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Title: The Silent Battle

Author: George Gibbs

Release date: April 13, 2017 [eBook #54544]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SILENT BATTLE ***

                           THE SILENT BATTLE




[Illustration: “The table rang from end to end with joke and laughter.”]




                                  THE
                             SILENT BATTLE


                                  BY
                             GEORGE GIBBS


                               AUTHOR OF
                           THE BOLTED DOOR,
                        THE FORBIDDEN WAY, ETC.


                              ILLUSTRATED


                            [Illustration]


                               NEW YORK
                           GROSSET & DUNLAP
                              PUBLISHERS




                          Copyright, 1913, by
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

        Copyright, 1912, 1913, by the Pictorial Review Company


                Printed in the United States of America




CONTENTS


 CHAPTER                                PAGE
      I. LOST                              1
     II. BABES IN THE WOODS               11
    III. VOICES                           22
     IV. EDEN                             33
      V. WOMAN AND MAN                    46
     VI. THE SHADOW                       60
    VII. ALLEGRO                          73
   VIII. CHICOT, THE JESTER               84
     IX. THE LORINGS                      95
      X. MR. VAN DUYN RIDES FORTH        109
     XI. THE CEDARCROFT SET              122
    XII. NELLIE PENNINGTON CUTS IN       136
   XIII. MRS. PENNINGTON’S BROUGHAM      151
    XIV. THE JUNIOR MEMBER               166
     XV. DISCOVERED                      177
    XVI. BEHIND THE ENEMY’S BACK         190
   XVII. “THE POT AND KETTLE”            200
  XVIII. THE ENEMY AND A FRIEND          212
    XIX. LOVE ON CRUTCHES                225
     XX. THE INTRUDER                    236
    XXI. TEMPTATION                      247
   XXII. SMOKE AND FIRE                  261
  XXIII. THE MOUSE AND THE LION          273
   XXIV. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND             285
    XXV. DEEP WATER                      297
   XXVI. BIG BUSINESS                    310
  XXVII. MR. LORING REFLECTS             323
 XXVIII. THE LODESTAR                    338
   XXIX. ARCADIA AGAIN                   350




THE SILENT BATTLE




I

LOST


Gallatin wearily lowered the creel from his shoulders and dropped it by
his rod at the foot of a tree. He knew that he was lost--had known it,
in fact, for an hour or more, but with the certainty that there was no
way out until morning, perhaps not even then, came a feeling of relief,
and with the creel, he dropped the mental burden which for the last
hour had been plaguing him, first with fear and then more recently with
a kind of ironical amusement.

What did it matter, after all? He realized that for twenty-eight years
he had made a mess of most of the things he had attempted, and that
if he ever got back to civilization, he would probably go diligently
on in the way he had begun. There was time enough to think about that
to-morrow. At present he was so tired that all he wanted was a place to
throw his weary limbs. He had penetrated miles into the wilderness, he
knew, but in what direction the nearest settlement lay he hadn’t the
vaguest notion--to the southward probably, since his guide had borne
him steadily northward for more than two weeks.

That blessed guide! With the omniscience of the inexperienced, Gallatin
had left Joe Keegón alone at camp after breakfast, with a general and
hazy notion of whipping unfished trout pools. He had disregarded his
mentor’s warning to keep his eye on the sun and bear to his left hand,
and in the joy of the game, had lost all sense of time and direction.
He realized now from his aching legs that he had walked many miles
farther than he had wanted to walk, and that, at the last, the fish in
his creel had grown perceptibly heavier. The six weeks at Mulready’s
had hardened him for the work, but never, even at White Meadows, had
his muscles ached as they did now. He was hungry, too, ravenously
hungry, and a breeze which roamed beneath the pines advised him that it
was time to make a fire.

It was a wonderful hunger that he had, a healthful, beastlike
hunger--not the gnawing fever, for that seemed to have left him, but a
craving for Joe’s biscuits and bacon (at which he had at first turned
up his pampered aristocratic nose), which now almost amounted to an
obsession. Good old Joe! Gallatin remembered how, during the first week
of their pilgrimage, he had lain like the sluggard that he was, against
the bole of a tree, weary of the ache within and rebellious against
the conditions which had sent him forth, cursing in his heart at the
old Indian for his taciturnity, while he watched the skillful brown
fingers moving unceasingly at the evening task. Later he had begun to
learn with delight of his own growing capabilities, and as the habit of
analysis fell upon him, to understand the dignity of the vast silences
of which the man was a part.

Not that Gallatin himself was undignified in the worldly way, for he
had lived as his father and his father’s fathers before him had lived,
deeply imbued with the traditions of his class, which meant large
virtues, civic pride, high business integrity, social punctilio, and
the only gentlemanly vice the Gallatin blood had ever been heir to.
But a new idea of nobility had come to him in the woods, a new idea of
life itself, which his conquest of his own energy had made possible.
The deep aisles of the woods had spoken the message, the spell of the
silent places, the mystery of the eternal which hung on every lichened
rock, which sang in every wind that swayed the boughs above.

Heigho! This was no time for moralizing. There was a fire to light,
a shelter of some sort to build and a bed to make. Gallatin got up
wearily, stretching his tired muscles and cast about in search of a
spot for his camp. He found two young trees on a high piece of ground
within a stone’s throw of the stream, which would serve as supports
for a roof of boughs, and was in the act of gathering the wood for
his fire, when he caught the crackling of a dry twig in the bushes
at some distance away. Three weeks ago, perhaps, he would not have
heard or noticed, but his ear, now trained to the accustomed sounds,
gave warning that a living thing, a deer or a black bear, perhaps,
was moving in the undergrowth. He put his armful of wood down and hid
himself behind a tree, drawing meanwhile an automatic, the only weapon
he possessed, from his hip pocket. He had enough of woodcraft to know
that no beast of the woods, unless in full flight, would come down
against the wind toward a human being, making such a racket as this.
The crackling grew louder and the rapid swish of feet in the dry leaves
was plainly audible. His eye now caught the movement of branches and in
a moment he made out the dim bulk of a figure moving directly toward
him. He had even raised the hand which held his Colt and was in the act
of aiming it when from the shelter of the moose-wood there emerged--a
girl.

She wore a blue flannel blouse, a short skirt and long leather gaiters
and over one hip hung a creel like his own. Her dress was smart and
sportsmanlike, but her hat was gone; her hair had burst its confines
and hung in a pitiful confusion about her shoulders. She suggested to
him the thought of Syrinx pursued by the satyrs; for her cheeks were
flushed with the speed of her flight and her eyes were wide with fear.

Comely and frightened Dryads who order their clothes from Fifth Avenue,
are not found every day in the heart of the Canadian wilderness;
and Gallatin half expected that if he stepped forward like Pan to
test her tangibility, she would vanish into empty air. Indeed such a
metamorphosis was about to take place; for as he emerged from behind
his tree, the girl turned one terrified look in his direction and
disappeared in the bushes.

For a brief moment Gallatin paused. He had had visions before, and the
thought came into his mind that this was one like the others, born of
his overtaxed strength and the rigors of the day. But as he gazed at
the spot where the Dryad had stood, branches of young trees swayed,
showing the direction in which she was passing and the sounds in the
crackling underbrush, ever diminishing, assured him that the sudden
apparition was no vision at all, but very delectable flesh and blood,
fleeing from him in terror. He remembered, then, a tale that Joe Keegón
had told him of a tenderfoot, who when lost in the woods was stricken
suddenly mad with fear and, ended like a frightened animal running
away from the guides that had been sent for him. Fear had not come to
Gallatin yet. He had acknowledged bewilderment and a vague sense of the
monstrous vastness of the thing he had chosen for his summer plaything.
He had been surprised when the streams began running up hill instead
of down, and when the sun appeared suddenly in a new quarter of the
heavens, but he had not been frightened. He was too indifferent for
that. But he knew from the one brief look he had had of the eyes of the
girl, that the forest had mastered her, and that, like the fellow in
Joe’s tale, she had stampeded in fright.

Hurriedly locking his Colt, Gallatin plunged headlong into the bushes
where the girl had disappeared. For a moment he thought he had lost
her, for the tangle of underbrush was thick and the going rough, but
in a rift in the bushes he saw the dark blouse again and went forward
eagerly. He lost it, found it again and then suddenly saw it no more.
He stopped and leaned against a tree listening. There were no sounds
but the murmur of the rising wind and the note of a bird. He climbed
over a fallen log and went on toward the slope where he had last seen
her, stopping, listening, his eyes peering from one side to the other.
He knew that she could not be far away, for ahead of him the brush was
thinner, and the young trees offered little cover. A tiny gorge, rock
strewn, but half filled with leaves, lay before him, and it was not
until he had stumbled halfway across it that he saw her, lying face
downward, her head in her hands, trembling and dumb with fear.

From the position in which she lay he saw that she had caught her foot
in a hidden root and, in her mad haste to escape she knew not what, had
fallen headlong. She did not move as he approached; but as he bent over
her about to speak, she shuddered and bent her head more deeply in her
arms, as though in expectation of a blow.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly.

At the sound of his voice she trembled again, but he leaned over and
touched her on the shoulder.

“I’m very sorry I frightened you,” he said again. And then after a
moment, “Have you lost your way?”

She painfully freed one arm, and looked up; then quickly buried her
head again in her hands, her shoulders heaving convulsively, her
slender body racked by childish sobs.

Gallatin straightened in some confusion. He had never, to his knowledge,
been considered a bugaboo among the women of his acquaintance. But, as
he rubbed his chin pensively, he remembered that it was a week or more
since he had had a shave, and that a stiff dark stubble discolored his
chin. His brown slouch hat was broken and dirty, his blue flannel shirt
from contact with the briers was tattered and worn, and he realized
that he was hardly an object to inspire confidence in the heart of a
frightened girl. So, with a discretion which did credit to his knowledge
of her sex, he sat down on a near-by rock and waited for the storm to
pass.

His patience was rewarded, for in a little while her sobs were spent,
and she raised her head and glanced at him. This time his appearance
reassured her, for Gallatin had taken off his hat, and his eyes, no
longer darkly mysterious in shadow, were looking at her very kindly.

“I want to try and help you, if I can,” he was saying gently. “I’m
about to make a camp over here, and if you’ll join me----”

Something in the tones of his voice and in his manner of expressing
himself, caused her to sit suddenly up and examine him more minutely.
When she had done so, her hands made two graceful gestures--one toward
her disarranged hair and the other toward her disarranged skirt.
Gallatin would have laughed at this instinctive manifestation of the
eternal feminine, which even in direst woe could not altogether be
forgotten, but instead he only smiled, for after all she looked so
childishly forlorn and unhappy.

“I’m not really going to eat you, you know,” he said again, smiling.

“I--I’m glad,” she stammered with a queer little smile. “I didn’t know
_what_ you were. I’m afraid I--I’ve been very much frightened.”

“You were lost, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” She struggled to her knees and then sank back again.

“Well, there’s really nothing to be frightened about. It’s almost too
late to try to find your friends to-night, but if you’ll come with me
I’ll do my best to make you comfortable.”

He had risen and offered her his hand, but when she tried to rise she
winced with pain.

“I--I’m afraid I can’t,” she said. “I think I--I’ve twisted my ankle.”

“Oh, that’s awkward,” in concern. “Does it hurt you very much?”

“I--I think it does. I can’t seem to use it at all.” She moved her foot
and her face grew white with the pain of it.

Gallatin looked around him vaguely, as though in expectation that Joe
Keegón or somebody else might miraculously appear to help him, and then
for the first time since he had seen her, was alive again to the rigors
of his own predicament.

“I’m awfully sorry,” he stammered helplessly. “Don’t you think you can
stand on it?”

He offered her his hand and shoulder and she bravely tried to rise, but
the effort cost her pain and with a little cry she sank back in the
leaves, her face buried in her arms. She seemed so small, so helpless
that his heart was filled with a very genuine pity. She was not crying
now, but the hand which held her moist handkerchief was so tightly
clenched that her knuckles were outlined in white against the tan. He
watched her a moment in silence, his mind working rapidly.

“Come,” he said at last in quick cheerful notes of decision. “This
won’t do at all. We’ve got to get out of here. You must take that shoe
off. Then we’ll get you over yonder and you can bathe it in the stream.
Try and get your gaiter off, too, won’t you?”

His peremptory accents startled her a little, but she sat up obediently
while he supported her shoulders, and wincing again as she moved, at
last undid her legging. Gallatin then drew his hasp-knife and carefully
slit the laces of her shoe from top to bottom, succeeding in getting it
safely off.

“Your ankle is swelling,” he said. “You must bathe it at once.”

She looked around helplessly.

“Where?”

“At the stream. I’m going to carry you there.”

“You couldn’t. Is it far?”

“No. Only a hundred yards or so. Come along.”

He bent over to silence her protests and lifted her by the armpits.
Then while she supported herself for a moment upright, lifted her in
his arms and made his way up the slope.

Marvelous is the recuperative power of the muscular system! Ten minutes
ago Gallatin had been, to all intents and purposes of practical
utility, at the point of exhaustion. Now, without heart-breaking
effort, he found it possible to carry a burden of one hundred and
thirty pounds a considerable distance through rough timber without
mishap! His muscles ached no more than they had done before, and the
only thing he could think of just then was that she was absurdly
slender to weigh so much. One of her arms encircled his shoulders and
the fingers of one small brown hand clutched tightly at the collar of
his shirt. Her eyes peered before her into the brush, and her face was
almost hidden by the tangled mass of her hair. But into the pale cheek
which was just visible, a gentle color was rising which matched the
rosy glow that was spreading over the heavens.

“I’m afraid I--I’m awfully heavy,” she said, as he made his way around
the fallen giant over which a short while ago they had both clambered.
“Don’t you think I had better get down for a moment?”

“Oh, no,” he panted. “Not at all. It--it isn’t far now. I’m afraid
you’d hurt your foot. Does it--does it pain you so much now?”

“N-o, I think not,” she murmured bravely. “But I’m afraid you’re
dreadfully tired.”

“N-not at all,” he stammered. “We’ll be there soon now.”

When he came to the spot he had marked for his camp, he bore to
the right and in a moment they had reached the stream which gushed
musically among the boulders, half hidden in the underbrush. It was
not until he had carefully chosen a place for her that he consented to
put her on the ground. Then with a knee on the bank and a foot in the
stream, he lowered her gently to a mossy bank within reach of the water.

“You’re very kind,” she whispered, her cheeks flaming as she looked up
at him. “I’m awfully sorry.”

“Nothing of the sort,” he laughed. “I’d have let you carry _me_--if you
could.” And then, with the hurried air of a man who has much to do:
“You take off your stocking and dangle your foot in the water. Wiggle
your toes if you can and then try to rub the blood into your ankle. I’m
going to build a fire and cook some fish. Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know. I--I think I am.”

“Good!” he said smiling pleasantly. “We’ll have supper in a minute.”

He was turning to go, when she questioned: “You spoke of a camp. Is--is
it near here?”

“N-o. It isn’t,” he hesitated, “but it soon will be.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

He laughed. “Well, you see, the fact of the matter is, _I’m_ lost,
_too_. I don’t think it’s anything to be very much frightened about,
though. I left my guide early this morning at the fork of two streams
a pretty long distance from here. I’ve been walking hard all day. I
fished up one of the streams for half of the day and then cut across
through the forest where I thought I would find it again. I found a
stream but it seems it wasn’t the same one, for after I had gone down
it for an hour or so I didn’t seem to get anywhere. Then I plunged
around hunting and at last had to give it up.”

“Don’t you think you could find it again?”

“Oh, I think so,” confidently. “But not to-night. I’m afraid you’ll
have to put up with what I can offer you.”

“Of course--and I’m very grateful--but I’m sorry to be such a burden to
you.”

“Oh, that’s nonsense.” He turned away abruptly and made his way up the
bank. “I’m right here in the trees and I can hear you. So if I can help
you I want you to call.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, “I will.”




II

BABES IN THE WOODS


Gallatin’s responsibilities to his Creator had been multiplied by two.

Less than an hour ago he had dropped his rod and creel more than half
convinced that it didn’t matter to him or to anybody else whether
he got back to Joe Keegón or not. Now, he suddenly found himself
hustling busily in the underbrush, newly alive to the exigencies
of the occasion, surprised even at the fact that he could take so
extraordinary an interest in the mere building of a fire. Back and
forth from the glade to the deep woods he hurried, bringing dry
leaves, twigs, and timber. These he piled against a fallen tree in
the lee of the spot he had chosen for his shelter and in a moment a
fire was going. Many things bothered him. He had no axe and the blade
of his hasp-knife was hardly suited to the task he found before him.
If his hands were not so tender as they had been a month ago, and if
into his faculties a glimmering of woodcraft had found its way, the
fact remained that this blade, his Colt, fishing-rod and his wits
(such as they were), were all that he possessed in the uneven match
against the forces of Nature. Something of the calm ruthlessness of
the mighty wilderness came to him at this moment. The immutable trees
rose before him as symbols of a merciless creed which all the forces
around him uttered with the terrible eloquence of silence. He was an
intruder from an alien land, of no importance in the changeless scheme
of things--less important than the squirrel which peeped at him slyly
from the branch above his head or the chickadee which piped flutelike
in the thicket. The playfellow of his strange summer had become his
enemy, only jocular and ironical as yet, but still an enemy, with which
he must do battle with what weapons he could find.

It was the first time in his life that he had been placed in a position
of complete dependence upon his own efforts--the first time another had
been dependent on him. He and Joe had traveled light; for this, he had
learned, was the way to play the game fairly. Nevertheless, he had a
guilty feeling that until the present moment he had modified his city
methods only so far as was necessary to suit the conditions the man of
the wilderness had imposed upon him and that Joe, after all, had done
the work. He realized now that he was fronting primeval forces with a
naked soul--as naked and almost as helpless as on the day when he had
been born. It seemed that the capital of his manhood was now for the
first time to be drawn upon in a hazardous venture, the outcome of
which was to depend upon his own ingenuity and resourcefulness alone.

And yet the fire was sparkling merrily.

He eyed the blade in his hand as he finished making two roof supports
and sighed for Joe Keegón’s little axe. His hands were red and
blistered already and the lean-to only begun. There were still the
boughs and birch-bark for a roof and the cedar twigs for a bed to be
cut. He worked steadily, but it was an hour before he found time to go
down to the stream to see how his fugitive fared. She was still sitting
as he had left her, on the bank of the stream, gazing into the depths
of the pool.

“How are you getting on?” he asked.

“I--I’m all right,” she murmured.

“Is the ankle any better? I think I’d better be getting you up to the
fire now. Perhaps, you’d be willing to cook the fish while I hustle for
twigs.”

“Of--of course.”

He noticed the catch in her voice, and when he came near her discovered
that she was trembling from head to foot.

“Are you suffering still?” he questioned anxiously.

“N-no, not so much. But I--I’m very cold.”

“That’s too bad. We’ll have you all right in a minute. Put your arms
around my neck. So.” And bending over, with care for her injured foot,
he lifted her again in his arms and carried her up the hill. This time
she yielded without a word, nor did she speak until he had put her down
on his coat before the fire.

“I don’t know how--to thank you--” she began.

“Then don’t. Put your foot out toward the blaze and rub it again.
You’re not so cold now, are you?”

“No--no. I think it’s just n-nervousness that makes me shiver,” she
sighed softly. “I never knew what a fire meant before. It’s awfully
good--the w-warmth of it.”

He watched her curiously. The fire was bringing a warm tint to
her cheeks and scarlet was making more decisive the lines of her
well-modeled lips. It did not take Gallatin long to decide that it was
very agreeable to look at her. As he paused, she glanced up at him and
caught the end of his gaze, which was more intense in its directness
than he had meant it to be, and bent her head quickly toward the fire,
her lips drawn more firmly together--a second acknowledgment of her
sense of the situation, a manifestation of her convincing femininity
which confirmed a previous impression.

There was quick refuge in the practical.

“I’m going to clean the fish,” he said carelessly, and turned away.

“I’d like to help, if I could,” she murmured.

“You’d better nurse your ankle for a while,” he said.

“It’s much better now,” she put in. “I can move it without much pain.”
She thrust her stockinged foot farther toward the blaze and worked the
toes slowly up and down, but as she did so she flinched again. “I’m not
of much use, am I?” she asked ruefully. “But while you’re doing other
things, I might prepare the fish.”

“Oh, no. I’ll do that. Let’s see. We need some sticks to spit them on.”

“Let me make them;” she put her hand into the pocket of her dress and
drew forth a knife. “You see I _can_ help.”

“Great!” he cried delightedly. “You haven’t got a teapot, a frying-pan,
some cups and forks and spoons hidden anywhere have you?”

She looked up at him and laughed for the first time, a fine generous
laugh which established at once a new relationship between them.

“No--I haven’t--but I’ve a saucepan.”

“Where?” in amazement.

“Tied to my creel--over there,” and she pointed, “and a small package
of tea and some biscuits. I take my own lunch when I fish. I didn’t eat
any to-day.”

“Wonderful! A saucepan! I was wondering how--tied to your creel, you
say?” and he started off rapidly in the direction of the spot where he
had found her.

“And please b-bring my rod--and--and my _shoe_,” she cried.

He nodded and was off through the brush, finding the place without
difficulty. It was a very tiny saucepan, which would hold at the most
two cupfuls of liquid, but it would serve. He hurried back eagerly,
anxious to complete his arrangements for the meal, and found her
propped up against the back log, his creel beside her, industriously
preparing the fish.

“How did you get over there?” he asked.

“Crawled. I couldn’t abide just sitting. I feel a lot better already.”

“That was very imprudent,” he said quickly. “We’ll never get out of
here until you can use that foot.”

“Oh! I hadn’t thought of that,” demurely. “I’ll try to be careful. Did
you bring my shoe--and legging?”

He held them out for her inspection.

“You’d better not try to put them on--not to-night, anyway. To-morrow,
perhaps----”

“To-morrow!” She looked up at him, and then at the frames of the
lean-to, as though the thought that she must spend the night in the
woods had for the first time occurred to her. A deep purple shadow was
crawling slowly up from the eastward and only the very tops of the
tallest trees above them were catching the warm light of the declining
sun. The woods were dimmer now and distant trees which a moment ago
had been visible were merged in shadow. Some of the birds, too, were
beginning to trill their even-song.

“Yes,” he went on, “you see it’s getting late. There’s hardly a chance
of any one finding us to-night. But we’re going to make out nicely. If
you really insist on cleaning those fish----”

“I do--and on making some tea----”

“Then I must get the stuff for your bed before it’s too dark to see.”

He filled the saucepan with water at the stream, then turned back into
the woods for the cedar twigs.

“The bed comes first,” he muttered to himself. “That’s what Joe would
say. There’s caribou moss up on the slope and the balsam is handy.
It isn’t going to rain to-night, but I’ll try to build a shelter
anyway--boughs now--and canoe birches to-morrow, if I can find any. But
I’ve got to hustle.”

Six pilgrimages he made into the woods, bringing back each time
armloads of boughs and twigs. He was conscious presently of a delicious
odor of cooking food; and long before he had brought in his last
armful, she pleaded with him to come and eat. But he only shook his
head and plunged again into the bushes. It was almost dark when he
finished and threw the last load on the pile he had made. When he
approached he found her sitting motionless, watching him, both creels
beside her, her hand holding up to the fire a stick which stuck through
the fish she had cooked. The saucepan was simmering in the ashes.

“How do they taste?” he asked cheerfully.

“I haven’t eaten any.”

“Why not?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Oh, you mustn’t do that,” sharply. “I didn’t want you to wait.”

“You know,” she interrupted, “I’m your guest.”

“I didn’t know it,” he laughed. “I thought I was yours. It’s _your_
saucepan----”

“But _your_ fish--” she added, and then indicating a little
mischievously, “except that biggest one--which was mine. But I’m afraid
they’ll be cold--I’ve waited so long. You must eat at once, you’re
awfully tired.”

“Oh, no, I’ve still got a lot to do. I’ll just take a bite and----”

“_Please_ sit down--you _must_, really.”

Her fingers touched the sleeve of his shirt and he yielded, sinking
beside her with an unconscious sigh of relaxation which was more like
a groan. He was dead-tired--how tired he had not known until he had
yielded. She saw the haggard look in his eyes and the lines which the
firelight was drawing around his cheek-bones, and at the corners of his
mouth; and it came to her suddenly that he might not be so strong as
she had thought him. If he was an invalid from the South, the burden of
carrying her through the woods might easily have taxed his strength.
She examined his face critically for a moment, and then fumbling
quickly in the pocket of her dress drew forth a small, new-looking
flask, which gleamed brightly in the firelight.

“Here,” she said kindly, “take some of this, it will do you good.”

Gallatin followed her motion wearily. Her hand had even reached the cap
of the bottle and had given it a preparatory twist before he understood
what it all meant. Then he started suddenly upright and put his fingers
over hers.

“No!” he muttered huskily. “Not that--I--I don’t--I won’t have
anything--thank you.”

And as she watched his lowering brows and tightly drawn lips--puzzled
and not a little curious, he stumbled to his feet and hurriedly
replaced a log which had fallen from the fire. But when a moment later
he returned to his place, his features bore no signs of discomposure.

“I think I’m only hungry,” he mumbled.

She unhooked the largest fish from the stick and handed it to him
daintily.

“There, that’s yours. I’ve been saving it for you--just to convince you
that I’m the better fisherman.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said soberly. “I’m a good deal of a duffer at
this game.”

“But then,” she put in generously, “you caught _more_ than I did, and
that evens matters.”

They had begun eating now, and in a moment it seemed that food was the
only thing they had lacked. As became two healthy young animals, they
ate ravenously of the biscuits she had carried and all of the fish
she had prepared, and then Gallatin cooked more. The girl removed the
metal cup from the bottom of her flask and taking turn and turn about
with the tiny vessel they drank the steaming tea. In this familiar
act they seemed to have reached at once a definite and satisfactory
understanding. Gallatin was thankful for that, and he was careful
to put her still further at her ease by a somewhat obtrusive air of
indifference. She repaid him for this consideration by the frankness of
her smile. He examined her furtively when he could and was conscious
that when his face was turned in profile, she, too, was studying him
anxiously, as only a woman in such a situation might. Whatever it was
that she learned was not unpleasing to her, for, as he raised his hand
to carry the tea to his lips, her voice was raised in a different tone.

“Your hands!” she said. “They’re all cut and bleeding.”

He glanced at his broken knuckles impersonally.

“Are they? I hadn’t noticed before. You see, I hadn’t any hatchet.”

