in life might bemisunderstood by you. People, I say, have alwaysmisunderstood me. I know what they think of me.Their opinions have time and time again reached myears. I have heard them call me crabbed, crusty—asour and malignant old man,” he went on, “evenmean. Ah, yes! A sour and malignant old man, alwaysin a temper—an old curmudgeon.”

Joe started to protest, but Enoch continued:

“A hermit, who prefers his own companionship tothat of friends—but if you knew how little the opinionsof others affect me. I have long ago ceased to carefor other people’s opinions. I have learned somethingin my life, lonely as it has been—and that is tolerance.Be tolerant, Joe; tolerant of every one—of even theignorance, the vindictiveness of others. Perhaps evenyou think I am hard-hearted”—and before Joe couldinterrupt him: “You see me dry-eyed, and yet youhave no idea what her death means to me. She didnot suffer, even when the end came. I am gratefulfor that.”

He paused again, seeming to lapse into a revery,his chin sunk deep between his hands.

“Could nothing be done?” ventured Joe.

[329]Enoch slowly shook his head.

“Only a miracle would have accomplished that,”said he.

“Might I ask where Mrs. Crane died?”

“At Ravenswood, at my old friend Doctor Brixton’ssanatorium, where she had been for nearly fiveyears.”

“And you say you thought she recognized you?”

“Yes—for that brief instant I did; so did Brixtonand the nurse—a certain look in her eyes, an old,familiar gesture of the hands; it was only a flash beforethe light went out,” he repeated. “She was dyingthen; I tried to force her to speak my name, but itwas useless, Joe. She was conscious but very weak.I tried to force her to continue her train of thought,in what I believed was a brief awakening. She lookedat me blankly as I held her hands, and murmuredfaintly: ‘Why have you come again, doctor?’ Presentlyshe added, almost inaudibly, ‘You have notthanked me for the roses’—and then, after a moment,‘I have hidden them again—I shall hide them always’—sheceased speaking. Before I could summon Brixtonshe was dead.”

Enoch got up stiffly out of his chair and stood gazingdown at the smouldering ashes of the fire.

“Gone,” he said slowly. “Gone like all preciousthings in life.”

He turned wearily to the table, raised the flame ofthe Argand burner to a soft glow, and proceeded witha determined, slow step to his desk. Here for a moment[330]he hesitated. Then he felt for the small keyon his watch-chain, and unlocked the tiny drawercontaining the daguerreotype of the young girl withthe dark, wistful eyes. For a moment he held it inhis hand.

“My wife at eighteen,” he said, returning to thetable and holding the portrait under the light.

Joe bent over it reverently, studying the delicatefeatures, the drooping, melancholy mouth, the wondering,dark eyes.

“What a beautiful face!” he said.

“Yes, poor child, she was beautiful—then,” returnedEnoch.

“What wonderful eyes!” said Joe.

“Yes,” said Enoch. “They reflected her wholenature; her sensitiveness, her melancholy, high-strungintensity. Too delicate a mechanism to last; a naturecapable of great suffering—gentle natures always are.One who loved with her whole heart—her whole being—hervery soul. When the change came, all thiscomplex and delicate fabric withered—was consumedto ashes like lace in a flame. She became anotherbeing; when the mind is gone there is nothing left.I wanted you to see her as she was,” said he, returningthe portrait to the drawer and locking it. Thenseating himself on the arm of his chair, he continued,in a calm voice full of courage: “I must return toRavenswood to-night. The funeral is on Monday.Explain my absence to Moses—to the rest, if you like,simply say that I am out of town, and if——”

[331]The sound of some one rushing up to the top floorsilenced him.

“Mr. Crane! Mr. Crane!” cried a woman frantically,beating her hands upon the door. Enoch sprangto his feet, as Joe rushed to open it.

In her wrapper, her gray hair dishevelled, Miss Annburst into the room.

“Oh, Mr. Crane!” she gasped, staggering towardhim, her frail hands clutching at her temples. “Oh,my God! Jane is dying!”

The Britannic, bound for Liverpool, rose, fell, andplunged on stubbornly, in a wintry head sea.

Enoch lay in his berth, reading. Every little whileher bow buried itself under a great wave. Some burstupon her fore-deck, with the boom and vibration ofbig guns, her bow obliterated under the explosion in ablinding mass of spray.

Heavy-booted sailors clambered back and forth overthe ceiling of the plain little stateroom, busily lashingsome canvas as a windbreak on the starboard-deck.Below, the woodwork creaked in unison to the lift androll of the ship. People who had no longer any interestin life rang for the stewards or stewardesses, andgroaned while they waited.

None of these sounds, however, disturbed Enoch.He was not only thoroughly comfortable, but supremelyhappy. It showed in every line of his face,in the quiet twinkle in his eyes. He read on. Nowand then his smile widened into a broad grin over apage—pages he knew by heart, and had never yetgrown tired of.

“What a wonderful fellow Carroll is,” he declared.“What a subtle artisan in humor!

“‘They were learning to draw,’ the Dormouse wenton, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting[333]very sleepy, ‘and they drew all manner of things—everythingthat begins with “M”——’

“‘Why with an “M”?’ said Alice,” as Enoch turnedthe page.

“‘Why not?’ said the March Hare.

“Delicious!” exclaimed Enoch aloud.

Two thousand miles back over that vast desert ofwintry sea, the old house in Waverly Place stood starkand empty. Robbed even of its sign, “For Sale”—havingbeen sold, and only waiting now for the crow-barsof a wrecking crew to complete its final ruin andgive place to a new building.