“Won’t you let me--hadn’t you better bathe them in the water?”

“A bath wouldn’t hurt them, would it?”

“I didn’t mean that. Don’t they hurt?”

“No, not at all. But I wish I had Joe’s axe.”

“Who’s Joe?”

“My guide.”

“Oh.”

She questioned no further; for here, she realized instinctively, were
the ends of the essential, the beginnings of the personal. And so
the conversation quickly turned to practical considerations. Of one
thing she was now assured--her companion was a gentleman. What kind
of a gentleman she had not guessed, for there were many kinds, she
had discovered; but there was nothing unduly alarming in his manner
or appearance and she concluded for the present to accept him, with
reservations, upon his face value.

His body fed, Gallatin felt singularly comfortable. The problems that
had hung so thickly around his head a while ago, were going up with the
smoke of the fire. Here were meat, drink and society. Were not these,
after all, the end and aim of human existence? Had the hoary earth
with all its vast treasures ever been able to produce more? He took
his pouch from his pocket, and asking if he might smoke, lit his pipe
with a coal from the fire (for matches were precious) and sank back at
the girl’s feet. The time for confidences, were there to be any, had
arrived. She felt it in the sudden stoppage of the desultory flow of
comment and in the polite, if appraising steadiness of his gaze.

“I suppose you have a right to know what I’m doing here,” she said
flushing a little, “but there isn’t anything to tell. I left our
camp--as you did, to fish. I’ve done it before, often. Sometimes
alone--sometimes with a party. I--I wasn’t alone this morning and
I--I--” she hesitated, frowning. “It doesn’t matter in the least
about that, of course,” she went on quickly. “I--I got separated from
my--my companion and went farther into the brush than I had intended
to do. When I found that I had lost my way, I called again and again.
Nobody answered. Then something happened to me, I don’t know what. I
think it must have been the sound of the echoes of my own voice that
frightened me, for suddenly I seemed to go mad with terror. After that
I don’t remember anything, except that I felt I must reach the end
of the woods, so that I could see beyond the barrier of trees which
seemed to be closing in about me like living things. It was frightful.
I only knew that I went on and on--until I saw you. And after that--”
her words were slower, her voice dropped a note and then stopped
altogether--“and that is all,” she finished.

“It’s enough, God knows,” he said, sitting upright. “You must have
suffered.”

“I did--I wonder what got into me. I’ve never been frightened in the
woods before.” She turned her head over her shoulder and peered into
the shadows. “I don’t seem to be frightened now.”

“I’m glad. I’m going to try to make you forget that. You’re in no
danger here. To-morrow I’ll try to find my back trail--or Joe Keegón
may follow mine. In the meanwhile”--and he started to his feet, “I’ve
got a lot to do. Just sit quietly there and nurse your ankle while I
make your bed. And if I don’t make it properly, the way you’re used to
having it, just tell me. Won’t you?”

“Hair, please, with linen sheets, and a down pillow,” she enjoined.

“I’ll try,” he said with a laugh, for he knew now that the tone she
used was only a cloak to hide the shrinking of her spirit. She sat as
he had commanded, leaning as comfortably as she could against the tree
trunk, watching his dim figure as it moved back and forth among the
shadows. First he trod upon and scraped the ground, picking up small
stones and twigs and throwing them into the darkness until he had
cleared a level spot. Then piece by piece he laid the caribou moss as
evenly as he could. He had seen Joe do this some days ago when they
had made their three-day camp. The cedar came next; and, beginning at
the foot and laying the twig ends upward, he advanced to the head, a
layer at a time, thus successively covering the stub ends and making a
soft and level couch. When it was finished, he lay on it, and made some
slight adjustments.

“I’m sorry it’s not a pneumatic--and about the blankets--but I’m afraid
it will have to do.”

“It looks beautiful,” she assented, “and I hate pneumatics. I’ll be
quite warm enough, I’m sure.”

To make the matter of warmth more certain, he pitched two of the
biggest logs on the flames, and then made a rough thatch of the larger
boughs over the supports that he had set in position. When he had
finished, he stood before her smiling.

“There’s nothing left, I think--but to get to bed. I’m going off for
enough firewood to last us until morning. Shall I carry you over now
or----”

“Oh, I think I can manage,” she said, her lips dropping demurely. “I
did before--while you were away, you know.” She straightened and her
brows drew together. “What I’m puzzled about now is about _you_. Where
are _you_ going to sleep?”

“Me? That’s easy. Out here by the fire.”

“Oh!” she said thoughtfully.




III

VOICES


Dragging his lagging feet, Gallatin struggled on until his task was
finished. He took the saucepan and cup to the stream, washed them
carefully, and filled them with water. Then he untied the handkerchief
from around his neck and washed that, too. When he got back to the
fire, he found the girl lying on the couch, her head pillowed on her
arm, her eyes gazing into the fire.

“I’ve brought some water. I thought you might like to wash your face,”
he said.

“Thanks,” gratefully. “You’re very thoughtful.”

He mended the fire for the night, and waiting until she had finished
her impromptu toilet, took the saucepan to the stream and rinsed it
again. Then he cleared the remains of the fish away, hung the creels
together on the limb of a tree and, without looking toward the shelter,
threw himself down beside the fire, utterly exhausted.

“Good night,” she said. He turned his head toward her. The firelight
was dancing in her eyes, which were as wide open as his own.

“Good night,” he said pleasantly, “and pleasant dreams.”

“I don’t seem to be a bit sleepy--are you?”

“No, not yet. Aren’t you comfortable?”

“Oh, yes. It isn’t that. I think I’m too tired to sleep.”

He changed his position a little to ease his joints.

“I believe I am, too,” he smiled. “You’d better try though. You’ve had
a bad day.”

“I will. Good night.”

“Good night.”

But try as he might, he could not sleep. Each particular muscle was
clamoring in indignant protest at its unaccustomed usage. The ground,
too, he was forced to admit was not as soft as it might have been, and
he was sure from the way his hip bone ached, that it was on the point
of coming through his flesh. He raised his body and removed a small
flat stone which had been the cause of the discomfort. As he did so he
heard her voice again.

“You’re dreadfully unhappy. I don’t see why----”

“Oh, no, I’m not. This is fine. Please go to sleep.”

“I can’t. Why didn’t you make another bed for yourself?”

“I didn’t think about it,” he said, wondering now why the thought had
never occurred to him. “You see,” he lied cautiously, “I’m used to this
sort of thing. I sleep this way very often. I like it.”

“Oh!”

What an expressive interjection it was as she used it. It ran a soft
arpeggio up the scale of her voice and down again, in curiosity rather
than surprise, in protest rather than acquiescence. This time it was
mildly skeptical.

“It’s true--really. I like it here. Now I _insist_ that you go to
sleep.”

“If you use that tone, I suppose I must.” She closed her eyes, settled
one soft cheek against the palm of her hand.

“Good night,” she said again.

“Good night,” he repeated.

Gallatin turned away from her so that she might not see his face and
lay again at full length with his head pillowed on his arms, looking
into the fire. His mental faculties were keenly alive, more perhaps by
reason of the silence and physical inaction than they had been at any
time during the day. Never in his life before, it seemed, had he been
so broadly awake. His mind flitted with meddlesome agility from one
thought to another; and so before he had lain long, he was aware that
he was entirely at the mercy of his imagination.

One by one the pictures emerged--the girl’s flight, the wild disorder
of her appearance, her slender figure lying helpless in the leaves, the
pathos of her streaming eyes, and the diminutive proportions of her
slender foot. It was curious, too, how completely his own difficulties
and discomforts had been forgotten in the mitigation of hers. Their
situation he was forced to admit was not as satisfactory as his
confident words of assurance had promised.

He had not forgotten that most of his back-trail had been laid in
water, and it was not to be expected that Joe Keegón could perform
the impossible. Their getting out by the way he had come must largely
depend upon his own efforts in finding the spot up-stream where he had
come through. The help that could be expected from her own people was
also problematical. She had come a long distance. That was apparent
from the condition of her gaiters. For all Gallatin knew, her camp
might be ten, or even fifteen miles away. Something more than a mild
curiosity possessed him as to this camp and the people who were
using it; for there was a mystery in her sudden separation from the
“companion” to whom she had so haltingly and vaguely alluded.

It was none of his business, of course, who this girl was or where
she came from; he was aware, at this moment of vagrant visions, of
an unequivocal and not unpleasant interest in this hapless waif whom
fortune, with more humor than discretion, had so unceremoniously thrust
upon his mercies. She was very good to look at. He had decided that
back in the gorge where she had first raised her elfin head from the
leaves. And yet, now as he lay there in the dark, he could not for the
life of him guess even at the color of her eyes or hair. Her hair at
first had seemed quite dark until a shaft of the declining light in the
west had caught it, when he had decided that it was golden. Her eyes
had been too light to be brown and yet--yes, they had been quite too
dark to be blue. The past perfect tense seemed to be the only one which
suited her, for in spite of the evidences of her tangibility close
at hand, he still associated her with the wild things of the forest,
the timid things one often heard at night but seldom glimpsed by day.
Cautiously he turned his head and looked into the shelter. She lay as
he had seen her last, her eyes closed, her breath scarcely stirring her
slender body. Her knees were huddled under her skirt and she looked
no larger than a child. He remembered that when she had stood upright
she had been almost as tall as he, and this metamorphosis only added
another to the number of his illusions.

With an effort, at last, he lowered his head and closed his eyes,
in angry determination. What the devil had the troubles of this
unfortunate female to do with him? What difference did it make to him
if her hair and eyes changed color or that she could become grown up or
childish at will? Wasn’t one fool who lost himself in the woods enough
in all conscience! Besides _he_ had a right to get himself lost if he
wanted to. He was his own master and it didn’t matter to any one but
himself what became of him. Why couldn’t the little idiot have stayed
where she belonged? A woman had no business in the woods, anyway.

With his eyes closed it was easy to shut out sight, but the voices
of the night persisted. An owl called, and far off in the distance a
solitary mournful loon took up the plaint. There were sounds close
at hand, too, stealthy footfalls of minute paws, sniffs from the
impertinent noses of smaller animals; the downward fluttering of leaves
and twigs all magnified a thousandfold, pricked upon the velvety
background of the vast silence. He tried to relax his muscles and
tipped his head back upon the ground. As he did so his lids flew up
like those of a doll laid upon its back. The moon was climbing now, so
close to the tree tops that the leaves and branches looked like painted
scrolls upon its surface. In the thicket shapes were moving. They were
only the tossing shadows from his fire, he knew, but they interested
him and he watched them for a long time. It pleased him to think of
them as the shadows of lost travelers. He could hear them whispering
softly, too, in the intervals between the other sounds, and in the
distance, farther even than the call of the whippoorwill, he could hear
them singing:

    À la claire fontaine
    M’en allant promener
    J’ai trouvé l’eau si belle
    Que je m’y suis baigné
    Il y a longtemps que le t’aime
    Jamais je ne t’oublierai.

The sound of the rapids, too, or was it only the tinkle of the stream?

He raised his head and peered around him to right and left. As he did
so a voice joined the lesser voices, its suddenness breaking the
stillness like the impact of a blow.

“Aren’t you asleep?” She lay as he had seen her before, with her cheek
pillowed upon her hand, but the firelight danced in her wide-open eyes.

“No,” he said, straightening slowly. “I don’t seem to be sleepy.”

“Neither am I. Did you hear them--the voices?”

“Yes,” in surprise. “Did you? You’re not frightened at all, are you?”

“Not at the voices. Other things seem to bother me much more. The
little sounds close at hand, I can understand, too. There was a
four-legged thing out there where you threw the fish offal a while ago.
But you didn’t see him----”

“I heard him--but he won’t bother us.”

“No. I’m not frightened--not at that.”

“At what, then?”

“I don’t--I don’t think I really know.”

“There’s nothing to be frightened at.”

“It--it’s just _that_ I’m frightened at--nothing--nothing at all.”

A pause.

“I wish you’d go to sleep.”

“I suppose I shall after a while.”

“How is your foot?”

“Oh, better. I’m not conscious of it at all. It isn’t my foot that
keeps me awake. It’s the hush of the stillnesses between the other
sounds,” she whispered, as though the silence might hear her. “You
never get those distinctions sleeping in a tent. I don’t think I’ve
ever really known the woods before--or the meaning of silence. The
world is poised in space holding its breath on the brink of some awful
abyss. So I can’t help holding mine, too.”

She sat upright and faced him.

“You don’t mind if I talk, do you? I suppose you’ll think I’m very
cowardly and foolish, but I want to hear a human voice. It makes things
real somehow----”

“Of course,” he laughed. He took out his watch and held it toward the
fire with a practical air. “Besides it’s only ten o’clock.”

“Oh,” she sighed, “I thought it was almost morning.”

He silently rose and kicked the fire into a blaze.

“It’s too bad you’re so nervous.”

“That’s it. I’m glad you called it by a name. I’m glad you looked at
your watch and that you kicked the fire. I had almost forgotten that
there were such things as watches. I seem to have been poised in space,
too, waiting and listening for something--I don’t know what--as though
I had asked a great question which must in some way be answered.”

Gallatin glanced at her silently, then slowly took out his pipe and
tobacco.

“Let’s talk,” he said quietly.

But instead of taking his old place beside the fire, he sank at
the foot of one of the young beech trees that formed a part of the
structure of her shelter near the head of her balsam bed.

“I know what you mean,” he said soothingly. “I felt it, too. The
trouble is--there’s never any answer. They’d like to tell us many
things--those people out there,” and he waved his hand. “They’d like
to, but they can’t. It’s a pity, isn’t it? The sounds are cheerful,
though. They say they’re the voyagers singing as they shoot the rapids.”

She watched his face narrowly, not doubtfully as she had done earlier,
but eagerly, as though seeking the other half of a thought which
conformed to her own.

“I’m glad you heard,” she said quickly. “I thought I must have
dreamed--which would have been strange, since I haven’t been asleep. It
gives me a greater faith in myself. I haven’t been really frightened, I
hope. Only filled with wonder that such things could be.”

“They can’t really, you know,” he drawled. “Some people never hear the
voices.”

“I never did before.”

“The woods people hear them often. It means,” he said with a smile,
“that you and I are initiated into the Immortal Fellowship.”

“Oh!” in a whisper, almost of awe.

“Yes,” he reassured her gaily, “you belong to the Clan of _Mak-wa_, the
Bear, and _Kee-way-din_, the North-Wind. The trees are keeping watch.
Nothing can harm you now.”

Her eyes lifted to his, and a hesitating smile suddenly wreathed her
lips.

“You’re very comforting,” she said, in a doubtful tone which showed her
far from comforted. “I really would try to believe you,” with a glance
over her shoulder, “if it wasn’t for the menace of the silence when the
voices stop.”

“The menace----”

“Yes. I can’t explain. It’s like a sudden hush of terror--as though
the pulse of Nature had stopped beating--was waiting on some immortal
decision.”

“Yes,” he assented quietly, his gaze on the fire. “I know. I felt that,
too.”

“Did you? I’m glad. It makes me more satisfied.”

She was sitting up on her bed of twigs now, leaning toward him, her
eyes alight with a strange excitement, her body leaning toward his
own, as she listened. The firelight danced upon her hair and lit
her face with a weird, wild beauty. She was very near him at that
moment--spiritually--physically. In a gush of pity he put his hand over
hers and held it tightly in his own, his voice reassuring her gently.

“No harm can come to you here, child. Don’t you understand? There
are no voices--but yours and mine. See! The woods are filled with
moonlight. It is as bright as day.”

She had put one arm before her eyes as though by physical effort to
obliterate the fancies that possessed her. Her hand was ice-cold and
her fingers unconsciously groped in his, seeking strength in his warm
clasp. With an effort she raised her head and looked more calmly into
the shadows.

“No, there are no voices now,” she repeated. “I am--foolish.” And then
aware of his fingers still holding hers, she withdrew her hand abruptly
and straightened her slender figure. “I--I’m all right, I think.”

He straightened slowly, and his matter of fact tone reassured her.

“I didn’t know you were really frightened or I shouldn’t have spoken
so. I’m sorry.”

“But you _heard_,” she persisted.

Gallatin took up his pipe and put it in his mouth before he replied.

“The wilderness is no place for nerves--or imaginations. It seems that
you have the one and I the other. There were no sounds.”

“What did I hear then?”

“The stream and the leaves overhead. I’d rather prove it to you by
daylight.”

“Will the day never come?”

“Oh, yes. I suppose so. It usually does.”

There was no smile on his lips and another note in his voice caused her
to look at him keenly. The bowl of his pipe had dropped and his gaze
was fixed upon the fire. It was a new--and distinct impression that he
made upon her now--a not altogether pleasant one. Until a moment ago,
he had been merely a man in the woods--a kindly person of intelligence
with a talent for the building of balsam beds; in the last few minutes
he had developed an outline, a quite too visible personality, and
instinctively she withdrew from the contact.

“I think I can sleep now,” she said.

He understood. His place was at the fireside and he took it without
reluctance, aware of a sense of self-reproach. It had been her
privilege to be a fool--but not his. He threw a careless glance at her
over his shoulder.

“If you’re still timid, I’ll sit up and watch.”

“No, you mustn’t do that.” But by this time he had taken another coal
for his pipe and sitting, Indian-fashion, was calmly puffing.

“I’m going to, anyway,” he said. “Don’t bother about me, please.”

Without reply she stretched herself on the couch and disposed herself
again to sleep. This time she buried her head in her arms and lay
immovable. He knew that she was not asleep and that she was still
listening for the menace of the silences; but he knew, too, that if
suffer she must, he could not help her. A moment ago he had been on
the point of taking her in his arms and soothing her as he would have
done a child. They had been very close in spirit at that moment, drawn
together like two vessels alone in a calm waste of water. It was the
appeal of her helplessness to his strength, his strength to her
helplessness, of course, and yet----

For a long while Gallatin watched the flames as they rose and fell and
the column of smoke that drifted upward on the still night air and lost
itself among the leaves overhead. The voices he heard no more. The
fire crackled, a vagrant breeze sighed, a bird called somewhere, but
he realized that he was listening for another sound. The girl had not
moved since he had last spoken, and now he heard the rhythmic breathing
which told him that at last she was asleep. He waited some moments
more, then softly arose, took up his coat, which he had thrown over a
log, and laid it gently over her shoulders. Then he crept back to his
fire.




IV

EDEN


Dawn stalked solemnly forth and the heavens were rosy with light.
Gallatin stirred uneasily, then raised his head stiffly, peered around
and with difficulty got himself into a sitting posture. Fire still
glowed in the chinks of the largest log, but the air was chill. He took
out his watch and looked at it, winding it carefully. He had slept five
hours, without moving.

He was now accustomed to the convention of awaking early, with all his
faculties keenly alive; and he rose to his feet, rubbing the stiffness
out of his limbs and back, smiling joyously up at the gracious day. In
the shelter, her back toward the fire, her head hidden in her arms, the
girl still slept soundly. Cautiously Gallatin replenished the fire,
piling on the last of his wood. Save for a little stiffness in his
back, there were, it seemed, no penalties to be imposed for his night
in the open.

A shaft of sunlight shot across the topmost branches of the trees,
and instantly, as though at a signal, the woods were alive with
sound. There was a mad scampering in the pine boughs above him, and a
squirrel leapt into the air, scurried through the branches of a maple
and disappeared; two tiny wrens engaged in a noisy discussion about
the family breakfast, a blue-jay screamed and a woodpecker tattoed
the call to the business of the day. This, Gallatin knew, was meant
for him. There was much to be done, but he fell to with a will, his
muscles eager for the task, his mind cleared of the fogs of doubt
and speculation which had dimmed it the night before. There were
no problems he could not solve alone, no difficulties his ingenuity
could not surmount. The old blood of his race, which years before had
conquered this same wilderness, or another one like it, surged new in
his veins and he rejoiced in the chance to test his strength against
the unhandselled matter which opposed him. The forest smiled upon him,
already gracious in defeat.

He returned to camp after a turn through the woods, and in one hand
was a clean sliver of birch-bark, filled with blueberries. He put them
safely in a hollow place in the fallen tree, filled the saucepan with
water and placed it in the fire to boil. Then he cleaned fish.

He worked noiselessly, bringing more firewood, plenty of which was
still close at hand; and after a glance at the sleeping girl, he
unsheathed his knife and went again into the brush. There, after a
search, he found what he was looking for--a straight young oak tree,
about two inches in diameter. He succeeded at last, with much pains and
care for his knife, in cutting it through and trimming off the small
branches. At the upper end of this club was a V-shaped crotch, made by
two strong forking branches, which he cut and whittled until they were
to his liking. Returning to the fire, he emptied his fly-hook, took his
rod and unreeled a good length of line, which he cut off and placed on
the log beside him. Then with the line, he bound the fly-hook, stuffed
with caribou moss, into the fork of his stick, wrapping the strong
cord carefully until he had made a serviceable crutch. He was hobbling
around near the fire on it, testing its utility when he heard a gasp of
amazement. He had been so engrossed in his task that he had not thought
of the object of these attentions, and when he glanced toward the
shelter, she was sitting upright, regarding him curiously.

“What on earth are you doing?”

He laughed gayly.

“Good morning! Hobbling, I believe. Don’t I do it nicely?”

“You--you’ve hurt yourself?”

He took the crutch from under his arm and looked at it admiringly.

“Oh, no--but _you_ have.”

“I! Oh, yes. I forgot. I don’t think I’ll need it at all. I--” She
started up and tried to put her foot down and then sank back in dismay.
“It seems to still hurt me a little,” she said quietly.

“Of course it does. You don’t get over that sort of thing in a minute.
It will be better when the blood gets into it. Meanwhile,” he handed
her the stick, “you must use this. Breakfast will be ready in a minute,
so if you feel like making a toilet----”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she glanced around her at the patines of gold the
sun had laid over the floor of their breakfast-room and asked the time.

“Half past seven.”

“Then I’ve slept----”

“Nearly nine hours.”

He started forward to help her to her feet and as he did so, she saw
his coat, which had fallen from her shoulders.

“You shouldn’t have given me your coat. You must have frozen.”

“On the contrary, I was quite comfortable. The night was balmy--besides,
I was nearer the fire.”

“I’m very much obliged,” she said. After one or two clumsy efforts she
managed to master her crutch and, refusing his aid, made her way to the
stream without difficulty.

Gallatin spitted the fish on the charred sticks of yesterday and held
them up to the fire, his appetite pleasantly assertive at the first
delicious odor. When the girl joined him a while later, all was ready,
the last of the tea darkening the simmering pot, the cooked fish lying
in a row on a flat stone in the fire.

As she hobbled up he rose and offered her a place on the log beside him.

“I hope you’re hungry. I am. Our menu is small but most
select--blueberries Ojibway, trout _sauté_, and Bohea _en casserole_.
The biscuits, I’m ashamed to say, are no more.”

She reflected his manner admirably. “Splendid! I fairly dote on
blueberries. Where did you get them? You’re really a very wonderful
person. For luncheon, of course, cress and dandelion salad, fish and a
venison pasty. For dinner----”

“Don’t be too sure,” he laughed. “Let’s eat what we’ve got and be
thankful.”

“I am thankful,” she said, picking at the blueberries. “I might have
been still lying over there in the leaves.” She turned her face
confidingly to his. “Do you know, I thought you were a bear.”

“Did you?”

“Until you pointed a pistol at me--and then I thought you were an
Indian.”

“I’m very sorry. I didn’t know _what_ you were--I don’t think I quite
know yet.”

She took the cup of tea from his fingers before she replied.

“I? Oh, I’m just--just a girl. It doesn’t matter much who or what.”

“I didn’t mean to be inquisitive,” he said quickly.

“But you were--” she insisted.

“Yes,” he admitted, “I’m afraid I was.”

“Names don’t matter--here, do they? The woods are impersonal. Can’t you
and I be impersonal, too?”

“I suppose so, but my curiosity is rather natural--under the
circumstances.”

“I don’t intend to gratify it.”

“Why not? My name----”

“Because--I prefer not,” she said firmly. And then: “These fish are
delicious. Some more tea, please!”

He looked at her while she drank and then took the cup from her hand
without replying. Her chin he discovered could fall very quickly into
lines of determination. Her attitude amused him. She was, it seemed, a
person in the habit of having things her own way and it even flattered
him that she had discerned that he must acquiesce.

“You shall have your own way,” he laughed amusedly, “but if I call you
‘Hey, there,’ don’t be surprised.”

“I won’t,” she smiled.

When they had finished the last of the tea he got up, washed the two
dishes at the stream, and relit the ashes of last night’s pipe.

“The Committee of Ways and Means will now go into executive session,”
he began. “I haven’t the least idea where we are. I may have traveled
ten miles yesterday or twenty. I’ve lost my bearings, that’s sure, and
so have you. There are two things to do--one of them is to find our way
out by ourselves and the other is to let somebody find it for us. The
first plan isn’t feasible until you are able to walk----”

“I could manage with my crutch.”

“No, I’m afraid that won’t do. There’s no use starting off until we
know where we’re going.”

“But you said you thought you could----”

“I still think so,” he put in quickly, noting the sudden anxious query
in her eyes. “I’ll find my back-trail, but it may take time. Meanwhile
you’ve got to eat, and keep dry.”

“It isn’t going to rain.”

“Not now, but it may any time. I’ll get you comfortable here and then
I’ll take to the woods----”

“And leave me alone?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to. We have four fish remaining--little ones.
Judging by my appetite they’re not quite enough for lunch--and we must
have more for supper.”

“I’ll catch them.”

“No, you must rest to-day. I have my automatic, too,” he went on. “I’m
not a bad shot. Perhaps, I may bring some meat.”

“But I can’t stay here and--do nothing.”

“You can help fix the shack. I’ll get the birch now.”

He was moving off into the brush when she called him back.

“I hope you didn’t think me discourteous awhile ago. I really didn’t
mean to be. You--you’ve been very good. I don’t think I realized that
we might have to be here long. You understand--under the circumstances,
I thought I’d rather not--have you know anything about me. It doesn’t
matter, really, I suppose.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” politely, and he went into the underbrush,
leaving her sitting at the fire. When he came back with his first
armful of canoe birches, she was still sitting there; but he went on
gathering birch and firewood, whistling cheerfully the while. She
watched him for a moment and then silently got up with the aid of her
crutch and reached for her rod and creel. She had hobbled past him
before he realized her intention.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” he protested.

“I must do my share----”

“You’d do it better by saving your foot.”

“I won’t hurt my foot. I can use it a little now.”

“If you slipped, things might go badly with you.”

“I won’t fall. I’m going down stream to get the fish for lunch.”

She adjusted her crutch and moved on. Her voice was even gay, but there
was no denying the quality of her resolution. He shrugged his shoulders
lightly and watched her until she had disappeared in the bushes, and
when he had finished his tasks, he took up rod and creel and followed
the stream in the opposite direction.

Of course, she had every right to keep her identity a secret, if she
chose, but it annoyed him a little to think that he had laid himself
open even to so slight a rebuff. Morning seemed to have made a
difference in the relations, a difference he was as yet at some pains
to define. Last night he had been merely a chance protector, upon whose
hospitality she had been forced against her will and he had done only
what common humanity demanded of him. The belief that her predicament
was only temporary, had for the time given her the assurance the
situation required; but with the morning, which had failed to bring
aid she had expected from her people, her obligations to him were
increasing with the hours. If, as he had indicated, it might be several
days or even more before she could find her way to camp, she must
indeed expect to find herself completely upon his mercies. Gallatin
smiled as he cast his line. With its other compensations daylight had
not brought him or his companion the pleasure of an introduction! Silly
little fool! Of what value were introductions in the heart of the
ancient wood--or elsewhere for that matter! No mere spoken words could
purge his heart--or any man’s! Vain conventions! The hoary earth was
mocking at them.

A swirl in the brown pool below him, a flash of light! Gallatin swore
softly. Two pounds and a half at least! And he had lost him!

This wouldn’t do. He was fishing for his dinner now--their dinner. He
couldn’t afford to make many more mistakes like that--not with another
mouth to fill. Why should he care who or what she was! The Gallatins
had never been of a curious disposition and he wondered that he should
care anything about the identity of this chance female thrown upon his
protection. She was not in any way unusual. He was quite sure that any
morning in New York he would have passed a hundred like her on the
street without a second glance. She had come with the falling evening,
wrapped in mystery and had shaken his rather somber philosophy out of
its bearings. Night had not diminished the illusion; and once, when
the spell of the woods had held them for a moment in its thrall, he
had been on the point of taking her in his arms. Did she know how near
she had been to that jeopardy? He fancied so. That was why things were
different to-day. It was the sanity of nine o’clock in the morning,
when there was no firelight to throw shadows among the trees and the
voyageurs no longer sang among the rapids. In an unguarded moment she
had shown him a shadowed corner of her spirit and was now resenting
it. A woman’s chief business in life, he realized, was the hiding
of her own frailties, the sources of impulse and the repression of
unusual emotions. She had violated these canons of her sex and justly
feared that he might misinterpret her. What could she know of him, what
expect--of a casual stranger into whose arms her helpless plight had
literally thrown her? He was forced to admit, at the last, that to a
modest woman the situation was trying.

He fished moodily, impatiently and unsuccessfully, losing another fish
in the pool above. Things were getting serious. His mind now intent, he
cast again farther up, dropping the fly skillfully just above a tiny
rapid. There he was rewarded; for a fish struck viciously, not so large
a one as the first, but large enough for one meal for his companion at
least. His spirits rose. He was at peace again with the world, in the
elysium of the true fisher who has landed the first fish of the day.

A moment ago he had thought her commonplace. He admitted now that he
had been mistaken. A moment ago he had been trying to localize her
by the token of some treacherous trick of speech or intonation and
had almost been ready to assign her to that limbo of all superior
indigenous New Yorkers--“the West”; now he was even willing to admit
that she was to all intents and purposes a cosmopolitan. The sanity of
nine o’clock in the morning had done away with all myth and moonshine,
but daylight had, it seemed, taken nothing from her elfin comeliness.
Her hair had at last decided to be brown, her eyes a dark blue, her
figure slim, her limbs well proportioned, her motions graceful.
Altogether she had detracted nothing from the purely ornamental
character of the landscape.

These few unimportant facts clearly established, Gallatin gave himself
up more carefully to the business in hand, and by the time he reached
the head of the gorge, had caught an even dozen. If fish were to serve
them for diet, they would not go hungry on this day at least. As he
went higher up into the hills he kept his eyes open for the landmarks
of yesterday. He remembered the two big rocks in the gorge, and it
surprised him that they were no nearer to his camp. The task of
finding his back trail to Joe Keegón would be more difficult than he
had supposed, and he knew now that the point where he had first fished
this stream was many miles above. But he saw no reason to be unduly
alarmed. He had served his apprenticeship; and with an axe and a frying
pan, a kettle, some flour, tea, and a tin cup or two, his position
would have had no terrors.

Beyond the gorge he had a shot at a deer and the echoes derided him,
for he missed it. He shot again at smaller things and had the luck
to bring down two squirrels; then realizing that his cartridges were
precious, made his way back to camp.

The girl was already at the fire, her crutch beside her against the
fallen log.

“I thought you were never coming.” She smiled. “I heard your shooting
and it frightened me.”

Gallatin held the squirrels out for her inspection.

“There!” he said.

“Poor little things, what a pity! They were all so happy up there this
morning.”

“I’m afraid it can’t be helped. We must eat, you know. Did you have any
luck?”

She opened her creel and showed him.

Again she had caught more than he.

He laughed delightedly. “From this moment you are appointed Fish-wife
Extraordinary. I fish no more. When my cartridges are used I’ll have
nothing to do but sit by the fire.”

“Did you find your trail?” she asked anxiously.

“I followed it for a mile or so. I’m afraid I’ll have to start early
to-morrow. I want to see you comfortable first.”

His manner was practical, but she did not fail to catch the note of
uncertainty in his voice. She bent her gaze on the ground, and spoke
slowly.

“You’re very kind to try to keep me in ignorance, but I think I
understand now. We will be here a long time.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I don’t think that,” cheerfully. “If I were
more experienced, I would promise to find my own guide to-morrow. I’m
going to do the best I can. I won’t come back here until I have to
acknowledge myself beaten. Meanwhile, many things may happen. Your
people will surely----”

“We are lost, both of us--hopelessly,” she persisted. “The fish strike
here as though these streams had never been fished before. My people
will find me, if they can; if they can’t--I--I--must make the best of
my position.”

She spoke bravely, but there was a catch in her voice that he had heard
before.

“I’ll do the best I can. I want you to believe that. Three or four days
at the most and I’m sure I can promise you----”

“I’d rather you wouldn’t promise,” she said. “We’ll get out someway, of
course, and if it wasn’t for this provoking foot----”

“Isn’t it better?”

“Oh, yes--better. But, of course, I can’t bear my weight on it. It’s so
tiresome.”

She seemed on the point of tears, and while he was trying to think of
something to say to console her, she reached for her crutch and bravely
rose.

“I’m not going to cry. I abominate whining women. Give me something to
do, and I won’t trouble you with tears.”

“You’re plucky, that’s certain,” he said admiringly. “The lunch must
be cooked. We’ll save the squirrels for supper. I’m going to work on
your house. I’m afraid there’s no tea--no real tea, but we might try
arbor-vitæ. They say its palatable.”

She insisted on cleaning the fish and preparing the meal while he sat
beside her and began sewing two rolls of thick birch-bark together with
white spruce-roots. Between whiles she watched him with interest.

“I never heard of sewing a roof before,” she said with a smile.

“It’s either sewing the roof or reaping the whirlwind,” he laughed. “It
may not rain before we get out of here, but I think it’s best not to
take any chances. The woods are not friendly when they’re wet. Besides,
I’d rather not have any doctor’s bills.”

“That’s not likely here,” she laughed. “And the lunch is ready,” she
announced.

All that afternoon he worked upon her shelter and by sunset it was
weather-tight. On three sides and top it was covered with birches, and
over the opening toward the fire was a projecting eave which could
be lowered over one side as a protection from the wind. When he had
finished it he stood at one side and examined his handiwork with an
approving eye.

She had already thanked him many times.

“Of course, I don’t know how to show my gratitude,” she said again.

“Then don’t try.”

“But you can’t sleep out again.”

“Oh, yes, I can. I’m going to anyway.”

“You mustn’t.”

He glanced up at her quizzically.

“Why not?”

“I want to take my share.”

“I’m afraid you can’t. That house is yours. You’re going to sleep
there. I’m afraid you’ll have to obey orders,” he finished. “You see,
I’m bigger than you are.”

Her eyes measured his long limbs and her lips curved in a crooked
little smile.

“I don’t like to obey orders.”

“I’m afraid you must.”

“You haven’t any right to make yourself uncomfortable.”

“Oh, yes, I have,” he said. “Might is right--in the woods.”

Something in the way he spoke caused her to examine his face minutely,
but his eyes were laughing at her.

“Oh!” she said meekly.




V

WOMAN AND MAN


There were no voices in the woods that night, or if there were any the
girl in the lean-to did not hear them. The sun had already found its
way past the protecting flap of her shack before she awoke. The first
thing she discovered was that at some time during the night he had
put his coat over her again. She held it for a moment in her fingers
thinking, before she rose; then got up quickly and peered out. The
morning was chill, but the fire showed signs of recent attention and on
the saucepan which had been placed near the fire a piece of birch-bark
was lying. She picked it up curiously to read a hastily pencilled
scrawl:

“I’m off up country. I must go far, so don’t be frightened if I’m not
back for supper. Be careful with your foot--and keep the fire going.
There are fish and firewood enough to last. Nothing can harm you. With
luck I’ll bring my guide and duffel-bag.”

She glanced quickly over her shoulder into the depths of the pine-woods
in the direction he must have taken as though she hoped to see him
walking there; then, the birch-bark still in her hands, sat down on the
log, read the message over again, smiling. She had begun to understand
this tall young man, with the grim, unshaven face and somber, peering
eyes. Those eyes had frightened her at first; and even now the memory
of them haunted her until she recalled just what they did when he
smiled, and then remembered that she was not to be frightened any more.

He had been gone for several hours. She knew this by the condition of
the fire, but wondered why he had not spoken more definitely about his
plans the night before. Possibly he had been afraid that she would
not have slept. She _had_ slept, soundly, dreamlessly, and she found
herself wondering how she could have done so. The last thing she could
recall was looking out through sleepy eyes at his profile as he sat
motionless by the fire staring into the shadows. She knew then that
fear of him had passed and that had she slept under a city roof she
could not have been more contented to sleep securely.

He would be gone all day, of course, and she must depend upon her own
exertions. First she filled the little saucepan with water and put it
between the two flat stones that served for its hearth, and then took
from the creel two fish that he had cleaned the night before. Half way
to the fire she paused, her crutch in mid-air, balancing herself safely
without its aid. She peered to right and left among the branches and
then put the fish back into the creel in quick decision.

A bath! She had been longing for it for two days! Her resolution
made, she took up her crutch and hobbled down the stream, turning her
head back over her shoulder in the direction of the camp as if she
still feared she might have misread the birch-bark message. Warm with
expectancy and the delight of the venture, she found a sheltered pool
beneath the dense foliage and bathed her lithe young body in the icy
water. Gasping for breath she splashed across the sandy pool and back
again with half uttered cries of delight; and the Naiads and Oreads
flitted fearfully among the trees whispering and peering cautiously at
the slim white creature which had intruded so fearlessly upon their
secret preserves. The water was cold! Oh, so cold! With one last plunge
which set her teeth chattering, the bather clambered up the bank into
the sunlight chilled to the bone, but glowing suddenly with the swift
rush of new blood along her rosy limbs. Upright upon the bank she
moved vigorously back and forth, and releasing her hair, let it clothe
and warm her, while she stood drying, her face toward the sun. Apollo
looked with favor on this Clytië and sent his warmest rays that she
might not have gazed at him in vain.

A miracle had happened to her ankle, too, for she moved quite without
pain. Dressing and making her way back to the fire, using her crutch
only as a staff, she gathered cedar by the way, for her morning tea.
Her mentor had made some of it for her the night before and her lips
twisted at the thought of drinking it again; but the essence of the
woods, their balsam, their fragrance, their elixir had permeated her
and even this bitter physic seemed palatable now. She remembered his
couplet last night:

    A quart of arbor-vitæ
    To make you big and mighty.

At the fire she spitted her fish, leaning back against the log, her
hair drying in the sun and wind, the warm fire bringing a warm glow
throughout her body. She ate and then stretched her arms toward the
kindly trees. It was good to be strong and young, with life just
ripening. At that moment it did not matter just what was to become of
her. She was sure that she no longer felt any uneasiness as to the end
of her adventure. Her guardian had gone to find a way out. He would
come back to-night. In time she would go back to camp. She didn’t care
when--the present seemed sufficient.

In all ways save one--_she had no mirror_. She combed her hair with
her back comb and braided it carefully with fingers long accustomed.
Instinct demanded that she look at her face; circumstance refused
her the privilege, for of Vanity Boxes she had none. And, when, like
Narcissus, she knelt at the brink of the pool and looked into its
depths, the water was full of iridescent wrinkles and she only saw
the mocking pebbles upon the bottom, having not only her labor, but a
wetting for her pains. But she accepted the reproof calmly and finished
her toilet _secundum naturam_.

The larder was full, but she fished again--up stream this time, for
evening might bring another mouth to feed. The morning dragged wearily
enough and she came back to her fire early, with but four fish to her
credit account. She hung the creel in its accustomed place and resumed
her seat by the fire, her look moving restlessly from one object to
another. At last it fell upon his coat which she had left on the couch
in the shelter. She got up, brought it forth into the light and brushed
it carefully. Several objects fell from its pockets--a tobacco pouch
nearly empty, a disreputable and badly charred briarwood pipe and some
papers. She picked up the objects one by one and put them back. As
she did so her eye caught the superscription of a letter. She drew it
forth quickly and examined it again as though she had not been certain
that she had read it correctly; then the other envelope, scanning them
both eagerly. They were inscribed with the same name and address--all
written with the same feminine scrawl, and the paper smelt of
heliotrope. She held them in her fingers a moment, her lips compressed,
her brow thoughtful and then abruptly thrust them into the pocket again
and put the coat into the shelter.

She sat for a long while, her chin in her hand, looking into the ashes
of the fire. A cloud moved slowly across the face of the sun, and
its shadow darkened the glade. A hush fell upon the trees as though
all living things had stopped to listen. The girl glanced at the sky
and saw that the heavens were dark with the portent of a storm, when
some new thought suddenly struck her, for she rose quickly, her look
moving from the shack to the trees beside it, a pine and a maple tree,
measuring the distance and the ground between them. Of one thing she
was now certain, another shelter must be built at once.

Her crutch in her hand she made her way into the thicket, her small
pearl handled knife clutched resolutely in her palm, attacking
vigorously the first straight limb within reach. At the end of ten
minutes she had cut only half way through it, and her tender hands were
red and blistered. But she put her weight on the bough and snapped it,
cutting at last through the tough fibers and dragging it into the open.
Ten minutes more of cutting at the twigs and her roof joist was in
position. Her next attempt was unfortunate; for she had hardly begun to
cut a notch in the branch she had selected, when the knife-blade broke
and the handle twisted in her hand, the jagged edge cutting a gash in
her thumb. She cried out with pain, dropping the knife from trembling
fingers. It was not a serious wound, but the few drops of blood made
her think it so; and, pale and a little frightened, she made her way to
the stream and dipped it into the cooling water, bathing and bandaging
it with her handkerchief.

She had learned something. The woods were only friendly to those who
knew how to cope with them. She did not know how to cope with them, and
at this moment hated them blindly. There seemed to be nothing left but
to sit by the fire and have a cry. This done, she felt better, but she
made no further attempt to build the hut.

The sky darkened rapidly and a few drops of rain pattered noisily among
the dry leaves. She had no means of learning the hour of the day. She
guessed that it would soon be time to prepare supper, but for a long
while she did not move. She was conquered by the inevitable facts of
nature and her eyes plaintively regarded the beginnings of the house
which might have been, but was not.

The fire, like her spirits of the morning, had sunk. But she rose now,
her face set in hard little lines of determination, and laid on fresh
logs. As the cheerful flames arose her spirits kindled, too, and she
lifted the creels from the limb and sat down again in her accustomed
place to prepare the scanty meal. Her eyes sought the up-country trail
more frequently and more anxiously, but the shadows of the night had
fallen thickly before she decided to cook her solitary meal. She was
not hungry as she had been in the morning and even the odor of the
cooking fish was not appetizing. She only cooked because cooking at
this time seemed part of the established order of things and because
cooking was something that belonged to the things that she could do.

She ate mechanically, rose and washed her utensils without interest.
The rain was falling steadily; but she did not seem to care, and only
when she had finished her tasks did she seek the shelter of the hut.
Even then she stood leaning against the young birch-tree looking out
at the darkness and listening, her brows puckered in tiny wrinkles of
worry. At last with a sigh, she sank on her balsam bed and closed her
eyes.

The night was sombrous and the rain had been falling for an hour.
The girl sat beneath the shelter of her projecting eave upon the
ground, where she might look out up the stream, her chin on her knees,
her hands clasped about her ankles, watching the rain drops fall
glistening into the circle of firelight and hiss spitefully among the
fretting flames. She had been crying again and her eyes were dark with
apprehension. Her hair hung in moist wisps about her brow and temples
and her lips were drawn in plaintive lines. She listened intently. A
dead branch in the distance cracked and fell. She started up and peered
out for the hundredth time in the direction from which she might expect
his approach. Only the soft patter of the rain on the soaked foliage
and the ominous blackness of before! She went out into the wet, heaping
more logs upon the flames. The fire at least must be kept burning. He
had asked that of her. That was her duty and she did it unquestioning
like the solitary cliff-woman, awaiting in anxious expectation the
return of her lord. She would not lie down upon her balsam bed; for
that would mean that she denied the belief that he _would_ return, and
so she sat, her forehead now bent upon her knees, her eyes closed, only
her ears acutely alive to the slightest distant sounds.

Suddenly she raised her head, her eyes alight. She heard sounds now,
human sounds, the crunch of footfalls in the moist earth, the snapping
of fallen twigs. She ran out into the rain and called joyously. A
voice answered. She ran forward to meet him. He emerged into the light
striding heavily, bent forward under the weight of something he was
carrying.

“Oh, I’m so glad,” she cried, her voice trembling. “I had begun to
fear--I don’t know what. I thought--you--you--weren’t coming back.”

He grinned wearily. “I believe I’d almost begun to think so myself.
Phew! But the thing is heavy!”

He lowered it from his shoulders and threw it heavily near the fire.

“W--what is it?” she asked timidly.

“A deer. I shot it,” he said laconically.

He straightened slowly, getting the kinks out of his muscles with an
effort; and she saw that his face was streaked with grime and sweat and
that his body in the firelight was streaming with moisture. His eyes
peered darkly from deep caverns.

“Oh! You’re so tired,” she cried. “Sit down by the fire at once, while
I cook your supper.” And, as he made no move to obey her, she seized
him by the arms and led him into the shelter of the hut and pushed him
gently down upon the couch. “You’re not to bother about anything,” she
went on in a businesslike way. “I’ll have you something hot in a jiffy.
I’m so--_so_ sorry for you.”

He sat in the bunk, with a drooping head, his long legs stretched
toward the blaze.

“Oh, I’m all right,” he grunted. But he watched her flitting to and
fro with dull eyes and took the cup of water she offered him without
protest. She spitted the fish skillfully, crouching on the wet log as
she broiled them, while he watched her, half asleep with the grateful
sense of warmth and relaxation. He did not realize until now that he
had been on the move with little rest for nearly eighteen hours, during
four of which he had carried a double burden.

The cedar tea she brought him first. He made a wry face but emptied the
saucepan.

“By George, that’s good! I never tasted anything better.” He ate
hungrily--like an animal, grumbling at the fish bones, while she cooked
more fish, smiling at him. There was some of the squirrel left and
he ate that, too, not stopping to question why she had not eaten it
herself. Another saucepan of the tea, and he gave a great sigh of
satisfaction and moved as though to rise. But she pushed him gently
down again, fumbling meanwhile in the pockets of his coat which lay
beside the bed.

“Your pipe--and tobacco,” she said, handing them to him with a smile.
“I insist, you deserve them,” she went to the fire and brought him a
glowing pine twig, and blew it for him until the tobacco was ready. In
a moment he was puffing mechanically.

She sank quickly upon the dry ground beside him and he looked at her in
amazement.

“I forgot,” he muttered. “Your ankle!”

“It’s well,” she smiled. “I had forgotten it, too. I haven’t used the
crutch since morning.”

“I’m glad of that, a day or two of rest and we’ll soon be out of here.”

He had not spoken of their predicament before, nor had she. It seemed
as though in the delight of having him (or some one) near her, she had
forgotten the object of his pilgrimage. He had not forgotten. His mind
and body ached too sorely for him to forget his failure. She saw the
tangle at his brows and questioned timidly.

“You had--had no luck?”

“No, I hadn’t, and I went almost to the headwaters. I found no signs of
travel anywhere, though I searched the right bank carefully. I thought
I could remember--” he put his hand to his brow and drew his long
fingers down his temple, “but I didn’t.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not frightened now. In a day or two when
I’m quite sure of my foot, we’ll go out together. I think I really
am--getting a little tired of fish,” she finished smiling.

“I don’t wonder. How would a venison steak strike you?”

“Ah, I forgot. Delicious! You must be a very good shot.”

“Pure luck. You see my eyes were pretty wide open to-day and the breeze
was favoring. I got quite close to her and fired three times before
she could start. After I shot she got away but I found some blood and
followed. She didn’t get far.”

“Poor thing!” she said softly, her eyes seeking the dark shadow beyond
the fire. “Poor little thing!”

He looked down at her, a new expression in his eyes; yesterday she
had been a petulant, and self-willed child, creating a false position
where none need have existed, diffident and pretentious by turns,
self-conscious and over-natural. To-night she was all woman. Under
his tired lids he could see that--tender, compassionate, gentle, but
strong--always strong. There were lines in her face, too, that he had
not seen before. She had been crying. One of her hands, too, was bound
with a handkerchief.

“You’ve hurt yourself again?” he asked.

“No--only a scratch. My knife--I--I was cutting”--hesitating--“cutting
sticks for the fish.”

If she had not hesitated, he might not have examined her so minutely.
As it was she looked up at him irresolutely and then away. Over her
head, beyond the edge of the shack, he saw the young pine-tree that she
had placed for a roof support.

“Ah!” he muttered. But he understood. And knocking his pipe out against
his heel, quietly rose. It was raining still, not gently and fitfully,
as it had done earlier in the evening, but steadily, as though nature
had determined to compensate with good measure for the weeks of clear
skies that had been apportioned.

“I’ve got to get to work,” he said resolutely.

“At what?”

“The shack you began----”

“No.”

She answered so shortly that he glanced at her. Her head was turned
away from him.

“I mean it,” she insisted, still looking into the darkness. “You can do
no more to-night. You must sleep here.”

“You’re very kind,” he began slowly.

“No--I’m only just--” she went on firmly. “You’re so tired that you can
hardly get up. I’m not going to let you build that shack. Besides, you
couldn’t. Everything is soaking. Won’t you sit down again? I want to
talk to you.”

Slowly he obeyed, dumb with fatigue, but inexpressibly grateful.

“I don’t want you to think I’m a little fool,” she said with petulant
abruptness, as though denying an imputation. “I think I had a right to
be timid yesterday and the day before. I was very much frightened and I
felt very strangely. I don’t know very many--many men. I was brought up
in a convent. I don’t think I quite knew what to--to expect of you. But
I think I do now.” She turned her gaze very frankly to his, a gaze that
did not waver or quibble with the issue any more than her words did.
“You’ve been very thoughtful--very considerate of me and you’ve done
all that strength could do to make things easier for me. I want you to
know that I’m very--very thankful.”

He began to speak--but her gesture silenced him.

“It seems to me that the least I can do is to try and accept my
position sensibly----”

“I’m sure you’re doing that----”

“I’m trying to. I don’t want you to think I’ve any nonsense left in my
head--or false consciousness. I want you to treat me as you’d treat a
man. I’ll do my share if you’ll show me how.”

“You’re more likely to show _me_ how,” he said.

“No. I can show you nothing but appreciation. I _do_ that, don’t I?”

“Yes--I hope I’ll deserve it.”

“I’m taking that risk,” she said, with a winning laugh. “I’d have to be
pretty sure of you, or I wouldn’t be sitting here flattering you so.”

“I hope you’ll keep on,” drowsily. “I like it.”

“There! I knew it. I’ve spoiled you already. You’ll be making me haul
the firewood to-morrow.”

“And cook breakfast,” he put in sleepily. “Of course, I’ll not stir out
of here all day if you talk like this.”

“Then I won’t talk any more.”

“Do, please, it’s very soothing.”

“I actually believe you’re falling asleep.”

“No--just dreaming.”

“Of what?”

“Of the time a thousand years ago when you and I did all this before.”

She looked at him with startled eyes.

“What made you say that?”

“Because I dreamed it.”

“It’s nonsense.”

“I suppose it is. I’m--half--asleep.”

She was silent a moment--her wide gaze on the fire.

“It’s curious that you should say that.”

“Why is it? I only told what I was dreaming of.”

“You haven’t any business dreaming such things.”

“It all happened--all happened before,” he muttered again. His head
was nodding. He slept as he sat. She got up noiselessly and taking
him by the shoulders lowered him gently to the bed. His lips babbled
protestingly, but he did not wake, and in a moment he was breathing
heavily in the deep sleep of exhaustion.

She stood beside him for a moment, smiling, and then softly sank upon
the ground by his side, still watching. The rain had stopped falling,
but outside the glistening circle of the firelight the water from the
heavy branches dripped heavily. The heavens lightened and a bleary
cloud opened a single eye and, blinking a moment, at last let the
moonlight through. From every tree pendants of diamonds, festoons
of opals were hung and flashed their radiance in the rising breeze,
falling in splendid profusion. Over her head the drops pattered noisily
upon the roof. After awhile, she heard them singly and at last silence
fell again upon the forest.

It was her night of vigil and the girl kept it long. She was not
frightened now. _Kee-way-din_ crooned a lullaby, and she knew that the
trees which repeated it were her friends. It was a night of mystery, of
dreams and of a melancholy so sweet that she was willing even then to
die with the pain of it.

And in the distance a voice sang faintly:

    Le jour bien souvent dans nos bois
    Hélas! le cœur plein de souffrance,
    Je cherche ta si doux voix
    Mais tout se tait, tout est silence
    Oh! loin de toi, de toi que j’aime,
    Dans les ennuis, ô mes amours,
    Dans les regrets, douleur extreme,
    Loin de toi je passe mes jours.