A general exodus of its tenants and their belongingsfrom cellar to roof had occurred immediately after Joeand Sue’s quiet wedding. Fortune and Mercury stillsmiled at the passer-by, but over a filthy vestibule,dust begrimed, a refuge for stray cats and dentists’circulars.

Close to the locked area gate stood a battered ash-can,from which emerged a pair of cast-off shoes, andthe skeleton of a broken umbrella; the whole placeseemed dead and forgotten.

Even Moses and Matilda’s black cat now dozedcontentedly before a new kitchen fire in Brooklyn, ina snug frame house Enoch had bestowed upon thesefaithful servitors, including an income sufficient fortheir declining years.

Since her sister Jane’s death, Miss Ann had beenliving in Virginia, in a fine old estate close to Richmond,an inheritance from a cousin. An old school[334]friend, a Miss Patricia Belford, lived with her now—amaiden lady of rare humor, a gentle voice, and continuouscheerfulness. And here it would not be amissto state that Emma Ford had persuaded Ebner atlast to relinquish his strenuous business career in NewYork and return to her plain native town in NorthCarolina, where he became a really successful dealerin simple real estate and a popular superintendent ofthe Sunday-school and local Lyceum. The firm ofAtwater & Grimsby had moved up-town, away fromthe redolent lemons and bananas, and was now newlyinstalled in Twenty-third Street, just opposite theNational Academy of Design, Atwater selecting hisbachelor quarters as far up as Forty-third Street. Asfor the Seamaid, she was still cruising, her arrival inHavana being cited only the week before as follows:

Havana—Cuba—Dec. 18th arrived the auxiliary schoonerSeamaid with her owner Mr. J. Lamont and guests—all well.

Enoch read on through Alice’s fascinating, playfulwonderland, cradled by the lift and roll of the goodship.

Now and then a big sea caught her under its deadweight amidships, sent her staggering up under tonsof water, and the swash scurrying down her scuppers.

The raw, wintry afternoon began to wane. Presentlya sailor, whose duty it was to attend to thestateroom lights, lit Enoch’s from the corridor, a fatsort of coach-candle, back of a round glass, close to[335]his berth, its glow screened by a green baize curtain,with a roller-shade attachment.

Enoch pulled up the curtain and continued in companywith the Dormouse, Alice, and the March Hare,the Hatter joining them on the next page. So absorbedwas he that he almost forgot it was ChristmasEve, or that he had missed his usual afternoon cup oftea and chat with his old friend, the captain. Finallyhe laid aside his book, stretched himself, flung himselfout of his berth briskly, went to his port-hole andpeered out at the mountainous leaden sea.

“A head sea,” he said aloud, as the crest of awave smashed against the port-hole. “The skipperwas right; he expected it.”

The perfume of a sizzling hot plum pudding fromthe pantry wafted down the corridor and over theventilating space of his stateroom.

“So it’s Christmas Eve,” he said, turning from thedreary outlook to his wash-basin.

He put on a clean shirt, carefully combed his sparsehair, washed his face and hands vigorously, and rangfor the steward.

“A rough night, Tim,” said Enoch, as the manappeared with a steaming tin pitcher.

“’Tis cruel bad, sor,” declared the Irishman. “’Twillbe worse before mornin’. If it was the hot water, sor,you be after ringin’ for, sure here it is, sor,” said he,setting down the pitcher safely in the wash-basin. “Ibiled it meself. They be busy in the pantry to-night—seein’it’s Christmas Eve.”

[336]“Thank you, Tim, for the hot water,” smiled Enoch,“but I’ve washed. Are you married, Tim?”

“Yis, sor; to as fine a little woman as iver came fromthe County Kerry.”

“Any children?”

“Three, sor—two byes and a gurl.”

“I want you to wish them a merry Christmas whenyou reach port,” said Enoch. He dove into his pocket,separated two gold sovereigns from some keys andsilver, and forced them into the astonished steward’shand.

The man’s eyes slowly filled with tears.

“God bless ye, sor,” he said, and paused. “’Tisthim that’ll bless ye, too. May I be so bold as toask if ye have any childer, sor? If ye have, sor, ’tisChristmas Eve, an’ I wish thim a merry wan.”

“Two,” said Enoch. “Both married.”

“They’ll be missin’ ye to-night, sor,” said Tim.“’Tis a long ways to land.”

The first gong for dinner reverberated down thecorridor. As the steward withdrew and closed thestateroom door, Sue came laughing down the corridor,followed by Joe.

“Uncle Enoch, may we come in?” she asked, knockingat his door.

“Come in, my children,” cried Enoch heartily, flinginghis door wide open to them both.

“Oh, it’s glorious on deck,” cried Sue, pushing backthe soaked hood of her ulster, her fair hair glisteningfrom the salt spray.

[337]“Great!” cried Joe, filling the doorway. “Rippingold weather—splendid old sea—smashing right overher,” he declared. “We’ve been watching it for hours.Hello! there’s the second gong. I’m as hungry as abear.”

“Do you realize it’s Christmas Eve?” said Enoch,meeting Sue’s eyes. “Your first Christmas Eve together?”

She looked up at him radiantly, then she flung herarms about his neck, pressing her fresh, girlish cheekto his, and kissed him.

“A merry Christmas, dear,” she whispered. “I’mgoing to wish you a merry Christmas now; I just can’twait till morning.”

Then the three struggled down the long corridor todinner.

“I’ve been thinking things over since luncheon,”said Enoch, as they entered the dining-saloon. “Whatdo you say to our taking in Venice on our way back,and going straight to Cairo? Venice is as cold asChristmas in January,” he added gayly, as he turnedSue’s chair for her and slipped into his own besideher, next to the captain.

THE END

BOOKS BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73453 ***