The girl at last slept uneasily, her head pillowed upon the cedar twigs
beside the body of the man, who lay as he had first fallen, prone,
his arms and legs sprawling. Twice during the night she got up and
rebuilt the fire, for it was cold. Once a wolf sat just outside the
circle of firelight grinning at her, not even moving at her approach,
but she threw a stick at him and he slunk away. After that, she pulled
the carcass of the deer into the opening of the hut and mounted guard
over it until she was sure the wolf would not return. Then she lay down
again and listened to the breathing of the man.




VI

THE SHADOW


The third morning rose cold and clear. _Kee-way-din_ had brushed the
heavens clean, and the rising sun was burnishing them. Orange and rose
color vied for precedence in the splendid procession across the zenith,
putting to flight the shadows of violet and purple which retreated
westward in rout before the gorgeous pageantry of the dawn.

The girl stirred and started up at once, smiling hopefully at the
radiant sky. Each tree awoke; each leaf and bough sent forth its
fragrant tribute. Nature had wept, was drying her tears; and all the
woods were glad.

The man still slept. The girl listened again for the sounds of his
breathing, and then rose slowly and walked out. She shivered with the
cold and dampness, for her feet had been wet the night before and were
not yet dry, but the fire still glowed warmly. The damp twigs sputtered
in protest as she put them on and a shaft of white smoke slanted down
the wind, but presently the grateful crackling was followed by a burst
of flame.

The explosion of a pine-knot awoke the sleeper in the hut, who rolled
over on his couch, looking around him with heavy eyes, unable to put
his thoughts together. A ray of sunlight fell upon the girl’s face and
rested there; and he saw that she was pale and that her hair had fallen
in disorder about her shoulders. He understood then. He had slept upon
_her_ bed while she--for all he knew--had spent the night where he now
saw her. He straightened, struggled stiffly to his feet and stumbled
out, rubbing his eyes.

She greeted him with a wan smile.

“Good morning,” she said. “I awoke first, you see.”

“I c-can’t forgive myself.”

“Oh, yes, you can, since _I_ do.”

“I don’t know what to say to you.”

“You might say ‘good morning.’”

“I’ve been asleep,” he went on with a slow shake of his head, “while
you lay--on the ground. I didn’t know. I only remember sitting there. I
meant to get up----”

She laughed deliciously.

“But you couldn’t have--unless you had walked in your sleep.”

“I remember nothing.” He ran his blackened fingers through his hair.
“Oh, yes, the trail--the deer--and--you cooking fish--and then--after
that--we talked, didn’t we?”

He was awake now, and blundered forward eagerly to take the branch
which she had lifted from the wood-pile. But she yielded grudgingly.

“I’m to do my share--that we agreed----”

“No--you’re a woman. You shall do nothing--go into the hut and rest.”

“I’m not tired.”

Her appearance belied her words. He looked down at her tenderly and
laid his hand gently on her shoulder.

“You have not slept?”

“Oh, yes, I slept,” looking away.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“It wasn’t necessary.”

She smiled, but did not meet his gaze, which she felt was bent eagerly
in search of her own.

“Where did you sleep?” he asked again.

“In the shelter--beside you.”

“And I did not know! Do you think you can forgive me?”

She put her hand to her shoulder and gently removed his fingers. But
his own seized hers firmly and would not let them go.

“Listen, please,” he pleaded, “won’t you? I want you to
understand--many things. I want you to know that I wouldn’t willingly
have slept there for anything in the world. It’s a matter of pride with
me to make you comfortable. I’m under a moral obligation to myself--it
goes deeper than you can ever guess--to bring you safely out of this,
and give you to your people. You don’t know how I’ve blessed the chance
that threw you in my way--here--since I’ve been in the woods--that it
happened to be my opportunity instead of some one else’s who didn’t
need it as I did. I _did_ need it. I can’t tell you how or why, but
I did. It doesn’t matter who I am, but I want you to appreciate this
much, at least, that I never knew anything of the joy of living until I
found it here, the delight of the struggle to satisfy the mere pangs of
healthy hunger--yours and mine, the wonderful ache of muscles stretched
to the snapping point.” He stopped, with a sharp sigh.

“Oh, I know you can’t understand all this. I don’t think I want you
to--or why it hurts me to know that for one night at least you have
suffered----”

“I do understand, I think,” she murmured slowly. She had not looked at
him, and her gaze sought the distant trees. “I did not suffer, though,”
she added.

“You had been crying--they hurt me, too, those anxious eyes of yours.”

“I was afraid you might not come back, that was all,” she said frankly.
“I’m rather useless, you see.”

He took her other hand and made her look at him.

“You felt the need of me?” he queried.

“Yes, of course,” she said simply. “What would I have done without you?”

He laughed happily, “What wouldn’t you have done--if you hadn’t cut
your finger?”

She colored and her eyes, in some confusion, sought the two trees which
still bore the evidence of her ill-fated building operation.

“Yesterday, when I was away you started to build a shack for me,” he
went on. “It was your right, of course----”

“No, no,” she protested, lowering her head. “I thought you’d like it
so, I----”

“I understand,” gently. “But it seems----”

“It was a selfish motive after all,” she broke in again. “Your strength
is more important than mine----”

He smiled and shook his head.

“You can’t mislead me. Last night I learned something of what you
are--gentle, courageous, motherly, self-effacing. I’ll remember you
so--always.”

She disengaged her hands abruptly and took up the saucepan.

“Meanwhile, the breakfast is to be cooked--” she said coolly. There was
no reproof in her tone, only good fellowship, a deliberate confirmation
of her promises of the night before.

With a smile he took the saucepan from her hand and went about his
work. It seemed that his failure yesterday to find a way out meant more
to him this morning than it did to her. His limbs were heavy, too, and
his body ached from top to toe; but he went to the brook and washed,
then searched the woods for the blueberries that she liked and silently
cooked the meal.

As he did not eat she asked him, “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Not very.”

He took up a fish and turned it over in his fingers. “I think I’ll wait
for the venison pasty.”

“Don’t you feel well?”

“Just a little loggy,” that’s all. “I think I slept too long.”

She looked up at him suddenly, and then with friendly solicitude, laid
her fingers lightly along his brow. The gesture was natural, gentle, so
exquisitely feminine, that he closed his eyes delightedly, conscious of
the agreeable softness of her fingers and the coolness of their touch.

“Your brow is hot,” she said quickly.

“Is it?” he asked. “That’s queer, I feel chilly.”

“You’ve caught a bad cold, I’m afraid,” she said, removing her fingers.
“It’s very--very imprudent of you.”

Not satisfied with the rapidity of her diagnosis, he thrust his hand
toward her for confirmation.

“I haven’t any fever, have I?”

Her fingers lightly touched his wrist.

“I’m afraid so. Your pulse is thumping pretty fast.”

“_Very_ fast?”

“Yes.”

“You must be mistaken.”

“No, you have fever. You’ll have to rest to-day.”

“I don’t want to rest. I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

“You _must_!” she said peremptorily. “There’s nothing but the firewood.
I can get that.”

“There’s the shack to build,” he said.

“The shack must wait,” she replied.

“And the deer to be butchered?”

She looked at the carcass and then put her fingers over her eyes. But
she looked up at him resolutely.

“Yes,” she persisted, “I’ll do that, too--if you’ll show me how.”

He looked at her a moment with a soft light in his deep-set eyes and
then rose heavily to his feet.

“It’s very kind of you to want to make me an invalid,” he said, “but
that can’t be. There’s nothing wrong with me. What I want is work. The
more I have the better I’ll feel. I’m going to skin the deer.” And
disregarding her protests, he leaned over and caught up the hind-legs
of the creature, dragging it into the bushes.

The effort cost him a violent throbbing in the head and pains like
little needle pricks through his body. His eyes swam and the hand that
held his knife was trembling; but after a while he finished his work,
and cutting a strong young twig, thrust it through the tendons of the
hind legs and carried the meat back to camp, hanging it high on a
projecting branch near the fire.

She watched him moving slowly about, but covered her eyes at the sight
of his red hands and the erubescent carcass.

“Don’t you feel like a murderer?” she asked.

“Yes,” he admitted, “I think I do; half of me does--but the hunter, the
primitive man in me is rejoicing. There’s an instinct in all of us that
belongs to a lower order of creation.”

“But it--it’s unclean----”

“Then all meat is unclean. The reproach is on the race--not on us.
After all we are only first cousins to the South-Sea gentlemen who eat
one another,” he laughed.

“I don’t believe I can eat it,” she shuddered.

“Oh, yes, you will--when you’re hungry.”

“I’ll never eat meat again,” she insisted. “Never! The brutality of it!”

“What’s the difference?” he laughed. “In town we pay a butcher to do
our dirty work--here we do it ourselves. Our responsibilities are just
as great there as here.”

“That’s true--I never thought of that, but I can’t forget that
creature’s eyes.” And while she looked soberly into the fire, he went
down to the stream and cleansed himself, washing away all traces of his
unpleasant task. When he returned she still sat as before.

“Why is it?” she asked thoughtfully, “that the animal appetites are
so repellent, since we ourselves are animals? And yet we tolerate
gluttony--drunkenness among our kind? We’re only in a larva state after
all.”

He had sunk on the log beside her for the comfort of the blaze, and as
she spoke the shadows under his brows darkened with his frown and the
chin beneath its stubble hardened in deep lines.

“I sometimes think that Thoreau had the right idea of life,” she said
slowly. “There are infinite degrees of gluttony--infinite degrees of
drunkenness. I felt shame for you just now--for myself--for the blood
on your hands. I can’t explain it. It seemed different from everything
else that you have done here in the woods, for the forest is clean,
sweet-smelling. I did not like to feel ashamed for you. You see,” she
smiled, “I’ve been rating you very highly.”

“No,” he groaned, his head in his hands. “Don’t! You mustn’t do that!”

At the somber note she turned and looked at him keenly. She could not
see his face, but the fingers that hid it were trembling.

“You’re ill!” she gasped. “Your body is shaking.”

He sat up with an effort and his face was the color of ashes.

“No, it’s nothing. Just a chill, I think. I’ll be all right in a
minute.”

But she put her arm around him and made him sit on the log nearest to
the fire.

“This won’t do at all,” she said anxiously. “You’ve got to take care of
yourself--to let me take care of you. Here! You must drink this.”

She had taken the flask from her pocket and before he knew it had
thrust it to his lips. He hesitated a moment, his eyes staring into
space and then without question, drank deep, his eyes closed.

And as the leaping fires went sparkling through his body, he set the
vessel down, screwed on the lid and put it on the log beside him. Two
dark spots appeared beneath the tan and mounted slowly to his temples,
two red spots like the flush of shame. An involuntary shudder or two
and the trembling ceased. Then he sat up and looked at her.

“A mustard foot-bath and some quinine, please,” he asked with a queer
laugh.

But she refused to smile. “You slept in your soaking clothes last
night,” severely.

He shrugged his shoulders and laughed again.

“That’s nothing. I’ve done that often. Besides, what else could I do?
If you had wakened me----”

“That is unkind.”

She was on the verge of tears. So he got to his feet quickly and
shaking himself like a shaggy dog, faced her almost jauntily.

“I’m right as a trivet,” he announced. “And I’m going to call you
Hebe--the cup-bearer to the gods--or Euphrosyne. Which do you like the
best?”

“I don’t like either,” she said with a pucker at her brow. And then
with the demureness which so became her. “My name is--is Jane.”

“Jane!” he exclaimed. “Jane! of course. Do you know I’ve been
wondering, ever since we’ve been here what name suited you best,
Phyllis, Millicent, Elizabeth, and a dozen others I’ve tried them all;
but I’m sure now that Jane suits you best of all. Jane!” he chuckled
gleefully. “Yes, it does--why, it’s _you_. How could I ever have
thought of anything else?”

Her lips pouted reluctantly and finally broke into laughter, which
showed her even white teeth and discovered new dimples.

“Do you really like it?”

“How could I help it? It’s _you_, I tell you--so sound, sane,
determined and a little prim, too.”

“I’m _not_ prim.”

“Yes,” he decided, “you’re prim--when you think that you ought to be.”

“Oh.”

He seated himself beside her, looking at her quizzically as though she
was a person he had never seen before--as though the half-identity she
provided had invested her with new and unexpected attributes.

“It was nice of you to tell me. My name is Phil,” he said.

“Is it?” she asked almost mechanically.

“Yes, don’t you like it?”

Her glance moved quickly from one object to another--the shelter, the
balsam bed, and the crutch which leaned against the door flap.

“Don’t you like it?” he repeated eagerly.

“No,” quietly. “It isn’t like you at all.”

Probed for a reason, she would give none, except the woman’s reason
which was no reason at all. Only when he ceased probing did she give
it, and then voluntarily.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to change it then,” he laughed.

“Yes, change it, please. The only Phils I’ve ever known were men of a
different stripe--men without purposes, without ambitions.” And then,
after a pause, “I believe you to be different.”

“No! I have no purposes--no ambitions,” he said glowering again at the
fire.

“That is not true.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you have ideals--of purity, of virtue, of courage.”

“No,” he mumbled, “I have no ideals. Life is a joke--without a point.
If it has any, I haven’t discovered it yet.”

Her eyes sought his face in a vague disquiet, but he would not meet her
look. The flush on his cheek had deepened, his gaze roved dully from
one object to another and his fingers moved aimlessly upon his knees.
She had proved him for three days, she thought, with the test of acid
and the fire, but she did not know him at this moment. The thing that
she had discovered and recognized as the clean white light of his inner
genius had been suddenly smothered. She could not understand. His words
were less disturbing than his manner, and his voice sounded gruff and
unfamiliar to her ears.

She rose quietly and moved away, and he did not follow her. He did not
even turn his head and for all she knew was not aware that she had
gone. This was unlike him, for there had never been a moment since they
had met when she could have questioned his chivalry, his courtesy or
good manners. Her mind was troubled vaguely, like the surface of a lake
which trembles at the distant storm.

A walk through the forest soothed her. The brook--her brook and
his--sang as musically as before, the long drawn aisles had not
changed, and the note of praise still swelled among the fretted vaults
above. The birds made light of their troubles, too, and the leaves
were whispering joyously the last gossip of the wood. What they said
she could not guess, but she knew by the warm flush that had risen to
her cheeks that it must be personal.

When she returned to camp her arms were full of asters and cardinal
flowers. He greeted her gravely, with an almost too elaborate
politeness.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” he begged her. “I don’t think I’m quite
myself to-day.”

“Are you feeling better?” she questioned.

“Yes, I’m quite--quite comfortable. I was afraid I had offended you.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t understand you for a moment. That was all.” She
lifted the flowers so that he might see them better. “I’ve brought
these for our lunch-table.”

But he did not look at them. His eyes, still glowing unfamiliarly,
sought only hers.

“Will you forgive me?”

“Yes, of course,” lightly.

“I want--I want your friendship. I can’t tell you how much. I didn’t
say anything that offended you, did I? I felt pretty seedy. Everything
seemed to be slipping away from me.”

“Not now?”

“Oh, no. I’m all right.”

He took the flowers from her arms and laid them at the foot of a tree.
Then coming forward he thrust out both his hands suddenly and took her
by the elbows.

“Jane!” he cried, “Jane! Look up into my eyes! I want you to see what
you’ve written there. Why haven’t you ever seen it? Why wouldn’t you
look and read? It’s madness, perhaps; but if it’s madness, then madness
is sweet--and all the world is mad with me. There isn’t any world.
There’s nothing but you and me--and Arcadia.”

She had turned her gaze to the ground and would not look at him but she
struggled faintly in his embrace. The color was gone from her cheeks
now and beneath the long lashes that swept her cheek--one great tear
trembled and fell.

“No, no--you mustn’t,” she whispered, stifling. “It can’t--it mustn’t
be. I don’t----”

But he had seized her more closely in his arms and shackled her lips
with his kisses.

“I’m mad--I know--but I want you, Jane. I love you--I love you--I want
the woods to hear----”

She wrenched one arm free and pushed away, her eyes wide, for the
horror of him had dawned slowly.

“Oh!” she gasped. “_You!_”

As he seized her again, she drew back, mad with fear, shrunken within
herself, like a snake in a thicket coiling itself to thrust and then
struck viciously.

He felt the impact of a blow full in the face and staggered back
releasing her. And her accents, sharp, cruel, vicious, clove the
silence like sword-cuts.

“You cad! You brute! You utter brute!”

He came forward like a blind man, mumbling incoherently, but she
avoided him easily, and fled.

“Jane!” he called hoarsely. “Come back to me, Jane. Come back to me!
Oh, God!”

He stumbled and fell; then rose again, putting his hands to his face
and running heavily toward the spot where she had vanished into the
bushes--the very spot where three days ago she had appeared to him.
He caught a glimpse of her ahead of him and blundered on, calling for
forgiveness. There was no reply but the echo of his own voice, nor
any glimpse of her. After that he remembered little, except that he
went on and on, tripping, falling, tearing his face and clothes in the
briars, getting to his feet and going on again, mad with the terror of
losing her--an instinct only, an animal in search of its wounded mate.

He did not know how long he strove or how far, but there came a time
when he fell headlong among some boulders and could rise no more.

       *       *       *       *       *

That morning two Indian guides in search of a woman who had been lost,
met another Indian at the headwaters of a stream, and together they
followed a fresh trail--the trail of a big man wearing hob-nailed boots
and carrying a burden. In the afternoon they found an empty shack
beside which a fire was burning. Two creels hung side by side near the
fire and upon the limb of a tree was the carcass of a deer. There were
many trails into the woods--some made by the feet of a woman, some by
the feet of a man.

The three guides sat at the fire for awhile and smoked, waiting.

Then two of them got up and after examining the smaller foot-marks
silently disappeared. When they had gone the third guide, a puzzled
look on his face, picked up an object which had fallen under a log and
examined it with minute interest. Then with a single guttural sound
from his throat, put the object in his pocket and bending well forward,
his eyes upon the ground, glided noiselessly through the underbrush
after them.




VII

ALLEGRO


A storm of wind and rain had fallen out of the Northwest, and in a
night had blown seaward the lingering tokens of Autumn. The air was
chill, the sunshine pale as calcium light, and distant buildings came
into focus, cleanly cut against the sparkling sky at the northern
end of the Avenue; jets of steam appeared overhead and vanished at
once into space; flags quivered tensely at their poles; fast flying
squadrons of clouds whirled on to their distant rendezvous, their
shadows leaping skyward along the sunlit walls. In a stride Winter had
come. The city had taken a new _tempo_. The _adagio_ of Indian Summer
had come to a pause in the night; and with the morning, the baton of
winter quickened its beat as the orchestra of city sounds swung into
the _presto_ movement. Upon the Avenue shop-windows bloomed suddenly
with finery; limousines and broughams, new or refurbished, with a
glistening of polished nickel and brass, drew up along the curbs to
discharge their occupants who descended, briskly intent on the business
of the minute, in search of properties and backgrounds for the winter
drama.

In the Fifth Avenue window of the Cosmos Club, some of the walking
gentlemen gathered in the afternoon and were already rehearsing the
familiar choruses. All summer they had played the fashionable circuit
of house-parties at Narragansett, Newport and other brief stands, and
all recounted the tales of the road, glad at last to be back in their
own corners, using the old lines, the old gestures, the old cues with
which they had long been familiar.

If its summer pilgrimage had worked any hardship, the chorus at the
windows of the Cosmos Club gave no sign of it. It was a well-fed
chorus, well-groomed, well-tailored and prosperous. Few members of it
had ever played a “lead” or wished to; for the tribulations of star-dom
were great and the rewards uncertain, so they played their parts
comfortably far up-stage against the colorful background.

Colonel Broadhurst took up the glass which Percy Endicott had ordered
and regarded it ponderously.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” he asked sententiously of no one in particular,
“pretty, innocent, winking bubbles! Little hopes rising and bursting.”

“Hope deferred maketh the heart sick,” put in the thirsty Percy
promptly. “Luck, Colonel!” and drank.

With a long sigh the Colonel lifted his glass. “Why do we do it?” he
asked again. “There’s nothing--positively nothing in it.”

“You never said a truer thing,” laughed Ogden Spencer, for the Colonel
had set his empty glass upon the table.

“Oh, for the days of sunburnt mirth--of youth and the joyful
Hippocrene!” the Colonel sighed again.

“Write--note--Chairman--House Committee,” said Coleman Van Duyn,
arousing from slumber, thickly, “mighty poor stuff here lately.”

“Go back to sleep, Coley,” laughed Spencer. “It’s not your cue.”

Van Duyn lurched heavily forward for his glass, and drank silently.
“Hippocrene?” he asked. “What’s Hippocrene?”

“Nectar, my boy,” said the Colonel pityingly, “the water of the gods.”

“Water!” and with a groan, “Oh, the Devil!”

He joined good naturedly in the laugh which followed and settled back
in his leather chair.

“Oh, you laugh, you fellows. It’s no joke. Drank nothing but water for
two months this summer. Doctors orders. Drove the water wagon, _I_
did--two long months. Think of it!” The retrospect was so unpleasant
that Mr. Van Duyn leaned forward immediately and laid his finger on the
bell.

“Climb off, Coley?” asked Spencer.

“No, jumped,” he grinned. “Horse ran away.”

“You’re looking fit.”

“I am. Got a new doctor--sensible chap, young, ambitious, all that sort
of thing. Believes in alcohol. Some people need it, you know. Can’t
be too careful in choice of doctor. Wants me to drink Lithia water,
though. What’s this Hippo--hippo----”

“Chondriac!” put in Percy.

“Hippocrene,” said Broadhurst severely.

“Sounds like a parlor car--or--er--a skin food. Any good, Colonel?”

“No,” said Colonel Broadhurst with another sigh, “It wouldn’t suit your
case, Coley.”

A servant entered silently, took the orders and removed the empty
glasses.

“Where were you, Coley?” asked Percy.

“Woods--Canada.”

“Fishing?”

“Yep--some.”

“See anything of Phil Gallatin?”

“No. I was with a big outfit--ten guides, call ’em servants, if you
like. Air mattresses, cold storage plant, _chef_, bottled asparagus
tips, Charlotte Russe--fine camp that!”

“Whose?”

“Henry K. Loring. You know--coal.”

“Oh--I see. There’s a girl, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

Van Duyn reached for his glass and lapsed into surly silence.

But Percy Endicott was always voluble in the afternoon.

“You didn’t hear about Phil?”

“No--not another----”

“Oh, no, he hasn’t touched a drop for weeks. Got lost up there. I heard
the story at Tuxedo from young Benson who just come down. He had it
from a guide. It seems that Phil got twisted somehow in the heart of
the Kawagama country and couldn’t find his way back to camp. He’s not
much of a woodsman--hadn’t ever been up there before, and the guide
couldn’t pick up his trail----”

“Didn’t he lose his nerve?”

“Not he. He couldn’t, you see. There was a girl with him.”

“A girl! The plot thickens. Go on.”

“They met in the woods. She was lost, too, so Phil built a lean-to and
they lived there together. Lucky dog! Idyllic--what?”

“Well, rather! Arcadia to the minute. But how did they get on?” asked
the Colonel.

“Famously----”

“But they couldn’t live on love.”

“Oh, they fished and ate berries, and Gallatin shot a deer.”

“Lucky, lucky dog!”

“They’d be there now, if the guides hadn’t found them.”

“His guides?”

“Yes, and hers.”

“Hers! She wasn’t a native then?”

“Not on your life. A New Yorker--and a clinker. That’s the mystery. Her
guide came from the eastward but her camp must have been--why, what’s
the matter, Coley?”

Mr. Van Duyn had put his glass upon the table and had risen heavily
from his easy chair, his pale blue eyes unpleasantly prominent. He
pulled at his collar-band and gasped.

“Heat--damn heat!” and walked away muttering.

It was just in the doorway that he met Phil Gallatin, who, with a
smile, was extending the hand of fellowship. He glowered at the
newcomer, touched the extended fingers flabbily and departed, while
Gallatin watched him go, not knowing whether to be angry or only
amused. But he shrugged a shoulder and joined the group near the window.

The greetings were cordial and the Colonel motioned to the servant to
take Gallatin’s order.

“No, thanks, Colonel,” said Gallatin, his lips slightly compressed.

“Really! Glad to hear it, my boy. It’s a silly business.” And then to
the waiting-man: “Make mine a Swissesse this time. It’s ruination,
sir, this drinking when you don’t want it--just because some silly ass
punches the bell.”

“But suppose you _do_ want it,” laughed Spencer.

“Then all the more reason to refuse.”

Gallatin sank into the chair that Van Duyn had vacated. These were his
accustomed haunts, these were his associates, but he now felt ill at
ease and out of place in their company. He came here in the afternoons
sometimes, but the club only made his difficulties greater. He listened
silently to the gossip of the widening group of men, of somebody’s
_coup_ down town, of Larry Kane’s trip to the Rockies, of the opening
of the hunting season on Long Island, the prospects of a gay winter and
the thousand and one happenings that made up the life of the leisurely
group of men about him. The servant brought the tray and laid the
glasses.

“Won’t change your mind, Phil?” asked Colonel Broadhurst again.

Gallatin straightened. “No, thanks,” he repeated.

“That’s right,” laughed the Colonel jovially. “The true secret of
drinking is to drink when you don’t want it--and refuse when you do.”

“Gad! Crosby, for a man who never refuses--” began Kane.

“It only shows what a martyr I am to the usages of society,” concluded
the Colonel with a chuckle.

“How’s the crop of buds this year?” queried Larry Kane.

“Ask ‘Bibby’ Worthington,” suggested Percy Endicott. “He’s got ’em all
down, looks, condition, action, pedigree----”

“Bigger than usual,” said the gentleman appealed to, “queens, too, some
of ’em.”

“And have you picked out the lucky one already?” laughed Spencer.

“Bibby” Worthington, as everybody knew, had been “coming out” for ten
years, with each season’s crop of debutantes, and each season had
offered his hand and heart to the newest of them.

But the question touched his dignity in more than one tender spot, and
he refused to reply.

“They’re all queens,” sighed the Colonel, raising his glass. “I love
’em all, God bless ’em, their rosy faces, their round limpid eyes----”

“And the smell of bread and jam from the nursery,” put in Spencer, the
materialist, dryly. “Some newcomers, aren’t there, Billy?”

“Oh, yes, a few Westerners.”

“Oh, well, we need the money, you know.”

The crowd broke up into groups of two and three, each with its own
interests. Gallatin rose and joined Kane and Endicott at the window,
where the three sat for awhile watching the endless procession of
vehicles and pedestrians moving up and down the Avenue.

“Good sport in Canada, I hear, Phil,” said Percy in a pause of
conversation.

Gallatin glanced quickly at his companion.

“Fishing--yes,” he said quietly, unable to control the flush that had
risen unbidden to his temples. “No shooting.”

“That’s funny,” went on the blissful Endicott with a laugh. “I heard
you got a deer, Phil.”

“Oh, yes, one----”

“A two-legged one--with skirts.”

Gallatin started--his face pale.

“Who told you that?” he asked, his jaw setting.

“Oh, don’t get sore, Phil. Somebody’s brought the story down from
Montreal--about your being lost in the woods--and--and all that,” he
finished lamely. “Sorry I butted in.”

“So am I,” said Gallatin, stiffly.

Percy’s face crimsoned, and he stammered out an apology. He knew he
had made a mistake. Gossip that he was, he did not make it a habit to
intrude upon other men’s personal affairs, especially men like Gallatin
who were intolerant of meddlers; but the story was now common property
and to that extent at least he was justified.

“Don’t be unpleasant, Phil, there’s a good chap. I only thought----”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter in the least,” said Gallatin, rising, suddenly
aware of the fact that the whole incident would only draw his adventure
into further notoriety. “Somebody’s made a good story of it,” he
laughed. “I did meet a--a girl in the woods and she stayed at my camp
until her guides found her, that’s all. I don’t even know who she was,”
he finished truthfully.

Percy Endicott wriggled away, glad to be let off so easily; and after a
word with Kane, Gallatin went quietly out.

He reached the street and turning the corner walked northward blindly,
in dull resentment against Percy Endicott, and the world that he
typified. Their story of his adventure, it appeared, was common
property, and was being handed with God knows what hyperbole from one
chattering group to another. It didn’t matter about himself, of course.
He realized grimly that this was not the first time his name had
played shuttlecock to the fashionable battledore. It was of her he was
thinking--of Jane. Thank God, they hadn’t found a name to couple with
his. What they were telling was doubtless bad enough without that, and
the mere fact that his secret was known had already taken away some of
the idyllic quality with which he had invested it. He knew what fellows
like Ogden Spencer and Larry Kane were saying. Had he not himself
in times past assisted at the post mortems of dead reputations, and
wielded his scalpel with as lively a skill as the rest of them?

Two months had passed since that day in the woods when he had lost
her, but there wasn’t a day of that time when he had not hoped that
some miracle would bring them together again. In Canada he had
made inquiries at the camps he had passed, and poor Joe Keegón,
who had spent a day with her guides, had come in for his share of
recrimination. The party had come from the eastward, and had made
a permanent camp; there were many people and many guides, but no
names had passed. Joe Keegón was not in the habit of asking needless
questions.

One thing alone that had belonged to her remained to Gallatin--a small
gold flask which bore, upon its surface in delicate script, the letters
J.L. On the day that they had broken camp Joe Keegón had silently
handed it to him, his face more masklike than ever. Gallatin had thrust
it into his coat-pocket with an air of indifference he was far from
feeling, and had brought it southward to New York, where it now stood
upon the desk in the room of his boyhood, so that he could see it
each day, the token of a great happiness--the symbol of an ineffable
disgrace.

It seemed now that Gallatin had not needed that reminder, for since
he had been back in the city he had been working hard. It surprised
him what few avenues of escape were open to him, for when he went
abroad and did the things he had always done, there at his elbow was
the Bowl. But his resolution was still unshaken, and difficult as he
found the task, he went the round of his clubs at the usual hours and
joined perfunctorily in the conversation. Always companionable, his
fellows now found him reticent, more reserved and less prone to make
engagements. Bridge he had foresworn and the card room at the Cosmos
saw him no more. He stopped in at the club on the way home as he had
done to-day, sometimes leaving his associates with an abruptness which
caused comment.

But already he was finding the trial he had set for himself less
difficult; and as the habit of resistance grew on him, he realized that
little by little he was drifting away from the associations which had
always meant so much to him. He had not given up the hope of finding
Jane. From a chance phrase, which he had treasured, he knew that New
York was familiar to her and that some day he would see her. He was as
sure of that as though Jane herself had promised it to him. She owed
him nothing, of course, for in the hour of his madness he had thrown
away the small claims he had upon her gratitude, and the only memory
she could have of him was that which had been expressed in the look of
fear and loathing he had last seen in her eyes. To her, of course, time
and distance had only magnified that horror and he knew that when he
met her, there was little to expect from her generosity, little that he
would even dare ask of it except that she would listen while he told
her of the enemy in his house and of the battle that was still raging
in his heart. He wanted her to know about that. It was his right to
tell her, not so much to clear himself of blame, as to justify her for
the liberality of her confidence before the tide of battle had turned
against him--against them both.

Time and distance had played strange tricks with Jane’s image and at
times it seemed very difficult for Gallatin to reconstruct the picture
which he had destroyed. Sometimes she appeared a Dryad, as when he had
first seen her, running frightened through the wood, sometimes the
forlorn child with the injured ankle, sometimes the cliff-woman; but
most often he pictured her as when he had seen her last, running in
terror and dismay from the sight of him. And the other Jane, the Jane
that he knew best, was hidden behind the eyes of terror. The memory
was so vague that he sometimes wondered whether he would even know her
if he met her dressed in the mode of the city. Somehow he could not
associate her with the thought of fashionable clothes. She had worn no
hat nor had she needed one. She belonged to the deep woods, where dress
means only warmth and art means only artificiality. He always thought
of her hatless, in her tattered shirtwaist and skirt, and upon Fifth
Avenue was as much at a loss as to the kind of figure he must look for
as though he were in the land of the great Cham.

Yes, he would know her, her slender figure, her straight carriage, the
poise of her head, her brown hair, her deep blue eyes. No fripperies
could conceal them. These were Jane. He would know them anywhere.




VIII

CHICOT, THE JESTER


Philip Gallatin had been mistaken. He did not know Jane when he saw
her. For, ten minutes later, he met her face to face in one of the
paths of the Park--looked her in the face and passed on unknowing. Like
the hound in the fable, he was so intent upon the reflection in the
pool that he let slip the substance. He was conscious that a girl had
passed him going in the opposite direction, a girl dressed in a dark
gray tailor-made suit, with a fur at her neck and a dark muff swinging
in one hand--a slender girl beside whom two French poodles frisked and
scampered, a handsome girl in fashionable attire, taking her dogs for
an airing. He walked on and sat down on a bench which overlooked the
lake. The sun had fallen below the Jersey hills and only the tops of
the tall buildings to the eastward held its dying glow. The lawns were
swathed in shadow and the branches of the trees, already half denuded
of their foliage, emerged in solemn silhouette like a pattern of Irish
lace against the purpling sky. A hush had suddenly fallen on the
distant traffic and Gallatin was alone.

Out of the half-light an inky figure came bounding up to him and
sniffed eagerly at his knees. It was a black poodle. Gallatin patted
the dog encouragingly, upon which it whined, put its paws on his lap
and looked up into his face.

“Too bad, old man,” he said. “Lost, aren’t you?” Then, as the memory
came to him, “By George, your mistress will be hunting. I wonder
if we can find her.” He turned the nickel collar in his fingers and
examined the name-plate. There in script was the name of the owner, and
an address. Gallatin thrust the crook of his stick through the dog’s
collar and rose. He must find Miss Jane Loring or return the animal to
its home. Jane Loring? Jane--?

He stopped, bent over the excited dog and looked at the name plate
again. Jane Loring--“J. L.” Why--it was Jane’s dog! He had passed
her a moment ago--here--in the park. More perturbed even than the
wriggling poodle, he rose and hurried along the path down which he had
come. There could be no mistake. Of course, it was Jane! There was no
possible doubt about it! That blessed poodle!

“Hi! there! Let up, will you?” he cried, as the dog twisted and
squirmed away from him. A whistle had sounded shrilly upon Gallatin’s
left and before he knew it the dog had escaped him and was dashing
hotfoot through the leaves toward the spot where a dark figure with
another dog on a leash was rapidly moving.

Gallatin followed briskly and came up a moment later, in the midst of
the excitement of reunion and reconciliation.

“Down, Chicot, down, I say,” the girl was commanding. “Aren’t you
ashamed of yourself to be giving so much trouble!” And as Gallatin
approached, breathlessly, hat in hand, “I’m ever so much obliged. I
ought to have had him in leash. He’s only a puppy and--” She stopped,
mouth open, eyes wide as she recognized him. He saw the look she gave
him and bowed his head.

“Jane!” he said, humbly. “Jane!”

The dogs were leaping around them both and Chicot was biting joyously
at his gloved hand, but Miss Loring had drawn back.

“You!” she said.

“Yes,” softly. “I--I’m so glad to see you.”

He held his hand before him as though to parry an expected blow.

“Don’t,” he muttered. “Give me a chance. There’s so much I’ve got to
say,--so much----”

“There’s nothing for you to say,” she said decisively. “If you’ll
excuse me--I--I must be going at once.”

She turned away quickly, but the dogs were putting her dignity in
jeopardy for the puppy still nosed Gallatin’s hand and showed a
determination to linger for his caress.

“You’ve _got_ to listen,” he murmured. “I’m not going to lose you
again----”

“Come, Chicot,” said the girl in a voice which was meant to be
peremptory, but which sounded curiously ineffective. Chicot would not
go until Gallatin caught him by the collar and followed.

“You see,” he laughed, “you’ve got to stand for me--or lose the puppy.”

But Miss Loring had turned abruptly and was moving rapidly toward the
distant Avenue. Gallatin put on his hat and walked at her side.

“I want you to know--how it all happened to me--up there in the woods,”
he muttered, through set lips. “It’s only justice to me--and to you.”

“Will you please leave me!” she said, in a stifled voice, her head
stiffly set, her eyes looking straight down the path before her.

“No,” he replied, more calmly. “I’m not going to leave you.”

“Oh, that you would dare!”

“Don’t, Jane!” he pleaded. “Can’t you see that I’ve got to go with you
whether----”

“My name is Loring,” she interrupted coldly, strongly accenting the
word.

“Won’t you listen to me?”

“I’m entirely at your mercy--unfortunately. I’ve always thought that a
girl was safe from intrusion here in the Park.”

“Don’t call it that. I’ll go in a moment, if you’ll only hear what I’ve
got to say.”

“You’d offer an apology for--for _that_!” She could not find a tone
that suited her scorn of him.

“No--not apology,” he said steadily. “One doesn’t apologize for the
things beyond one’s power to prevent. It’s the _miserere_, Jane--the
_de profundis_----”

“It comes too late,” she said, but she stole a glance at him in spite
of herself. His head bent slightly forward, he was gazing, under
lowered brows directly before him into the falling dusk. She remembered
that look. He had worn it when he had sat by their camp-fire the night
they had heard the voices.

“Yes, I know,” he went on slowly. “Too late for you to understand--too
late to help, and yet----”

“I beg that you will not go on,” she broke in quickly. “It can do no
good.”

“I must go on. I’ve got so much to say and such a little time to say it
in. Perhaps, I won’t see you again. At least I won’t see you unless you
wish it.”

“Then you’ll not see me again.”

He turned his head and examined her soberly.

“That, of course, is your privilege. Don’t be too hard, if you can help
it. Try and remember me, if you can, as I was before----”

“I shall not remember you at all, Mr. Gallatin.”

He started as she spoke his name. “You knew?”

“Yes, I knew. You--your name was familiar to me.”

“You mean that you had heard of me?” he asked wonderingly.

She knew that she had said too much, but she went on coldly.

“In New York one hears of Philip Gallatin. I knew--there in the woods.
I discovered your name by accident--upon your letters.”

She spoke shortly--hesitantly, as if every word was wrung from her by
an effort of will.

“I see,” he said, “and what you heard of me--was not good?”

“No,” she said. “It was not good. But I had known you two days then,
and I--I thought there must--have been some mistake--until--” she broke
off passionately. “Oh, what is the use of all this?” she gasped. “It’s
lowering to your pride and to mine. If I have said more than I meant to
say, it is because I want you to know why I never want to see you--to
hear of you again.”

He bowed his head beneath the storm. He deserved it, he knew, and there
was even a bitter pleasure in his retribution, for her indifference had
been hardest to bear.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “I will go in a moment. But first I
mean that you shall hear what I have to say.”

She remembered that tone of command. He had used it when he had lifted
her in his arms and carried her helpless to his camp-fire. The memory
of it shamed her, as his presence did now, and she walked on more
rapidly. Their path had been deserted, but they were now approaching
the Avenue where the hurrying pedestrians and vehicles proclaimed the
end of privacy. A deserted bench was before them.

“Please stop here a moment,” he pleaded. “I won’t keep you long.” And
when she would have gone on he laid a hand on her arm. “You must!” he
insisted passionately. “You’ve got to, Jane. You’ll do me a great wrong
if you don’t. I’ve kept the faith with you since then--since I was mad
there in the wilderness. You didn’t know or care, but I’ve kept the
faith--the good you’ve done--don’t undo it now.”

A passer-by was regarding them curiously and so she sat, for Gallatin’s
look compelled her. She did not understand what he meant, and in her
heart she knew she could not care whose faith he kept, or why, but she
recognized in his voice the note of a deep emotion, and was conscious
of its echo in her own spirit. Outwardly she was as disdainful as
before, and her silence, while it gave him consent, was anything but
encouraging. As he sat down beside her the puppy, “Chicot,” put his
head upon Gallatin’s knees and looked up into his eyes, so Gallatin put
his hand on the dog’s head and kept it there.

“I want you to know something about my people--about--the Gallatins----”

“I know enough, I think.”

“No--you’re mistaken. We are not all that you think we are. Let me go
on,” calmly. “The Gallatins have always stood for truth of speech and
honesty of purpose, and whatever their failings they have all been
called honorable men. Upon the Bench, at the Bar, in the Executive
chair, no word has ever been breathed against their professional
integrity or their civic pride. My great grandfather was a Justice of
the Supreme Court of the United States, my grandfather a Governor of
the State of New York, my father----”

Miss Loring made a gesture of protest.

“Wait,” he insisted. “My father was a great lawyer--one of the greatest
this City and State have ever known--and yet all of these men, mental
giants of their day and generation--had--had a weakness--the same
weakness--the weakness that I have. To one of them it meant the loss
of the only woman he had ever loved--his wife and his children;
to another the sacrifice of his highest political ambition; to my
father a lingering illness of which he subsequently died. That is my
pedigree--of great honor--and greater shame. History has dealt kindly
because their faults were those of their blood and race, for which
they themselves were not accountable. This may seem strange to you
because you have only learned to judge men by their performances. The
phenomenon of heredity is new to you. People are taught to see the
physical resemblances of the members of a family to its ancestors--but
of the spiritual resemblance one knows nothing--unless--” his voice
sunk until it was scarcely audible, “unless the spiritual resemblance
is so strong that even Time itself cannot efface it.”

The girl did not speak. Her head was bowed but her chin was still
set firmly, and her eyes, though they looked afar, were stern and
unyielding.

“When I went to the woods, I was--was recovering--from an illness.
I went up there at the doctor’s orders. I _had_ to go, and I--I got
better after a while. Then _you_ came, and I learned that there was
something else in life besides what I had found in it. I had never
known----”

“I can’t see why I should listen to this, Mr. Gallatin.”

“Because what happened after that, you were a part of.”

“_I?_”

“It was you who showed me how to be well. That’s all,” he finished
quietly. He rubbed the dog’s ears between his fingers and got some
comfort from Chicot’s sympathy, but went on in a constrained voice. “I
was hoping you might understand, that you might give me charity--if
only the charity you once gave to the carcass of a dead deer.”

There was a long silence during which he watched her downcast profile,
but when at last she lifted her head, he knew that she was still
unyielding.

“You ask too much, Mr. Gallatin,” she said constrainedly. “If you were
dead you might have my pity--even my tears, but living--living I can
only--only hold you in--abhorrence.”

She rose from the bench quickly and shortened in the leashes of her
dogs.

“You--you dislike me so much as that?” he asked dully.

“Dislike and--and fear you, Mr. Gallatin. If you’ll excuse me----”

She turned away and Gallatin started up. Dusk had fallen and they were
quite alone.

“I can’t let you go like this,” he whispered, standing in front of
her so that she could not pass him. “I can’t. You mean that you fear
me because of what--happened--My God! Haven’t I proved to you that it
was madness, the madness of the Gallatin blood, which strikes at the
happiness of those it loves the best? I love you, Jane. It’s true.
Night and day----”

“You’ve told me that before,” she broke in fearlessly. “Must you insult
me again. For shame! Let me pass, please.”

It was the assurance of utter contempt. Gallatin bowed his head and
drew aside. There was nothing left to do.

He stood there in the dusk, his head uncovered, and watched her slender
figure as it merged into the darkness. Only the dog, Chicot, stopped,
struggling, at his leash, but its mistress moved on hurriedly without
even turning her head and was lost in the crowd upon the street.
Gallatin lingered a moment longer immovable and then turned slowly
and walked into the depths of the Park, his face pale, his dark eyes
staring like those of a blind man.

Night had fallen swiftly, but not more swiftly than the shadows on
his spirit, among which he groped vaguely for the elements that had
supported him. He crept into the night like a stricken thing, his
feet instinctively guiding him away from the moving tide of his
fellow-beings--one of whom had just denied him charity--without which
his own reviving faith in himself was again in jeopardy. For two months
he had fought his battle silently with her image in his mind--the
image of a girl who had once given him faith and friendship, whose
fingers had soothed him in fever, and whose eyes had been dark with
compassion--the girl who had taught him the uses of responsibility and
the glorification of the labor of his hands. That silent battle had
magnified the image, vested it with sovereign rights, given it the
gentle strength by which he had conjured, and he had fought joyfully,
with a new belief in his own destiny, a real delight in conquest. His
heart glowed with a dull wrath. Was it nothing that he had come to her
clean-handed again? The image that he had conjured was fading in the
sullen glow in the West out of which she had come to him. Was this
Jane? The Jane he knew had sorrowed with the falling of a bird, mourned
the killing of a squirrel and wept over the glazed eyes of a dead deer.
Was this Jane? This disdainful woman with the modish hat and cold blue
eye, this scornful daughter of convention who sneered at sin and
mocked at the tokens of repentance?

The image was gone from his shrine, and in its place a Nemesis sat
enthroned--a Nemesis in dark gray who looked at him with the eyes of
contempt and who called herself Miss Loring. He was resentful of her
name as at an intrusion. It typified the pedantry of the conventional
and commonplace.

The arc lamps died and flared, their shadows leaping like gnomes in and
out of the obscurity. High in the air, lights punctured the darkness
where the hotels loomed. Beside him on the drive gay turnouts hurried.
The roar of the city came nearer. Arcadia was not even a memory.

The Pride of the Gallatins was a sorry thing that night. This Gallatin
had bared it frankly, torn away its rugged coverings, that a woman
might see and know him for what he was--the best and the worst of him.
Even now he did not regret it; for bitter as the retribution had been,
he knew that he had owed her that candor, for it was a part of the
lesson he had learned with Jane--the other Jane--among the woods. This
Jane remembered not; for she had struck and had not spared him, and
each stinging phrase still pierced and quivered in the wound that it
had made.

Out of the blackness of his thoughts reason came slowly. It was her
right, of course, to deny him the privileges of her regard--the
rights of fellowship--this he had deserved and had expected, but the
carelessness of her contempt had been hard to bear. Mockery he had
known in women, and intolerance, but no one of his blood had ever
brooked contempt. His cheeks burned with the sudden flush of anger and
his hand upon his stick grew rigid. A man might pay for such a thing as
that--but a girl!

His muscles relaxed and he laughed outright. A snip of a girl that
he’d kissed in the woods, who now came out dressed in broadcloth and
sanctimony! How should it matter what she thought of him? Absurd little
Puritan! Girls had been kissed before and had lived to be merry over
it. He was a fool to have built this enchanted fabric into his brain,
this castle of Micomicon which swayed and toppled about his ears. Miss
Loring, forsooth!

He took out his cigarette case in leisurely fashion and struck a match,
and its reflection sparkled gayly in his eyes. He inhaled deeply and
bent his steps toward the nearest lights beyond the trees.




IX

THE LORINGS


The house of Henry K. Loring, Captain of Industry and patron saint of
one or more great businesses, was situated on that part of Central Park
East which Colonel Van Duyn called Mammon’s Mile. The land upon which
it was built was more valuable even than the sands of Pactolus; and
the architect, keenly conscious of his obligations to the earth which
supported this last monument to his genius, had let no opportunity
slip by which would make the building more expensive for its owner.
Column, frieze, capital and entablature, all bore the tokens of his
playful imagination, and the hipped roof which climbed high above
its neighbors, ended in a riot of finial and coping, as though the
architect nearing the end of his phantasy (and his commission) had
crowded into the few short moments which remained to him all the
ornament that had been forbidden him elsewhere. The edifice had reached
the distinction of notice by the conductors of the “rubber-neck” busses
on the Avenue and of the reproach of Percy Endicott, whose scurrilous
comment that “it contained all of the fifty-seven varieties” had now
become a by-word down town.

But the lofty hall and drawing-room of the house failed to fulfill
the dire prediction of its ornate exterior, for here the architect,
as though with a sudden awakening of the artistic conscience, had
developed a simple scheme in an accepted design which somewhat atoned
for his previous prodigality. A portrait of the master of the house,
by an eminent Englishman, hung in the hall, and in the drawing-room
were other paintings of wife and daughter, by Americans and Frenchmen,
almost, if not equally, eminent. The continent of Europe had been
explored in search of tapestries and ornaments for the house of this
new prince of finance, and evidences of rare discrimination were
apparent at every hand. And yet with all its splendor, the house lacked
an identity and an ego. It was too sophisticated. Each object of art,
beautiful in itself, spoke of a different taste--a taste which had
been bought and paid for. It was like a museum which one enters with
interest but without emotion. It was a house without a soul.

It was toward this splendid mausoleum that the daughter of the house
made her way after her meeting with Mr. Gallatin in the Park. After
one quick look over her shoulder in the direction from which she had
come, she walked up the driveway hurriedly and rang the bell, entering
the glass vestibule, from which, while she waited for the door to be
opened, she peered furtively forth. A man in livery took the leashes of
the poodles from her hand and closed the door behind her.

“Has Mother come in, Hastings?”

“Yes, Miss Loring. She has been asking for you.”

Miss Loring climbed the marble stairway that led to the second floor,
but before she reached the landing, a voice sounded in her ears, a thin
voice pitched in a high key of nervous tension.

“Jane! Where _have_ you been? Don’t you know that we’re going to the
theatre with the Dorsey-Martin’s to-night? Madame Thiebout has been
waiting for you for at least an hour. What has kept you so long?”

“I was walking, Mother,” said the girl. “I have a headache. I--I’m not
going to-night.”

Mrs. Loring’s hands flew up in horrified protest. “There!” she cried.
“I knew it. If it hadn’t been a headache, it would have been something
else. It’s absurd, child. Why, we _must_ go. You _know_ how important
it is for us to keep in with the Dorsey-Martins. It’s the first time
they’ve asked us to anything, and it means so much in every way.”

Miss Loring by this time had walked toward the door of her own room,
for her mother’s voice when raised, was easily heard in every part of
the big house.

“I’m not going out to-night, Mother,” she repeated quietly, shutting
the door behind them.

“Jane,” Mrs. Loring cried petulantly. “Mrs. Dorsey-Martin is counting
on you. She’s asked some people especially to meet you--the Perrines,
the Endicotts, and Mr. Van Duyn, and you know how much _he_ will be
disappointed. Lie down on the couch for a moment, and take something
for your nerves. You’ll feel better soon, that’s a dear girl.”

The unhappy lady put her arm around her daughter’s waist and led her
toward the divan.

“I knew you would, Jane dear. There. You’ve got so much good sense----”

Miss Loring sank listlessly on the couch, her gaze fixed on the
flowered hangings at her windows. Her body had yielded to her mother’s
insistence, but her thoughts were elsewhere. But as Mrs. Loring moved
toward the bell to call the maid, her daughter stopped her with a
gesture.

“It isn’t any use, Mother. I’m not going,” she said wearily.

The older woman stopped and looked at her daughter aghast.

“You really mean it, Jane! You ungrateful girl! I’ve always said
that you were eccentric, but you’re obstinate, too, and self-willed.
A headache!” scornfully. “Why, last year I went to the opera in Mrs.
Poultney’s box when I thought I should _die_ at any moment! I don’t
believe you have a headache. You’re lying to me--hiding inside yourself
the way you always do when I want your help and sympathy most. I don’t
understand you at all. You’re no daughter of mine. When I’m trying
so hard to give you your proper place in the world, to have you meet
the people who will do us the most good! It’s a shame, I tell you, to
treat me so. Why did I bring you up with so much care? See that your
associates out home should be what I thought proper for a girl with the
future that your father was making for you? Why did I take you abroad
and give you all the advantages of European training and culture? Have
you taught music and French and art? For _this_? To find that your
only pleasure is in books and walks in the Park--and in the occasional
visits of the friends of your youth whom you should long since have
outgrown? It’s an outrage to treat me so--an outrage!”

Unable longer to control the violence of her emotions, the poor woman
sank into a chair and burst into tears. Miss Loring rose slowly and put
her arms around her mother’s shoulders.

“Don’t, Mother!” she said softly. “You mustn’t cry about me. I’m not
really as bad as you think I am. I’m not worth bothering about, though.
But what does it matter--this time?”

“It--it’s always--this time,” she wept.

“No--I’ll go anywhere you like, but not to-night. I _do_ feel badly. I
_really_ do. I--I’m not quite up to seeing a lot of people. Don’t cry,
dear. You know it will make your eyes red.”

Mrs. Loring set up quickly and touched her eyes with her handkerchief.

“Yes, yes; I know it does. I don’t see how you can hurt me so. I
suppose my complexion is ruined and I’ll look like an old hag. It’s a
pity! Just after Thiebout had taken such pains with me, too.”

“Oh, no, Mother, you’re all right. You always did look younger than I
do--and besides you light up so, at night.”

Mrs. Loring rose and examined her face in a mirror. “Oh, well! I
suppose I’ll have to go without you. But I won’t forget it, Jane. It
does really seem as though the older I get the less my wishes are
considered. But I’ll do my duty as I see it, in spite of you. Do you
suppose I had your father build this house just for me to sit in and
look out of the windows at the passersby? Not I. Until we came to New
York I spent all of my life looking at the gay world out of windows.
I’m tired of playing second-fiddle.”

Jane Loring stood before her mother and touched her timidly on the arm.
The physical resemblance between them was strong, and it was easily
seen where the daughter got her beauty. Mrs. Loring had reached middle
life very prettily, and at a single impression it was difficult to tell
whether she was nearer thirty-three or fifty-three. Her skin was of
that satiny quality which wrinkles depress but do not sear. Her nose
was slightly aquiline like her daughter’s, but the years had thinned
her lips and sharpened her chin, the lines at her mouth were querulous
rather than severe, and when her face was placid, her forehead was
as smooth as that of her daughter. She was not a woman who had ever
suffered deeply, or who ever would, and the petty annoyances which add
small wrinkles to the faces of women of her years had left no marks
whatever. But since the family had been in New York Jane had noticed
new lines between her brows as though her eyes, like those of a person
traveling upon an unfamiliar road, were trying for a more concentrated
and narrow vision; and as she turned from the mirror toward the light,
it seemed to Jane that she had grown suddenly old.

“Mother, dear, you mustn’t let trifles disturb you so. It will age
you frightfully! You know how people are always saying that you look
younger than I do. I don’t want to worry you. I’ll do whatever you
like, go wherever you like, but not to-night----”

“What is the matter, Jane? Has anything happened?”

“Oh, no, I--I don’t feel very well. It’s nothing at all. I’ll be all
right to-morrow. But you must go without me. There’s to be supper
afterward, isn’t there?”

“Oh, yes.” And then despairingly: “You always have your own way, in the
end.”

She kissed the girl coldly on the brow and turned toward the door.

“You must hurry now,” said Jane. “Mr. Van Duyn will be coming soon, and
dinner is early. Good night, dear. I won’t be down to-night. I think
I’ll lie down for awhile.”

Mrs. Loring turned one more helpless look in Jane’s direction and then
went out of the room.

When the door had closed, Jane Loring turned the key in the lock, then
sank at full length on the couch, and seemed to be asleep; but her
head, though supported by her arms, was rigid and her eyes, wide open,
were staring at vacancy. In the hall outside she heard the fall of
footsteps, the whisper of servants and the commotion of her mother’s
descent to dinner. A hurdy-gurdy around the corner droned a popular
air, a distant trolley-bell clanged and an automobile, exhaust open,
dashed by the house. These sounds were all familiar here, and yet she
heard them all; for they helped to silence the echoes of a voice that
still persisted in her ears, a low sonorous voice, whose tones rose and
fell like the sighing of Kee-way-din in the pine-trees of the frozen
North. Her thoughts flew to that distant spot among the trees, and she
saw the shimmer of the leaves in the morning sunlight, heard the call
of the birds and the whispering of the stream. It was cold up there
now, so bleak and cold. By this time a white brush had painted out the
glowing canvas of summer and left no sign of what was beneath. And yet
somewhere hidden there, as in her heart, beneath that chill mantle was
the dust of a fire--the gray cinders, the ashes of a dead faith, and
Kee-way-din moaned above them.

A tiny clock upon the mantle chimed the hour. Miss Loring moved
stiffly, and sat suddenly upright. She got up at last and putting on a
loose robe, went to her dressing table, her chin high, her eye gleaming
coldly at the pale reflection there. The blood of the Gallatins! Did he
think the magic of his name could make her forget the brute in him, the
beast in him, that kissed and spoke of love while the thin blood of the
Gallatins seethed in its poison? What had the blood of the Gallatins to
do with her? Honor, virtue, truth? He had spoken of these. What right
had he to use them to one who had an indelible record of his infamy?
His kisses were hot on her mouth even now--kisses that desecrated, that
profaned the words he uttered. Those kisses! The memory of them stifled
her. She brushed her bare arm furiously across her lips as she had done
a hundred times before. Lying kisses, traitorous kisses, scourging
kisses, between which he had dared to speak of love! If he had not done
that, she might even have forgiven him the physical contact that had
defamed her womanhood. And yet to-night he had spoken those same words
again, repeated them with a show of warmth, that his depravity might
have some palliation and excuse. He could, it seemed, be as insolent as
he was brutal.

Determined to think of him no more, she rang for her maid and ordered
dinner. Then, book in hand, she went down stairs. Mr. Van Duyn, she was
relieved to think, had departed with Mrs. Loring, and she smiled almost
gaily at the thought that this evening at least was her own. As she
passed into the library, she saw that a bright light was burning in her
father’s study, and she peeped in at the door.

It was not a large room, the smallest one, in fact, upon the lower
floor, but unlike most of the other rooms, it had a distinct
personality. The furniture--chairs, desks, and bookcases--was massive,
almost too heavy to make for architectural accordance, and this defect
was made more conspicuous by the delicacy and minuteness of the
ornaments. There were two glass cases on a heavy table filled with the
most exquisite ivories, most of them Japanese, an Ormolu case with a
glass top enclosing snuff-boxes and miniatures. Three Tanagra figures
graced one bookcase and upon another were several microscopes of
different sizes. The pictures on the walls, each of them furnished with
a light-reflector, were small with elaborately carved gold frames--a
few of them landscapes, but most of them “genre” paintings, with many
small figures.

Before one discovered the owner of this room one would have decided
at once that he must be smallish, slender, with stooping shoulders,
gold-rimmed eye-glasses, a jeweled watch-fob and, perhaps, a squint;
and the massive appearance of the present occupant would have
occasioned more than a slight shock of surprise. When Jane looked
in, Henry K. Loring sat on the very edge of a wide arm chair, with a
magnifying glass in his hand carefully examining a small oil painting
which was propped up under a reading light on another chair in front
of him. People who knew him only in his business capacity might have
been surprised at his quiet and critical delight in this studious
occupation, for down town he was best known by a brisk and summary
manner, a belligerent presence and a strident voice which smacked of
the open air. His bull-like neck was set deep in his wide shoulders as
his keen eyes peered under their bushy eyebrows at the object in front
of him. He was so absorbed that he did not hear the light patter of his
daughter’s footsteps, and did not move until he heard the sound of her
voice.

“Well, Daddy!” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

His round head turned slowly as though on a pivot.

“Hello, Jane! Feeling better?” He raised his chin and winked one eye
expressively.

“I thought you were going--with Mother,” said Miss Loring.

“Lord, no! You know I--” and he laughed. “_I_ had a headache, too.”

The girl smiled guiltily, but she came over and sat upon the arm of the
chair, and laid her hand along her father’s shoulder.

“Another picture! Oh, Daddy, such extravagance! Aren’t you ashamed of
yourself? So _that’s_ why you stole away from the Dorsey-Martin’s----”

“It’s another Verbeckhoeven, Jane,” he chuckled delightedly. “A perfect
wonder! The best he ever did, I’m sure! Come, sit down here and look at
it.”

Jane sank to the floor in front of the painting and reached for the
enlarging glass. But he held it away from her.

“No, no,” he insisted. “Wait, first tell me how many things you can see
with the naked eye.”

“A horse, a cow, a man lying on the grass, trees, distant haystacks and
a windmill,” she said slowly.

“And is that all?” he laughed.

“No, a saddle on the ground, a rooster on the fence--yes--and some
sheep at the foot of the hill.”

“Nothing more?”

“No, I don’t think so--except the buckles on the harness and the birds
flying near the pigeon-cote.”

“Yes--yes--is that all?”

“Yes, I’m sure it is.”

“You’re blind as a bat, girl,” he roared delightedly. “Look through
this and see!” and he handed her the glass. “Buckles on the horses!
Examine it! Don’t you see the pack thread it’s sewed with? And the
saddle gall on the horse’s back? And the crack in the left fore-hoof?
Did you ever see anything more wonderful? Now look into the distance
and tell me what else.”

“Haymakers,” gasped Miss Loring. “Two women, a man and--and, yes, a
child. I couldn’t see them at all. There’s a rake and pitch fork,
too----”

“And beyond?”

“Dykes and the sails of ships--a town and a tower with a cupola!”

“Splendid! And that’s only half. I’ve been looking at it for an hour
and haven’t found everything yet. I’ll show them to you--see----”

And one by one he proudly revealed his latest discoveries. His passion
for the minute almost amounted to an obsession, and the appearance
of his large bulk poring over some delicate object of art was no
unfamiliar one to Jane, but she always humored him, because she knew
that, although he was proud of his great house, here was the real
interest that he found in it. His business enthralled him, but it
made him merciless, too, and in this harmless hobby his daughter had
discovered a humanizing influence which she welcomed and encouraged. It
gave them points of contact from which Mrs. Loring was far removed, and
Jane was always the first person in the household to share the delights
of his latest acquisitions. But to-night she was sure that her duty
demanded a mild reproof.

“It’s an astonishing picture, Daddy, but I’m sure we’ve both treated
Mother very badly. You know you promised her----”

“So did you----”

“But I--I felt very badly.”

“So did I,” he chuckled, “very badly.” He put his arm around his
daughter’s shoulders and drew her closer against his knees. “Oh, Jane,
what’s the use? Life’s too short to do a lot of things you don’t want
to do. Your mother likes to go around. Let her buzz, she likes it.”

“Perhaps she does,” Jane reproved him. “But then you and I have our
duty.”

“Don’t let that worry you, child. I do my duty--but I do it in a
different way. Your mother stalks her game in its native wild. I don’t.
I wait by the water hole until it comes to drink, and then I kill it.”

“But people here must have some assurance that new families are
acceptable----”

“Don’t worry about that, either. We’ll do, I guess. And when I want to
go anywhere, or want my family to go anywhere, I ask, that’s all. The
women don’t run New York society. They only think they do. If there’s
any house you want to go to or any people you want to come to see us,
you tell _me_ about it. There’s more than one way to skin a cat, but
my way is the quickest. I’m not going to have you hanging on the outer
fringe. You can be the jewel and the ornament of the year. Even Mrs.
Suydam will take you under her wing, if you want her to.”

“But I don’t want to be under any one’s wing. I might turn out to be
the ugly duckling.”

He pressed her fondly in his great arms. “You are--a duckling--it’s a
pity you’re so ugly.” He laughed at his joke and broke off and seized
the glass from her fingers.

“Jane,” he cried, “you didn’t find the woman inside the farmhouse! And
the jug on the bench beside----”

But Miss Loring’s thoughts were elsewhere.

“Daddy, I don’t want people to come to see me, unless I like them,” she
went on slowly, “and I don’t want to go to peoples’ houses just because
they’re fashionable houses. I want to choose my friends for myself.”

“You shall!” he muttered, laying down his glass with a sigh and putting
his arm around her again. And then with a lowered voice, “You haven’t
seen anybody you--you really like yet, daughter, have you?”

“No,” said Miss Loring, with a positiveness which startled him. “No
one--not a soul.”

“Not Coleman Van Duyn----”

“Daddy!” she cried. “Of course not!”

“And no one else?”

“No one else.”

He grunted comfortably. “I’m glad of that. I haven’t seen anybody good
enough for you yet. I’m glad it’s not Van Duyn--or young Sackett. I
thought, perhaps, you had,” he finished.

“Why?”

“You’ve been so quiet lately.”

“Have I?” she smiled into the fire. “I didn’t know it.”

“Don’t you let people worry you, and don’t take this society game too
seriously. It’s only a game, and a poor one at that. It’s only meant
for old fools who want to be young and young fools who want to be old.
Those people don’t play it just for the fun of the thing--to them it’s
a business, and they work at it harder than a lot of galley-slaves.
You’ve got to try it, of course, I believe in trying everything, but
don’t you let it get you twisted--the ball-room, with its lights, its
flowers and its pretty speeches. They’re all part of the machinery. The
fellow you’re going to marry won’t be there, Jane. He’s too busy.”

“Who do you mean?”

“Oh, nobody in particular,” he snorted. “But I don’t believe you’ll
ever marry a carpet-knight. You won’t if I can stop you, at any rate.”
He had taken out a cigar and snipped the end of it carefully with a
pocket-knife. “They’re a new kind of animal to me, these young fellows
about town,” he said between puffs. “Beside a man, they’re what the toy
pug is to the bulldog or the Pomeranian is to the ‘husky.’ Fine dogs
they are,” he sniffed, “bred to the boudoir and the drawing-room!”

“But some of them are very nice, Daddy,” said Jane. “You _know_ you
liked Dirwell De Lancey and William Worthington.”

“Oh, they’re the harmless kind, playful and amusing!” he sneered. “But
they’re only harmless because they haven’t sense enough to be anything
else. You’ll meet the other kind, Jane, the loafers and the drunkards.”

Miss Loring leaned quickly forward away from him, her elbows on her
knees, and looked into the fire.

“I suppose so,” she said quietly.

“It’s the work of the social system, Jane. Most of these old families
are playing a losing game, their blood is diluted and impoverished, but
they still cling to their ropes of sand. They marry their children to
_our_ children, but God knows that won’t help ’em. It isn’t money they
need. Money can’t make new gristle and cartilage. Money can’t buy new
fiber.”

The girl changed her position slightly. “I suppose it’s all true,
but it seems a pity that the sons should suffer for the sins of the
fathers.”

“It’s written so--unto the third and fourth generation, Jane.”

“But the sons--they have no chance--no chance at all?”

“Only what they can save out of the wreck. Take young Perrine or young
Gallatin, for instance. _There’s_ a case in point. His people have all
been rich and talented. They’ve helped to make history, but they’ve all
had the same taint. Year by year they’ve seen their fortunes diminish,
but couldn’t stem the tide against them. But now the last of the line
is content just to exist on the fag-end of what’s left him. He’s
clever, too, they say--went into the law, as his father did, but----”

“Oh, Daddy, it’s unjust--cruel!” Jane Loring broke in suddenly.

“What is?”

“Heredity----”

“It’s the law! I feel sorry for that young fellow. I like him, but I’d
rather see you dead at my feet than married to him.”

Miss Loring did not move, but the hands around her knee clasped each
other more tightly.

“I don’t know--I’ve never been introduced to Mr. Gallatin,” she said
quietly.




X

MR. VAN DUYN RIDES FORTH


Mr. Coleman Van Duyn lurched heavily up the wide steps that led to
the main corridor of the Potowomac apartments and took the elevator
upstairs. He asked for mail and sat down at the desk in his library
with a frowning brow and protruding jowl. Affairs down town had
not turned out to his liking this morning. For a month everything
seemed to have gone wrong. He was short on stocks that had struck the
trade-winds, and long on others that were hung in the doldrums; his
luck at Auction had deserted him; his latest doctor had made a change
in his regimen; a favorite horse had broken a leg; and last, but not
by any means the least, until this afternoon Fate had continued to
conspire to keep him apart from Miss Jane Loring.

They had met casually several times at people’s houses and once he
had talked with her at the Suydam’s, but the opportunities for which
he planned obstinately refused to present themselves. He had finally
succeeded in persuading her to ride with him to-day, and after writing
a note or two, he called his man and dressed with particular care. Mr.
Van Duyn’s mind was so constructed that he could never think of more
than one thing at a time; but of that one thing he always thought with
every dull fiber of his brain, and Miss Loring’s indifference to his
honorable intentions had preyed upon him to the detriment of other and,
perhaps, equally important interests.

Mr. Van Duyn was large of body and ponderous of thought, and his
decisions were only born after a prolonged and somewhat uncertain
period of gestation. It took him an hour to order his dinner, and at
least two hours to eat (and drink) it. And so when at the age of five
and thirty he had reached the conclusion that it was time for him to
marry, he had set about carrying his resolution into effect with the
same solemn deliberation which characterized every other act of his
life. He had been accustomed always to have things happen exactly as
he planned them, and was of the opinion, when he followed the Lorings
to Canada, that nothing lacked in the proposed alliance to make it
eminently desirable for both of the parties concerned. Matches he knew
were no longer made in Heaven and an opportunist like Henry K. Loring
could not long debate upon the excellence of the arrangement.

Miss Loring’s refusal of him up at camp, last summer, had shocked
him, and for awhile he had not been able to believe the evidence of
his ears, for Mrs. Loring had given him to understand that to her
at least he was a particularly desirable suitor. When he recovered
from his shock of amazement, his feeling was one of anger, and his
first impulse to leave the Loring camp at once. But after a night of
thought he changed his mind. He found in the morning that Miss Loring’s
refusal had had the curious effect of making her more desirable, more
desirable, indeed, than any young female person he had ever met. He
was in love with her, in fact, and all other reasons for wanting to
marry her now paled beside the important fact that she was essential
to his well being, his mental health and happiness. He did not even
think of her great wealth as he had at first done, of the fortune she
would bring which would aid materially in providing the sort of an
establishment a married Van Duyn must maintain. In his cumbrous way
he had decided that even had she been penniless, she would have been
necessary to him just the same.

He had stayed on at camp, accepting Mrs. Loring’s advice that it would
not be wise to take her refusal seriously. She was only a child and
could not know the meaning of the honor he intended to confer. But in
New York her indifference continued to prick his self-esteem, and for
several weeks he had been following her about, sending her flowers and
losing no chance to keep his memory green.

And so, he examined his shiny boots with a narrowing and critical eye,
donned a favorite pink silk shirt and tied on a white stock into which
he stuck a fox-head pin. He had put on more flesh in the last three
years than he needed, and his collar bands were getting too tight;
but as he looked in the mirror of his dressing-stand, he was willing
to admit that he was still the fine figure of a man--a Van Duyn every
inch of him. It was in the midst of this agreeable occupation that Mr.
Worthington entered, a corn-flower in his buttonhole and otherwise
arrayed for conquest. Van Duyn looked over his shoulder and nodded a
platonic greeting.

“Tea-ing it, Bibby?”

“Oh, yes. Might as well do that as sit somewhere. Just stopped in on my
way down.” Worthington’s apartment was above. And then, “Lord Coley,
you _are_ filling out! Riding?”

“No,” grinned the other, “going to pick strawberries on the Metropolitan
Tower. Don’t I look like it?”

Worthington smiled. Van Duyn’s playfulness always much resembled that
of a young St. Bernard puppy.

“I thought you’d given it up. Her name, please.”

Mr. Van Duyn refused to reply.

“It’s the Loring girl, isn’t it?” Worthington queried cheerfully. “I
thought so. You lucky devil!” He touched the tips of two fingers and
thumb to his lips, and with eyes heavenward laid them upon his heart.
“She’s an angel, a blue-eyed angel, fresh from the rosy aura of a
cherubim. Oh, Coley, what the devil can she see in you?”

“Don’t be an ass, Bibby,” Van Duyn grunted wrathfully.

“I’m not an ass. I’m in love, you amatory Behemoth, in love as I’ve
never been before--with an angel fresh from Elysium.”

“Meaning Miss Jane Loring?”

“Who else? There’s no one else,” dolefully. “There never has been any
one else--there never will be any one else. You’re in love with her,
too; aren’t you, Coley?”

“Well, of all the impudence!”

“Nonsense. I’m only living up to the traditions of our ancient
friendship. I’m giving you a fair warning. I intend to marry the lady
myself.”

The visitor had lit a cigarette and was calmly helping himself to
whisky. Van Duyn threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“You! Good joke. Haw! You’ve got as many lives as a cat, Bibby. Been
blowing out your brains every season for fifteen years.” He struggled
into his coat and squared himself before the mirror. “Wasting your
time,” he finished dryly.

“Meaning that _you_ are the chosen one? Oh, I say, Coley, don’t make me
laugh. You’ll spoil the set of my cravat. You know, I couldn’t care for
her if I thought her taste was as bad as that. Not engaged are you?”

“Oh, drop it,” said the other. “Remarks are personal. Miss Loring is
fine girl. Fellow gets her will be lucky.” He had poured himself a
drink, but paused in the act of taking it, and asked, “Haven’t seen
Gallatin lately, have you?”

“No--nobody has--since that night at the Club. He’d been sitting
tight--and God knows that’s no joke! Good Lord, but he did fall off
with a thud! Been on the wagon six months, too. He ought to let it
alone.”

“He can’t,” said Van Duyn grimly.

“Well, six months is a good while--for Phil--but he stuck it out like
a little man.” And then ruminatively, “I wonder what made him begin
again. He’d been refusing all the afternoon. Came in later with his jaw
set--white and somber--you know--and started right in. It’s a great
pity! I’d like to have a talk with Phil. I’m fond of that boy. But he’s
so touchy. Great Scott! I tried it once, and I’ll never forget the look
he gave me. Never again! I’d as leave try a curtain lecture on a Bengal
tiger.”

“What’s the use? We’ve got troubles of our own.”

“Not like his, Coley. With me it’s a diversion, with you it’s an
appetite, with Phil it’s a disease. That’s why he went to Canada this
summer. By the way, you were in the woods with the Lorings, of course
you heard about that girl that Phil met up there?”

“No,” growled the other.

“Seems to be a mystery. Percy Endicott says----”

Van Duyn set his glass on the table with a crash that broke it, then
rose with an oath.

“Think I’m going to listen to _that_ rubbish?” he muttered. “Who cares
what happened to Gallatin? _I_ don’t, for one. As for Percy, he’s a
lyin’, little gossipin’ Pharisee. I don’t believe there _was_ any
girl----”

“But Gallatin admits it.”

“D---- Gallatin!” he roared.

Worthington looked up in surprise, but rose and kicked his trousers
legs into their immaculate creases.

“Oh, if you feel that way about it--” He took up his silk hat and
brushed it with his coat sleeve. “I think I’ll be toddling along.”

“Oh, don’t get peevish, Bibby. You like Phil Gallatin. Well, I don’t.
Always too d---- starchy for me anyway.” He paused at the table in
the library while he filled his cigarette case from a silver box.
Then he examined Worthington’s face. “You didn’t hear the girl’s name
mentioned, did you?” he asked carelessly.

“Oh, no, even Gallatin didn’t know it.” Worthington had put on his hat
and was making for the door. “Of course it doesn’t matter anyway.”

Van Duyn followed, his man helping them into their overcoats.

“Can’t drop you anywhere, can I, Bibby? I’ve got the machine below.”

“No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

On the ride uptown Coleman Van Duyn glowered moodily out at the winter
sunlight. He had heard enough of this story they were telling about
Phil Gallatin and the mysterious girl in the woods. He alone knew that
the main facts were true, because he had had incontestible evidence
that the mysterious girl was Jane Loring. All the circumstances as
related exactly tallied with his own information received from the
two guides who had brought her into Loring’s camp. And in spite of
his knowledge of Jane’s character, the coarse embroidery that gossip
was adding to the tale had left a distinctly disagreeable impression.
Jane Loring had spent the better part of a week alone with Phil
Gallatin in the heart of the Canadian wilderness. Van Duyn did not
like Gallatin. They had known each other for years, and an appearance
of fellowship existed between them, but in all tastes save one they
had nothing in common. He and Gallatin had locked horns once before
on a trifling matter, and the fact that the girl Van Duyn intended to
marry had been thrown upon the mercies of a man of Gallatin’s stamp was
gall and wormwood to him. But when he thought of Jane he cursed the
gossips in his heart for a lot of meddlers and scandal-mongers. If he
knew anything of human nature--and like most heavy deliberate men, he
believed his judgment to be infallible, Jane was the blue-eyed angel
Mr. Worthington had so aptly described, “fresh from the rosy aura of
a cherubim.” But there were many things to be explained. One of the
guides that had found her had dropped a hint that it was no guide’s
camp that she had visited in the woods, as she had told them at camp.
And why, if she had been well cared for there, had she fled? What
relations existed between Jane Loring and Phil Gallatin that made it
necessary for her to hide the fact of his existence? What had Gallatin
done that she should wish to escape him? Van Duyn’s turgid blood
seethed darkly in his veins. Gallatin had acknowledged the main facts
of the story. Why hadn’t he told it all, as any other man would have
done without making all this mystery about it? Or why hadn’t he denied
it entirely instead of leaving a loophole for the gossip? Why hadn’t he
lied, as any other man would have done, like a gentleman? Only he, Van
Duyn, had an inkling of the facts, and yet his lips were sealed. He had
had to sit calmly and listen while the story was told in his presence
at the club, while his fingers were aching to throttle the man who was
repeating it. Phil Gallatin! D---- him!

It was, therefore, in no very pleasant frame of mind that Van Duyn got
down at Miss Loring’s door. The horses were already at the carriage
drive and Miss Loring came down at once. Mr. Van Duyn helped her into
the saddle, and in a few moments they were in the Park walking their
horses carefully until they reached the nearest bridle path, when they
swung into a canter. Miss Loring had noted the preoccupation of her
companion, and after one or two efforts at cheerful commonplace, had
subsided, only too glad to enjoy in silence the glory of the afternoon
sunlight. But presently when the horses were winded, she pulled her own
animal into a walk and Van Duyn quickly imitated her example.

“Oh, I’m so glad I came, Coley,” she said genuinely, with mounting
color and sparkling eyes.

“Are you?” he panted, Jane’s optimism at last defeating his megrims.
“Bully, isn’t it? Ever hunted?”

“Yes, one season at Pau.”

“Jolly set, hunting set. Jolliest in New York.”

“Yes, I know some of them--Mr. Kane, Mr. Spencer, Miss Jaffray, the
Rawsons and the Penningtons. _They_ wouldn’t do _this_, though; they
turn up their noses at Park riding. Aren’t you hunting this year?”

“No,” he grunted. “Life’s too short.” He might also have added that
he wasn’t up to the work, but he didn’t. Jane noticed the drop in his
voice and examined him curiously.

“You don’t seem very happy to-day, Coley.”

“Any reason you can think of why I should be?” he muttered.

“Thousands,” she laughed, purposely oblivious. “The joy of living----”

“Oh, rot, Jane!”

“Coley! You’re not polite!”

“Oh, you know what I mean well enough,” he insisted sulkily.

“Do I? Please explain.”

“Don’t you know, this is the first time I’ve been with you alone--since
the woods?” he stammered.

Jane laughed.

“I’m sorry I have such a bad effect on you. _You_ asked me to come, you
know.”

“Oh, don’t tease a chap so. What’s the use? Been tryin’ to see you for
weeks. You’ve been avoidin’ me, Jane. What I want to know is--why?”

“I don’t want to avoid you. If I did, I shouldn’t be with you to-day,
should I?”

There seemed to be no reply to that and Van Duyn’s frown only deepened.

“I thought we were goin’ to be friends,” he went on slowly. “We had
a quarrel up at camp, but I thought we’d straightened that out. You
forgave me, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes. I couldn’t very well do anything else. But you’ll have to
admit I’d never done anything to warrant----”

“I was a fool. Sorry for what I did, too. When you got back I told you
so. I’m a fool still, but I’ve got sense enough to be patient. Pretty
rough, though, the way you treat me. Thinkin’ about you most of the
time--all upset--don’t sleep the way I ought--things don’t taste right.
I’m in love with you, Jane----”

“I thought you had promised not to speak of that again,” she put in
with lowered voice.

“Oh, hang it! I’ve got to speak of it,” he growled. “When a fellow
wants to marry a girl, he can’t stay in the background and see other
fellows payin’ her attention--hear stories of----”

Jane looked up, her eyes questioning sharply and Coleman Van Duyn
stopped short. He had not meant to go so far.

“Stories about _me_?”

He wouldn’t reply, and only glowered at his horse’s ears.

“What story have you heard about me, Coley?” she asked quietly.

“Oh, nothing,” he mumbled. “It wasn’t about you,” he finished lamely.

“It’s something that concerns me then. You’ve made that clear. You must
tell me--at once,” she said decisively.

Van Duyn glanced at her and dropped his gaze, aware for the second time
that this girl’s spirit when it rose was too strong for him. And yet
there was an anxiety in her curiosity, too, which gave him a sense of
mastery.

“Oh, just gossip,” he said cautiously. “Everybody gets his share of
it, you know.” Then he laughed aloud, rather too noisily, so that she
wasn’t deceived.

“It’s something I have a right to know, of course. It must be
unpleasant or you wouldn’t have thought of it again. You must tell me,
Coley.”

“What difference does it make?”

“None. But I mean to hear it just the same.”

“Oh!” He saw that her face was set in resolute lines, so he looked
away, his lids narrowing, while he thought of a plan which might turn
his information to his own advantage.

“It isn’t about you at all,” he said slowly, sparring for time.

“Then why did you think of it?” She had him cornered now and he knew
it, so he fought back sullenly, looking anywhere but at her.

“You haven’t given me a fair show, Jane. Up in camp we got to be pretty
good pals until--until you found out I wanted to marry you. Even then
you said there wasn’t any reason why we shouldn’t be friends. I lost
my head that morning and made a fool of myself and you ran away and
got lost. When the guides brought you back you were different, utterly
changed. Something had happened. You wouldn’t have been so rotten to
me, just because--because of that. Besides you forgave me. Didn’t I
acknowledge it? And haven’t I done the square thing, let you alone,
watched you from a distance, almost as if I didn’t even know you? I
tell you, Jane----”

“What has this to do with----”

“Wait,” he said, his eyes now searching hers, his color deepening as
he gathered courage, while Jane Loring listened, conscious that her
companion’s intrusiveness and brutality were dragging her pride in
the dust. “You went off into the woods and stayed five days. You told
us when you got back to camp that you’d been found by an Indian guide
and that you hadn’t been able to find the trail--and all that sort of
thing. Everybody believed you. We were all too glad to get you back.
What I want to know is why you told that story? What was your reason
for keeping back----”

“It was true--” she stammered, but his keen eyes saw that her face was
blanching and her emotion infuriated him.

“All except that the Indian guide was Phil Gallatin,” he said brutally.

The hands that held the reins jerked involuntarily and her horse reared
and swerved away, but in a moment she had steadied him; and when Van
Duyn drew alongside of her, she was still very pale but quite composed.

“How do you know that?” she asked in a voice the tones of which she
still struggled to control.

He waited a long moment, the frown gathering more darkly. He had still
hoped, it seemed, that she might deny it.

“Oh, I know it, all right,” he muttered, glowering.

Her laughter rather surprised him. “Your keenness does you credit,”
she continued. “I met a stranger in the woods and stayed at his camp.
There’s nothing extraordinary in that----”

“No,” he interrupted quickly. “Not in that. The extraordinary thing is
that you should have----” he hesitated.

“Lied about it?” she suggested calmly. “Oh, I don’t think we need
discuss that. I’m not in the habit of talking over my personal affairs.”

Her indifference inflamed him further and his eyes gleamed maliciously.

“It’s a pity Gallatin hasn’t a similar code.”

Her eyes opened wide. “What--do--you--mean?” she asked haltingly.

“That Gallatin is telling of the adventure himself,” he said with a
bold laugh.

“He is telling--of--the--adventure--” she repeated, and then paused,
her horrified eyes peering straight ahead of her. “Oh, how odious of
him--how odious! There is nothing to tell--Coley--absolutely nothing--”
And then as a new thought even more horrible than those that had gone
before crossed her mind, “What are they saying? Has he--has he spoken
my name? Tell me. I can’t believe _that_ of him--not that!”

Van Duyn was not sure that the emotion which he felt was pity for
her or pity for himself, but he looked away, his face reddening
uncomfortably, and when he spoke his voice was lowered.

“I heard the story,” he said with crafty deliberateness, “at the Club.
I got up and left the room.”

“Was--was Mr. Gallatin there?”

“No--not there?” he muttered. “He came in as I left. You know it
wouldn’t have been possible for me to stay.”

“What are they saying, Coley?” she gasped, seeking in one breath to
plumb the whole depth of her humiliation. “You must tell me. Do you
mean that they’re saying--that--that Mr. Gallatin and I--were--?” she
couldn’t finish, and he made no effort to help her, for her troubled
face and every word that she uttered went further to confirm his
suspicions and increase his misery.

“Do _you_ believe that?” she whispered again. “Do you?” And then, as he
refused to turn his head or reply, “Oh, how dreadful of you!”

She put spurs to her horse and before he was well aware of it was
vanishing among the trees. His animal was unequal to the task he set
for it, for he lost sight of her, found her again in the distance and
thundered after, breathing heavily and perspiring at every pore, hating
himself for his suspicions, and filled with terror at the thought of
losing her. Never had he been so mad for the possession of her as now,
and floundered helplessly on like an untrained dog in pursuit of a
wounded bird. But he couldn’t catch up with her. And when, later, he
stopped at the Loring house, she refused to see him.




XI

THE CEDARCROFT SET


Miss Loring had no engagements for the evening, and excusing herself
to her family, spent it alone in her room, where for a long while she
sat or walked the floor, in dire distress, her faculties benumbed like
those of a person who has suffered a calamitous grief or a physical
violence. Sentence by sentence she slowly rehearsed the conversation
of which she had been the subject, seeking vainly for some phrase that
might lead her into the paths of comprehension and peace. The thought
of Coleman Van Duyn loomed large, indeed, but another figure loomed
larger. She was new to the world of men, of men of the world, such as
she had met since she had been in New York, but it had never occurred
to her to believe that there could be a person so base as Philip
Gallatin. He weakened her faith in herself and in all the world. The
dishonor he had offered her had been enough without this added insult
to the memory of it. Downtown they were using her name scurrilously in
the same breath with that of Phil Gallatin, speaking her name lightly
as they spoke of--of other women they couldn’t respect. Phil Gallatin’s
name and hers! It was the more bitter, because in her heart she now
knew that she had given him more of her thoughts than any man had ever
had before. Oh, what kind of a world was this into which she had come,
which was made up of men who held their own honor and the honor of the
women of their own kind so lightly? People received him, she knew.
She had even heard of his being at the Suydams on an evening when
she had been there. She had not seen him, and thanked God for that;
for since their meeting in the Park, some weeks ago, her conscience
had troubled her more than once, and her heart had had curious phases
of uncertainty. “What if what he had said about his own dependence on
her were true?” She had questioned herself, “What if,” as in a few
unrelated moments of moral irresponsibility she had madly speculated,
“what if he really loved her as he said he did--and that his mad
moment in the woods--_their_ mad moment, as she had even fearfully
acknowledged, was only the supreme expression of that reality?” He had
solemnly sworn that he had kept the faith--that since that afternoon
in the woods he had not broken it. She saw his dark eyes now and the
animal-like look of irresolution which had been in them when she had
turned away and left him.

Could this man they were talking of in the clubs who gibed at the
virtue of women to make a good story, be the same smiling fugitive of
the north woods, the man with the laugh of a boy, the tenderness of a
woman and the strength of moral fiber to battle for her as he had done
against the odds of the wilderness? It was unbelievable. And yet how
could Coleman Van Duyn have repeated the story if he had not heard it?
There was no reply for that. Weary at last, trying to reconcile the two
irreconcilable facts, she fell into a fit of nervous tears at the end
of which, relaxed and utterly exhausted, she sank to sleep.

Even then, though reason slept, her imagination had no rest, and she
dreamed, one vision predominant--that of a tall figure who carried
upon his back the carcass of a deer, his somber eyes peering over his
shoulder at a shadow which followed him in the underbrush. But when
she spoke to the figure it smiled and the shadow behind disappeared.
In her dream, she found this a curious phenomenon, and when the shadow
returned, as it presently did, she spoke again. The shadow vanished
and the smile appeared on the face of the man with the burden. Several
times she repeated this experiment and each time the same thing
happened. But in a moment the shadow formed into a definite shape,
the bulky shape of Coleman Van Duyn it seemed, and growing larger as
it came, closed in over them both. This time when she tried to speak,
her lips would utter no sound. She awoke suffocating, and sat up in
bed, gasping for breath. She looked about her and gave a long sigh of
relief, for day had broken and the cool dawn was filtering through the
warm flowered pattern on her window hangings, flooding the room with a
rosy light.

That shadow! It had been so tangible, so real that she had fought at
it with her bare hands when it had descended above Phil Gallatin’s
head! She lay awhile looking up at the painted ceiling, her eyes wide
open, fearing that she might sleep again and the dream return; and
then, without ringing for her maid, got out of bed abruptly, slipping
her small feet into fur-lined room-slippers and putting on a flowered
kimono. She was angry at herself for having dreams that could not be
explained.

What right had Phil Gallatin’s image to persist in her thoughts, even
when she slept? And what did the vision mean? The shadow must be the
shadow that had ever followed the Gallatins, and yet it looked like
Coley Van Duyn! She laughed outright, and the sound of her voice echoed
strangely in her ears. She had thought the shadow ominous, but she
could laugh now because it looked like Coley!

She drew her bath and peered out of the window at the sunlight.
Familiar sounds and sights reassured her, and with her plunge came
rehabilitation, physical and mental. Poor Coley! How jealous he was,
and how unghostlike! So jealous, perhaps, that he had lied to her!
The thought of the possibility of this moral turpitude caused her to
pause in the midst of her toilet and smile at her reflection in the
mirror. It was a gay little smile which seemed out of place on the pale
image which confronted her. She drew back her curtains and the morning
sunlight streamed into the room bringing life and good cheer. No, she
would not--could not believe what Coley had told of Philip Gallatin.

She dressed quickly, and before her astonished maid had her eyes open,
had found the dog, Chicot, downstairs, and was out in the frosty air
breasting the keen north wind in the Avenue. It was Kee-way-din that
kissed her brow, Kee-way-din that brought the flush of health and youth
into her cheeks, the breath of Kee-way-din which came with a winter
message of hopefulness from the distant north woods. Chicot was joyful,
too, and bounded like a harlequin along the walk and into the reaches
of the Park. This was an unusual privilege for him, for his mistress
carried not even a leash, and he was bent on making the most of his
opportunities. He seemed to be aware that only business of unusual
importance would take her out at this hour of the day, and came back
barking and whining his sympathy and encouragement. Like most jesters,
Chicot was foolish, but he had a heart under his Eton jacket, and he
took pains that she should know it.

Chicot’s philosophy cleared the atmosphere. Her course of action now
seemed surprisingly clear to Jane. Philip Gallatin being no more and no
less to her than any other man, deserved exactly the consideration to
which her gratitude entitled him, deserved the punishment which fitted
the crime--precisely the punishment which she had given him. If they
met, she would simply ignore him as she did other men to whom she was
indifferent, and she thought that she could trust herself to manage the
rest if, indeed, her rebuff had not already made her intentions clear
to Gallatin. Refusing to meet him or cutting him in public would only
draw attention and give him an importance with which she was far from
willing to invest him. If, as she had said, he was not responsible for
his actions, he was a very unfortunate young man, and deserved her pity
as much as her condemnation; and it was obvious that he could not be
more responsible for his actions in New York than elsewhere. She still
refused to believe that her name had passed his lips, for of his honor
in all things save one, reason as well as instinct now assured her.

The story of Coleman Van Duyn’s no longer persisted. In spite of
herself she made a mental picture of the two men, and Van Duyn suffered
in the comparison. Coley had lied to her. That was all.

She walked briskly for twenty minutes and then sat down on a bench, the
very one she remembered, upon which Mr. Gallatin three weeks ago had
sat and told her of his misfortunes. Chicot came and sat in front of
her, his muzzle on her knees, and looked up rapturously into her eyes.

“You’re such a sinful little dorglums, Chicot,” she said to him. “Don’t
you know that? To go running off and bringing back disagreeable and
impudent vagabonds for me to send away? You’re quite silly. And your
moustache is precisely like Colonel Broadhurst’s, except that it’s
painted black. Are you really as wise as you look? I don’t believe
you are, because you’re dressed like a harlequin, and harlequins are
never wise, or they shouldn’t be harlequins. Wise people don’t wear
topknots on their heads and rings upon their tails, Chicot. Oh, it’s
all very well for you to be so devoted now, but you’d run away at once
if another vagabond came along--a tall vagabond with dark eyes and a
deep voice that appealed to your own little vagabond heart. You’re
faithless, Chicot, and I don’t care for you at all.”

She rubbed his glossy ears between her fingers, and he put one dusty
paw upon her lap. “No, I can’t forgive you,” she went on. “Never! All
is over between us. You’re a dissipated little vagabond, that’s what
you are, with no sense of responsibility whatever. I’m going to put you
in a deep dark dungeon, on a diet of dust and dungaree, where you shall
stay and meditate on your sins. Not another _maron_--not one. You’re
absolutely worthless, Chicot, that’s what you are--worthless!”

The knot on the end of the dog’s tail whisked approval; for, though
he understood exactly what she said, it was the correct thing for
dog-people to act only by tones of voice, but when his mistress got
up he frisked homeward joyfully, with a gratified sense of his own
important share in the conclusion of the business of the morning.

Jane Loring entered upon the daily round thoughtfully, but with a
new sense of her responsibilities. For the first time in her life
she had had a sense of the careless cruelty of the world for those
thrown unprotected upon its good will. There was a note of plethoric
contrition in her mail from Coleman Van Duyn. She read it very
carefully twice as though committing it to memory, and then tearing
it into small pieces committed it to the waste basket, a hard little
glitter in her eyes which Mr. Van Duyn might not have cared to see. She
made a resolve that from this hour she would live according to another
code. She was no longer the little school-girl from the convent in
Paris. She was full-fledged now and would take life as she found it,
her eyes widely opened, not with the wonder of adolescence, but keen
for the excitements as well as the illusions that awaited her.

She got down from her limousine at the Pennington’s house in Stuyvesant
Square that night alone. Mr. Van Duyn, in his note, had pleaded to be
allowed to stop for her in his machine and bring her home, but she had
not called him on the ’phone as he had requested. It was a dinner for
some of the members of the Cedarcroft set, as formal as any function to
which this gay company was invited, could ever be. Jane was a moment
late and hurried upstairs not a little excited, for though she had
known Nellie Pennington in Pau, the guests were probably strangers to
her. In the dressing-room, where she found Miss Jaffray and another
girl she had not met, a maid helped her off with her cloak and carriage
boots and, when she was ready to go down, handed her a silver tray
bearing a number of small envelopes. She selected the one which bore
her name, carelessly, wondering whether her fortunes for the evening
were to be entrusted to Mr. Worthington or to Mr. Van Duyn, to find on
the enclosed card the name of Philip Gallatin.

She paled a little, hesitated and lingered in the darkness by the door
under the mental plea of rearranging her roses, her mind in a tumult.
She had hardly expected to find him here, for Mr. Gallatin, she had
heard, hunted no more and Nellie Pennington had never even mentioned
his name. What should she do? To say that she did not wish to go in
with a man high in the favor of her host and hostess as well as every
one else, without giving a reason for her refusal would be gratuitously
insulting to her hostess as well as to Mr. Gallatin. She glanced
helplessly at Nina Jaffray, who was leaning toward the pier glass, a
stick of lip-salve in her fingers, and realized at once that there was
to be no rescue from her predicament. Besides, changing cards with Miss
Jaffray would not help matters, for over in the men’s dressing room Mr.
Gallatin by this time had read the card which told him that Miss Loring
was to be his dinner partner.

She could not understand how such a thing had happened. Had Nellie
Pennington heard? That was impossible. There were but three people in
New York who knew about Mr. Gallatin and herself, and the third one
was Coley Van Duyn, who had guessed at their relations. Could Philip
Gallatin have dared--dared to ask this favor of their hostess after
Jane’s repudiation of him in the Park? She couldn’t believe that
either. Fate alone could have conspired to produce a situation so
full of exquisite possibilities. She waited a moment, gathering her
shattered resources; and with that skill at dissimulation which men
sometimes ape, but never actually attain, she thrust her arm through
Miss Jaffray’s and the two of them went down the wide stairway, a very
pretty picture of youth and unconcern.

Jane’s eyes swept the room with obtrusive carelessness, and took in
every one in it, including the person for whom the glance was intended,
who saw it from a distant corner, and marveled at the smile with which
she entered and greeted her hostess.

“Hello, Nina! Jane, dear, _so_ glad you could come!” said Nellie
Pennington. “Oh, what a perfectly darling dress! You went to Doucet
after all--for your debutante _trousseau_. Perhaps, I’d better call it
your _layette_--you absurd child! Oh, for the roses of yesterday! You
know Betty Tremaine, don’t you? And Mr. Savage? Coley do stop glaring
and tell Phil Gallatin to come here at once. My dear, you’re going in
with the nicest man--a very great friend of mine, and I want you to be
particularly sweet to him. Hear? Mr. Gallatin--you haven’t met--I know.
Here he is now. Miss Loring--Mr. Gallatin.”

Jane nodded and coolly extended her hand. “How do you do,” she said,
tepidly polite, and then quickly to her hostess. “It was very nice of
you to think of me, Nellie. It seems ages since Pau, doesn’t it?”

“Ages! You unpleasant person. When you get as old as I am, you’ll never
mention the flight of time. Ugh!”

Her shudder was very effective. Nellie Pennington was thirty-five,
looked twenty, and knew it.

“What difference does it make,” laughed Jane, “when Time forgets one?”

“Very prettily said, my dear. Time may amble, but he’s too nimble to
let you get him by the forelock.” And turning she greeted the late
comers.

Jane turned to Mr. Gallatin, who was saying something at her ear.

“I beg your pardon,” she said.

“I hope you don’t think that I--I am responsible for this situation,”
he repeated.

“What situation, Mr. Gallatin?”

“I hope you don’t think that I knew I was to go in to dinner with you.”

She laughed. “I hadn’t really thought very much about it.”

“I didn’t--I didn’t even know you were to be here. It’s an accident--a
cruel one. I wouldn’t have had it happen for anything in the world.”

“Do you think that’s very polite?” she asked lightly.

“I mean--” he stammered, “that you’ll have to acquit me of any
intention----”

“You mean,” she interrupted quickly, with widely opened eyes, “that
you don’t _want_ to go in to dinner with me? I think that can easily
be arranged,” and she turned away from him toward her hostess. But he
quickly interposed.

“Don’t, Miss Loring. Don’t do that. It isn’t necessary. I didn’t want
your evening spoiled.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said, and the curl of her lip
did not escape him. “_That_ could hardly happen. But, if you have any
doubts about it, perhaps----”

“It was of you I was thinking----”

“That’s very kind, I’m sure. I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t
get on admirably. I’m not so difficult as you seem to suppose. Why
_should_ you spoil my evening, Mr. Gallatin?”

She turned and looked him full in the eyes; and he knew then what he
had suspected at first, that she meant to deny that they had ever met
before.

He gazed at her calmly, a slow smile twisting his lips, acknowledging
her rebuke, and acquiescing silently in her position.

“I’m sure I don’t wish to spoil it. I’m only too happy--to--to be so
much honored.”

“There!” she laughed easily. “You _can_ be polite, can’t you? Do you
hunt, Mr. Gallatin?” quickly changing the topic to one less personal.
“I thought nobody ever dined here unless he was at least first cousin
to a Centaur.”

“Oh, no,” he laughed. “Mrs. Pennington isn’t so exclusive as that. But
I’m sure she’d have her own hunters in to table if she could. This
is quite the liveliest house! Mrs. Pennington is the most wonderful
woman in the world, and the reason is that she absolutely refuses to be
bored. She likes Centaurs because they’re mostly natural creatures like
herself, but she hasn’t any use for Dinosaurs!”

A general movement toward the table, and Jane took Phil Gallatin’s arm
and followed. A huge horse-shoe of Beauties formed the centerpiece,
from which emerged the Cedarhurst Steeplechase Cup, won three years in
succession by Dick Pennington. The decorations of the room were in red
and gold, and a miniature steeplechase course was laid around the table
with small fences, brush and water jumps, over which tiny equestrians
in pink coats gayly cavorted. Miss Loring found to her delight that
the neighbor on her other side was Mr. Worthington. At least she was
not to be without resource if the situation grew beyond her. But Mr.
Gallatin having made token of his acquiescence, gave no sign of further
intrusion. His talk was of the people about them, of their ambitions
and their lack of them, of motoring, of country houses and the latest
news in Vanity Fair, to which she listened with interest, casually
questioning or venturing an opinion. The only rôle possible for her
was one of candor, and she played it with cool deliberation, carefully
guiding his remarks into the well-buoyed channels of the commonplace.

And while he talked amusedly, gayly even, in the glances that she
stole at his profile, she found that he had grown thinner, and that
the dark shadows under his eyes, which she remembered, were still to
be found there. The fingers of his right hand slowly revolved the stem
of a flower. All of his wine glasses she discovered he had turned bowl
downward. His cocktail he had slowly pushed aside until it was now
hidden in the garland of roses which circled the table. She felt quite
sorry for him, as she had felt last summer, and now, better attuned
to detraction than to praise, her mind and instinct both proclaimed
him, in spite of herself--a gentleman. Coleman Van Duyn had lied to
her. She was conscious of Coley surveying her from his seat across the
table with a jaundiced eye, and this surveillance, while it made her
uncomfortable, served to feed the flame of her ire. Coley Van Duyn had
lied to her, and the lot of liars was oblivion.

A pause in the conversation when Nina Jaffray’s voice broke in on Mr.
Gallatin’s right.

“It isn’t true, is it, Phil?”

He questioned.

“What they’re saying about you,” she went on.

He laughed uneasily. “Yes, of course, if it’s something dreadful
enough.”

“Oh, it isn’t dreadful, Phil, only so enchantingly sinful that it
doesn’t sound like you in the least.”

“No, Nina. It isn’t true. Enchanting sin and I are strangers.
Miss Loring and I have just been talking about original sin in
saddle-horses. I contend----”

“Phil, I _won’t_ be diverted in this way. I believe it’s true.”

“Then what’s the use of questioning me?”

“I’m foolish enough to want you to deny it.”

“Even if it is an enchanting sin? You might at least let me flatter
myself that much.”

Miss Jaffray’s long eyes closed the fraction of an inch, as she
surveyed him aslant through her lashes, then her lips broke into a
smile which showed her small and perfectly even teeth.

“You shan’t evade me any longer. I’m insanely jealous, Phil. _Who_ was
the girl you got lost with in the woods?”

Gallatin passed a miserable moment. He had sensed the question and
had tried to prevent it, cold with dismay that Miss Loring should be
in earshot. He flushed painfully and for his life’s sake could make no
reply.

“It’s true--you’re blushing. I could forgive you for the sin, but for
blushing for it--never!”

Gallatin had hoped that Miss Loring might have turned to her other
neighbor, but he had not dared to look. Now he felt rather than saw
that she was a listener to the dialogue, and he heard her voice--cool,
clear, and insistent, just at his ear:

“How very interesting, Nina! Mr. Gallatin’s sins are finding him out?”

“No, _I_ am,” said the girl. “I’ve known Phil Gallatin since we were
children, and he has always been the most unsusceptible of persons. He
has never had any time for girls. And now! Now by his guilty aspect
he tacitly acknowledges a love affair in the Canadian wilderness with
a----”

“Oh, do stop, Nina,” he said in suppressed tones. “Miss Loring can
hardly be interested in----”

“But I _am_,” put in Miss Loring coolly. “Do tell me something more,
Nina. Was she young and pretty?”

[Illustration: “‘Do tell me something more, Nina. Was she young and
pretty?’”]

“Ask this guilty wretch----”

“Don’t you know who she was? What was her name?”

“That’s just what I want to find out. And nobody seems to know, except
Phil.”

“Do tell us, Mr. Gallatin.”

“She had no name,” said Mr. Gallatin very quietly. “There was no girl
in the woods.”

“A woman, then?” queried Miss Jaffray.

“Neither girl--nor woman--only a Dryad. The woods are full of them. My
Indian guide insisted that----”

“Oh, no, you sha’n’t get out of it so easily, Phil, and I insist
upon your sticking to facts. A Dryad, indeed, with the latest thing in
fishing rods and creels!”

Miss Jaffray had not for a moment taken her gaze from Gallatin’s
face, but now she changed her tone to one of impudent raillery. “You
know, Phil, you’ve always held women in such high regard that I’ve
always thought you positively tiresome. And now, just when I find you
developing the most unusual and interesting qualities, you deny their
very existence! I was just getting ready to fall madly in love with
you. How disappointing you are! Isn’t he, Jane?”

“Dreadfully so,” said Miss Loring. “Tell it all, Mr. Gallatin, by all
means, since we already know the half. I’m sure the reality can’t be
nearly as dreadful as we already think it is.”

Her effrontery astounded him, but he met her fairly.

“There’s nothing to tell. If an enchantingly sinful man met an
enchantingly helpless Dryad--what would be likely to happen? Can _you_
tell us, Miss Loring?”

Jane’s weapons went flying for a moment, but she recovered them
adroitly.

“The situation has possibilities of which you are in every way worthy,
I don’t doubt, Mr. Gallatin. The name of your Dryad will, of course, be
revealed in time. I’m sure if Miss Jaffray pleads with you long enough
you’ll gladly tell her.”

Nina Jaffray laughed.

“Come, Phil, there’s a dear. Do tell a fellow. I’ve really got to
know, if only for the fun of scratching her eyes out. I’m sure I ought
to--oughtn’t I, Jane?”

But Miss Loring had already turned and was deep in conversation with
Mr. Worthington, who for twenty minutes at least, had been trying to
attract her attention.




XII

NELLIE PENNINGTON CUTS IN


It was the custom at Richard Pennington’s dinners for the men to follow
the ladies at once to the library or drawing-room if they cared to,
for Nellie Pennington liked smoking and made no bones about it. People
who dined with her were expected to do exactly as they pleased, and
this included the use of tobacco in all parts of the house. She was not
running a kindergarten, she insisted, and the mothers of timorous buds
were amply warned that they must look to the habits of their tender
offspring. And so after the ices were served, when the women departed,
some of their dinner partners followed them into the other rooms,
finding more pleasure in the cigarette _à deux_ than in the stable talk
at the dismantled dining-table.

Phil Gallatin rose and followed the ladies to the door and then
returned, sank into a vacant chair and began smoking, thinking deeply
of the new difficulty into which Nina Jaffray had plunged him. A small
group of men remained, Larry Kane, William Worthington, Ogden Spencer,
and Egerton Savage, who gathered at the end of the table around their
host.

“Selected your 1913 model yet, Bibby?” Pennington asked with a laugh.
“What is she to be this time? Inside control, of course, maximum
flexibility, minimum friction----”

“Oh, forget it, Dick,” said Worthington, sulkily.

“No offense, you know. Down on your luck? Cheer up, old chap, you’ll be
in love again presently. There are as many good fish in the sea----”

“I’m not fishing,” put in Bibby with some dignity.

“By George!” whispered Larry Kane, in awed tones, “I believe he’s got
it again. Oh, Bibby, when you marry, Venus will go into sackcloth and
ashes!”

“So will Bibby,” said Spencer. “Marriage isn’t his line at all. You
know better than that, don’t you, Bibby. No demnition bow-wows on
_your_ Venusberg--what? You’ve got the secret. Love often and you’ll
love longer. Aren’t I right, Bibby?”

“Oh, let Bibby alone,” sighed Savage. “He’s got the secret. I take my
hat off to him. Every year he bathes in the Fountain of Youth, and
like the chap in the book--what’s his name?--gazes at his rejuvenated
reflection in the limpid pool of virgin eyes. Look at him! Forty-five,
if he’s a day, and looks like a stage juvenile.”

Gallatin listened to the chatter with dull ears, smiling perfunctorily,
not because he enjoyed this particular kind of humor, but because he
did not choose to let his silence become conspicuous. And when the
sounds from a piano were heard and the men rose to join the ladies, he
had made a resolve to see Jane Loring alone before the evening was gone.

In the drawing-room Betty Tremaine was playing airs from the latest
Broadway musical success, which Dirwell De Lancey was singing with a
throaty baritone. Jane Loring sat on a sofa next to her hostess, both
of them laughing at young Perrine, who began showing the company a new
version of the turkey-trot.

“Do a ‘Dance Apache,’ Freddy,” cried Nina Jaffray, springing to her
feet. “You know,” and before he knew what she was about, he was seized
by the arms, and while Miss Tremaine caught the spirit of the thing
in a gay cadence of the Boulevards, the two of them flew like mad
things around the room, to the imminent hazard of furniture and its
occupants. There was something barbaric in their wild rush as they
whirled apart and came together again and the dance ended only when
Freddy Perrine catapulted into a corner, breathless and exhausted. Miss
Jaffray remained upright, her slender breast heaving, her eyes dark
with excitement, glancing from one to another with the bold challenge
of a Bacchante fresh from the groves of Naxos. There was uproarious
applause and a demand for repetition, but as no one volunteered to take
the place of the exhausted Perrine, the music ceased and Miss Jaffray,
after rearranging her disordered hair, threw herself into a vacant
chair.

“You’re wonderful, Nina!” said Nellie Pennington, languidly, “but how
_can_ you do it? It’s more like wrestling than dancing?”

“I like wrestling,” said Miss Jaffray, unperturbedly.

Auction tables were formed in the library and the company divided
itself into parties of three or four, each with its own interests.
Gallatin soon learned that it might prove difficult to carry his
resolution into effect, for Miss Loring was the center of a group which
seemed to defy disruption, and Coleman Van Duyn immediately pre-empted
the nearest chair, from which nothing less than dynamite would have
availed to dislodge him. Gallatin had heard that Van Duyn had been
with the Lorings in Canada, and had wondered vaguely whether this fact
could have anything to do with that gentleman’s sudden change of manner
toward himself. The two men had gone to the same school, and the same
university; and while they had never been by temper or inclination in
the slightest degree suited to each other, circumstances threw them
often together and as fellow club-mates they had owed and paid each
other a tolerable civility. But this winter Van Duyn’s nods had been
stiff and his manner taciturn. Personally, Phil Gallatin did not care
whether Coleman Van Duyn was civil or not, and only thought of the
matter in its possible reference to Jane Loring. Gallatin leaned over
the back of the sofa in conversation with Nellie Pennington, listening
with one ear to Coley’s rather heavy attempts at amiability.

After a while his hostess moved to a couch in the corner and motioned
for him to take the place beside her.

“You know, Phil,” she began, reproving him in her softest tones, “I’ve
been thinking about you a lot lately. Aren’t you flattered? You ought
to be. I’ve made up my mind to speak to you with all the seriousness of
my advanced years.”

“Yes, Mother, dear,” laughed Phil. “What is it now? Have I been
breaking window-panes or pulling the cat’s tail?”

“Neither--and both,” she returned calmly. “But it’s your sins of
omission that bother me most. You’re incorrigibly lazy!”

“Thanks,” he said, settling himself comfortably. “I know it.”

“And aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“Awfully.”

“I’m told that you’re never in your office, that you’ve let your
practice go to smash, that your partners are on the point of casting
you into the outer darkness.”

“Oh, that’s true,” he said wearily. “I’ve practically withdrawn from
the firm, Nellie. I didn’t bring any business in. It’s even possible
that I kept some of it out. I’m a moral and physical incubus. In fact,
John Kenyon has almost told me so.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“Do?

    A Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
    A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse--and thou.

If you’ll come with me, Nellie.”

There was no response of humor in Nellie Pennington’s expression.

“No,” she said quietly. “Not I. I want you to be serious, Phil.” She
paused a moment, looking down, and when her eyes sought his again he
saw in them the spark of a very genuine interest. “I don’t know whether
you know it or not, Phil, but I’m really very fond of you. And if I
didn’t understand you as well as I do, of course, I wouldn’t dare to be
so frank.”

Philip Gallatin inclined his head slightly.

“Go on, please,” he said.

She hesitated a moment and then clutched his arm with her strong
fingers.

“I want you to wake up, Phil,” she said with sudden insistence. “I want
you to wake up, to open your eyes wide--wide, do you hear, to stretch
your intellectual fibers and learn something of your own strength.
You’re asleep, Boy! You’ve been asleep for years! I want you to wake
up--and prove the stuff that’s in you. You’re the last of your line,
Phil, the very last; but whatever the faults your fathers left you,
you’ve got their genius, too.”

Gallatin was slowly shaking his head.

“Not that--only----”

“I _know_ it,” she said proudly. “You can’t hide from everybody,
Phil. I still remember those cases you won when you were just out of
law-school--that political one and the other of the drunkard indicted
on circumstantial evidence----”

“I was interested in that,” he muttered.

“You’ll be interested again. You _must_ be. Do you hear? You’ve come
to the parting of the ways, Phil, and you’ve got to make a choice.
You’re drifting with the tide, and I don’t like it, waiting for Time
to provide your Destiny when you’ve got the making of it in your own
hands. You’ve got to put to sea, hoist what sail you’ve got and brave
the elements.”

“I’m a derelict, Nellie,” he said painfully.

“Shame! Phil,” she whispered. “A derelict is a ship without a soul. You
a derelict! Then society is made up of derelicts, discards from the
game of opportunity. Some of us are rich. We think we can afford to
be idle. Ambition doesn’t matter to such men as Dick, or Larry Kane,
or Egerton Savage. Their lines were drawn in easy places, their lives
were ready-made from the hour that they were born. But you! There’s no
excuse for you. You are not rich. As the world considers such things,
you’re poor and so you’re born for better things! You’ve got the
Gallatin intellect, the Gallatin solidity, the Gallatin cleverness----”

“And the Gallatin insufficiency,” he finished for her.

“A fig for your vices,” she said contemptuously. “It’s the little men
of this world that never have any vices. No big man ever was without
them. Whatever dims the luster of the spirit, the white fire of
intellect burns steadily on, unless--” she paused and glanced at him,
quickly, lowering her voice--“unless the luster of the spirit is dimmed
too long, Phil.”

He clasped his long fingers around one of his knees and looked
thoughtfully at the rug.

“I understand,” he said quietly.

“You don’t mind my speaking to you so, do you, Phil, dear?”

He closed his eyes, and then opening them as though with an effort,
looked at her squarely.

“No, Nellie.”

Her firm hand pressed his strongly. “Let me help you, Phil. There are
not many fellows I’d go out of my way for, not many of them are worth
it. Phil, you’ve got to take hold at once--right away. Make a fresh
start.”

“I did take hold for--for a good while and then--and then I slipped a
cog----”

“Why? You mean it was too hard for you?”

“No, not at all. It had got so that I wasn’t bothered--not much--that
is--I let go purposely.” He stopped suddenly. “I can’t tell you why. I
guess I’m a fool--that’s all.”

She examined his face with a new interest. There was something here she
could not understand. She had known Phil Gallatin since his boyhood and
had always believed in him. She had watched his development with the
eyes of an elder sister, and had never given up the hope that he might
carry on the traditions of his blood in all things save the one to be
dreaded. She had never talked with him before. Indeed, she would not
have done so to-night had it not been that a strong friendly impulse
had urged her. She made it a practice never to interfere in the lives
of others, if interference meant the cost of needless pain; but as she
had said to him, Phil Gallatin was worth helping. She was thankful,
too, that he had taken her advice kindly.

What was this he was saying about letting go purposely. What--but she
had reached the ends of friendliness and the beginnings of curiosity.

“No, you’re not a fool, Phil. You sha’n’t call yourself names.” And
then, “You say you weren’t bothered--much?”

“No. Things had got a good deal easier for me. I was beginning to feel
hopeful for the future. It had cost me something, but I had got my
grip. I had started in at the office again, and Kenyon had given me
some important work to do. Good old Uncle John! He seemed to know that
I was trying.”

He stopped a moment and then went on rapidly. “He turned me loose on a
big corporation case the firm was preparing for trial. I threw myself
into the thing, body and soul. I worked like a dog--night and day, and
every hour that I worked my grip on myself grew stronger. I was awake
then, Nellie, full of enthusiasm, my old love of my profession glowing
at a white heat that absorbed and swallowed all other fires. It seemed
that I found out some things the other fellows had overlooked, and a
few days before the big case was to be called, Kenyon asked me if I
didn’t want to take charge. I don’t believe he knew how good that made
me feel. I seemed to have come into my own again. I knew I could win
and I told him so. So he and Hood dropped out and turned the whole
thing over to me. I had it all at my fingers’ ends. You know, I once
learned a little law, Nellie, and I was figuring on a great victory.”

As Gallatin spoke, his long frame slowly straightened, his head drew
well back on his shoulders and a new fire glowed in his eyes.

“It was great!” he went on. “I don’t believe any man alive ever felt
more sure of himself than I did when I wound up that case and shut up
my desk for the day. If I won, and win I should, it would give Kenyon,
Hood and Gallatin a lot of prestige. Things looked pretty bright that
night. I began to see the possibilities of a career, Nellie, a real
career that even a Gallatin might be proud of.”

He came to a sudden pause, his figure crumpled, and the glow in his
eyes faded as though a film had fallen across them.

“And then?” asked Nellie Pennington.

“And then,” he muttered haltingly, “something happened to me--I had
a--a disappointment--and things went all wrong inside of me--I didn’t
care what happened. I went to the bad, Nellie, clean--clean to the
bad----”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pennington softly, “I heard. That’s why I spoke to you
to-night. You haven’t been----”

“No, thank God, I’m keeping straight now, but it did hurt to have done
so well and then to have failed so utterly. You see the case I was
speaking of--Kenyon, Hood and Gallatin had turned the whole business
over to me, and I wasn’t there to plead. They couldn’t find me. There
was a postponement, of course, but my opportunity had passed and it
won’t come again.”

He stopped, glanced at her face and then turned away. “I don’t know
why I’ve told you these things,” he finished soberly, “for sympathy is
hardly the kind of thing a man in my position can stand for.”

Nellie Pennington remained silent. Her interest was deep and her wonder
uncontrollable. Therefore, being a woman, she did not question. She
only waited. Her woman’s eyes to-night had been wide open, and she
had already made a rapid diagnosis of which her curiosity compelled a
confirmation.

They were alone at their end of the room. Miss Loring and Mr. Van Duyn
had gone in to the bridge tables and Egerton Savage was conversing in
a low tone with Betty Tremaine, whose fingers straying over the piano,
were running softly through an aria from “La Bohème.”

“You know, Nellie,” he went on presently, “I’m not in the habit of
talking about my own affairs, even with my friends, but I believe it’s
done me a lot of good to talk to you. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

She nodded and then went on quickly. “The trouble with you is that
you don’t talk enough about yourself, Phil. You’re a seething mass
of introspection. It isn’t healthy. Friends are only conversational
chopping-blocks after all. Why don’t you use them? Me--for instance.
I’m safe, sane, and I confess a trifle curious.” She paused a moment,
and then said keenly:

“It’s a girl, of course.”

He raised his head quickly, and then lowered it as quickly again.

“No, there isn’t any girl.”

“Oh, yes, there is. I’ve known it for quite two hours.”

“How?” he asked in alarm.

She waved her fan with a graceful gesture. “Second sight, a sixth
sense, an appreciation for the fourth dimension--in short--the instinct
of a woman.”

“You mean that you guessed?”

“No, that I perceived.”

“It takes a woman to perceive something which doesn’t exist,” he said
easily.

She turned and examined him with level brows. “Then why did you admit
it?”

“I didn’t.”

She leaned back among her pillows and laughed at him mockingly. “Oh,
Phil! _Must_ I be brutal?”

“What do you mean?”

“That the girl--is here--to-night.”

“That is not true,” he stammered. “She is not here.”

Mrs. Pennington did not spare him.

“A moment ago--you denied that there was a girl. Now you’re willing to
admit that she’s only absent. Please don’t doubt the accuracy of my
feminine deductions, Phil. Nothing provokes me more. You may drive me
to the extreme of mentioning her name.”

Gallatin stopped fencing. It was an art he was obliged reluctantly
to confess, in which he was far from a match for this tantalizing
adversary. So he relapsed into silence, aware that the longer the
conversation continued the more vulnerable he became.

But she reassured him in a moment.

“Oh, why won’t you trust me?” she whispered, her eyes dark with
interest. “I do want to help you if you’ll let me. It _was_ only a
guess, Phil, a guess founded on the most intangible evidence, but I
couldn’t help seeing (you know a heaven-born hostess is Midas-eared and
Argus-eyed) what passed between you and Jane Loring.”

“Nothing that I’m aware of passed between us,” he said quietly. “She
was very civil.”

“As civil as a cucumber--no more--no less. How could _I_ know that she
didn’t want to go in to dinner with you?”

“You heard?”

“Yes, from the back of my head. Besides, Phil, I’ve always told you
that your eyes were too expressive.” His look of dismay was so genuine
that she stopped and laid her hand along his arm. “I was watching you,
Phil. That’s why I know. I shouldn’t have noticed, if I hadn’t been.”

“Yes,” he slowly admitted at last. “Miss Loring and I had met before.”

At that he stopped and would say no more. Instinct warned her that
curiosity had drawn her to the verge of intrusiveness, and so she,
too, remained silent while through her head a hundred thoughts were
racing--benevolent, romantic, speculative, concerning these two young
people whom she liked--and one of whom was unhappy. They had met
before, on terms of intimacy, but where?

Intimacies worth quarreling over were scarcely to be made in the brief
season during which Jane Loring had been in New York, for unlike
Mr. Worthington, Phil Gallatin was no cultivator of social squabs.
Obviously they had met elsewhere. Last summer? Phil Gallatin was
fishing in Canada--Canada! So was Jane! Mrs. Pennington straightened
and examined her companion curiously. She had heard the story of Phil
Gallatin’s wood-nymph and was now thoroughly awake to the reasons for
his reticence, so she sank back among her cushions, her eyes downcast,
a smile wreathing her lips, the smile of the collector of objects
of art and virtue who has stumbled upon a hidden rarity. It was a
smile, too, of self-appreciation and approval, for her premises had
been negligible and her conclusion only arrived at after a process of
induction which surprised her by the completeness of its success. She
was already wondering how her information could best serve her purposes
as mediator when Gallatin spoke again.

“We had met before, Nellie, under unusual and--and--er--trying
conditions. There was a--misunderstanding--something happened--which
you need not know--a damage to--to her pride which I would give my
right hand to repair.”

“Perhaps, if you could see her alone----”

“Yes, I was hoping for that--but it hardly seems possible here.”

Mrs. Pennington was leaning forward now, slightly away from him,
thinking deeply, thoroughly alive to her responsibilities--her
responsibilities to Jane Loring as well as to the man beside her.
It was the judgment of the world that Phil was a failure--her own
judgment, too, in spite of her affection for him; and yet in her breast
there still lived a belief that he still had a chance for regeneration.
She had seen the spark of it in his eyes, heard the echo of it in tones
of his voice when he had spoken of his last failures. She hesitated
long before replying, her eyes looking into space, like a seer of
visions, as though she were trying to read the riddle of the future.
And when she spoke it was with tones of resolution.

“I think it might be managed. Will you leave it to me?”

She gave him her hand in a warm clasp. “I believe in you, Phil, and I
understand,” she finished softly.

Gallatin followed her to the door of the library, unquiet of mind
and sober of demeanor. He had long known Nellie Pennington to be a
wonderful woman and the tangible evidences of her cleverness still
lingered as the result of his interview. There seemed to be nothing
a woman of her equipment could not accomplish, nothing she could not
learn if she made up her mind to it. In twenty minutes of talk she had
succeeded in extracting from Gallatin, without unseemly effort, his
most carefully treasured secret, and indeed he half suspected that
her intuition had already supplied the missing links in the chain of
gossip that was going the rounds about him. But he did not question her
loyalty or her tact and, happy to trust his fortunes entirely into her
hands, he approached the bridge-tables aware that the task which his
hostess had assumed so lightly was one that would tax her ingenuity to
the utmost.

Her last whispered admonition as she left him in the hall had been
“Wait, and don’t play bridge!” and so he followed her injunction
implicitly, wondering how the miracle was to be accomplished. Miss
Loring did not raise her head at his approach, and even when the others
at the table nodded greetings she bent her head upon her cards and made
her bids, carelessly oblivious of his presence.

Miss Jaffray hardly improved his situation when she flashed a mocking
glance up at him and laughed. “_Satyr!_” she said. “I could never have
believed it of you, Phil. You were such a nice little boy, too, though
you _would_ pull my pig-tail!”

“Don’t mind Nina, Phil,” said Worthington gayly. “Satyrical remarks are
her long suit, especially when she’s losing.”

Nina regarded him reproachfully. “There _was_ a time, Bibby, when you
wouldn’t have spoken so unkindly of me. Is this the way you repay your
debt of gratitude?”

“Gratitude!”

“Yes, I might have married you, you know.”

“Oh, Nina! I’d forgotten.”

“Think of the peril you escaped and be thankful!”

“I am,” he said devoutly.

“You ought to be.” And then to Miss Loring, “Bibby hasn’t proposed to
you yet, has he, Jane,” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” said Jane laughing. “Have you, Mr. Worthington?”

He flushed painfully and gnawed at his small mustache. Nina had scored
heavily.

“I hope he does,” Jane went on with a sense of throwing a buoy to a
drowning man, “because I’m sure I’d accept him.”

Worthington smiled gratefully and adored her in fervent silence.

“Men have stopped asking _me_ to marry them lately,” sighed Nina. “It
annoys me dreadfully.” She spoke of this misfortune with the same
careless tone one would use with reference to a distasteful pattern in
wall-paper.

“But think of the hearts you’ve broken,” said Gallatin.

“Or of the hearts I wanted to break but couldn’t,” she replied. “Yours,
for instance, Phil.”

“You couldn’t have tried very hard,” he laughed.

“I didn’t know you were a satyr then,” she said, pushing her chair back
from the table. “Your rubber, I think, Bibby. I’m sure we’d better
stop, Dick, or you’ll never ask me here again.”




XIII

MRS. PENNINGTON’S BROUGHAM


There was a general movement of dispersal, and Philip Gallatin, who had
now given up all hope of the opportunity Nellie Pennington had promised
him, followed the party into the hall, his eyes following Jane, who had
found her hostess and was making her adieux. He watched her slender
figure as she made her way up the stairs, and turned to Mrs. Pennington
reproachfully.

“Don’t speak, Phil,” his hostess whispered. “It’s all arranged. Go at
once and get your things.”

Gallatin obeyed quickly and when he came down he heard Mrs. Pennington
saying, “So sorry, Jane. Your machine came, but the butler sent it home
again. There was some mistake in the orders, it seems. But I’ve ordered
my brougham, and it’s waiting at the door for you. You don’t mind, do
you? I’ve asked Mr. Gallatin to see that you get home safely.”

“Of course, it’s very kind of you, dear.” She hesitated. “But it seems
too bad to trouble Mr. Gallatin.”

“I’m sure--I’m delighted,” he said, and it was evident that he meant it.

Jane Loring glanced around her quickly, helplessly it seemed to
Gallatin, but the sight of Coleman Van Duyn, waiting hat in hand,
helped her to a decision.

“It’s so kind of you, Mr. Gallatin,” she said gratefully, and then, in
a whisper as she kissed her hostess, “Nellie, you’re simply odious!”
and made her way out of the door.

Gallatin followed quickly, but Miss Loring reached the curb before him
and giving her number to the coachman, got in without the proffered
hand of her escort.

Angry though she was, Jane Loring kept her composure admirably. All the
world, it seemed, was conspiring to throw her with this man whom she
now knew she must detest. If fate, blind and unthinking, had made him
her dinner partner, only design, malicious and uncivil, could be blamed
for his presence now. She sat in her corner, her figure tense, her head
averted, her wraps carefully drawn about her, a dark and forbidding
wraith of outraged dignity, waiting only for him to speak that she
might crush him.

Gallatin sat immovable for a moment, conscious of all the feminine
forces arrayed against him.

“I make no apologies,” he began with an assurance which surprised her.
“I wanted to see you alone and no other chance offered. I suppose I
might say I’m sorry, but that wouldn’t be true. I’m not sorry and I
don’t want any misunderstandings. I asked Mrs. Pennington----”

“Oh!” she broke in wrathfully. “Many people, it seems, enjoy your
confidences, Mr. Gallatin.”

“No,” he went on, steadily. “I’m not given to confidences, Miss Loring.
Mrs. Pennington is one of my oldest and best friends. I told her it was
necessary for me to see you alone for a moment and she took pity on me.”

“Mrs. Pennington has taken an unpardonable liberty and I shall tell her
so,” said Jane decisively.

“I hope you won’t do that.”

“Have matters reached such a point in New York that a girl can’t drive
out alone without being open to the importunity of any stranger?”

“I am not a stranger,” he put in firmly, and his voice dominated hers.
“We met within the Gates of Chance, Miss Loring, on equal terms. I have
the right of any man to plead----”

“You’ve already pleaded.”

“You were prejudiced. I’ve appealed--to a higher tribunal--your sense
of justice.”

“I know no law but my own instinct.”

“You are not true to your own instincts then, or they are not true to
you.”

It was sophistry, of course, but she was a trifle startled at the
accuracy of his deduction, for she realized that it was her judgment
only that rejected him and that her instincts advised her of the
pleasure she took in his company. Her instincts then being unreliable,
she followed her judgment blindly, uncomfortably conscious that she did
it against her will, and angry with herself that it was so.

“I only know, Mr. Gallatin,” she said coldly, “that both judgment
and instinct warn me against you. Whatever there is left in you
of honor--of decency, must surely respond to my distaste for this
intrusion.”

“If I admit that I’m neither honorable nor decent, will you give me the
credit for speaking the truth?” he asked slowly.

“With reference to what?” scornfully.

“To this story they’re telling.”

“You brought it here, of course.”

“Will you believe me if I say that I didn’t?”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Simply because I ask you to.”

She looked out of the carriage window away from him.

“I believed in you once, Mr. Gallatin.”

He bowed his head.

“Even that is something,” he said. “You wouldn’t have believed in
me then if instinct had forbidden it. I am the same person you once
believed in.”

“My judgment was at fault. I dislike you intensely.”

“I won’t believe it.”

“You must. You did me an injury that nothing can repair.”

“An injury to your dignity, to your womanhood and sensibility----”

“Hardly,” she said scornfully, “or even to my pride. It was only my
body--you hurt, Mr. Gallatin--your kisses--they soiled me----”

“My God, Jane! Don’t! Haven’t you punished me enough? I was mad, I
tell you. There was a devil in me, that owned me body and soul, that
stole my reason, killed what was good, and made a monster of the love I
had cherished--an insensate enemy that perverted and brutalized every
decent instinct, a Thing unfamiliar to you which frightened and drove
you away in fear and loathing. It was not _me_ you feared, Jane, for
you trusted me. It was the Thing you feared, as I fear it, the Enemy
that had pursued me into the woods where I had fled from it.”

Jane Loring sat in her corner apparently unconcerned, but her heart was
throbbing and the hands beneath the wide sleeves of her opera kimono
were nervously clutched. The sound of his voice, its deep sonorous
tones when aroused were familiar to her. As he paused she stole a
glance at him, for as he spoke of his Enemy he had turned away from
her, his eyes peering out into the dimly lighted street, as if the
mention of his weakness shamed him.

“I’m not asking you for your pity,” he went on more steadily. “I only
want your pardon. I don’t think it’s too much to ask. It wasn’t the
real Phil Gallatin who brought that shame on you.”

“The real Phil Gallatin! Which is the real Phil Gallatin?” she asked
cruelly.

“What you make him--to-night,” he replied quickly. “I’ve done what I
can without you--lived like an outcast on the memories of happiness,
but I can’t subsist on that. Memory is poor food for a starving man.”

“I can’t see how _I_ can be held accountable. _I_ did not make you, Mr.
Gallatin.”

“But you can mar me. I’ve come,” he remembered the words of Mrs.
Pennington, “I’ve come to the parting of the ways. Up there--I gained
my self-respect--and lost it. The best of me you saw and the worst of
me. You knew me only for five days and yet no one in the world can know
me exactly as you do.”

“The pity of it----”

“The best of me and the worst of me, the man in me and the beast in me,
my sanity and my madness. All these you saw. The record is at least
complete.”

“I hope so.”

“I could not lie to you nor cheat you with false sentiment. I played
the game fairly until--until then.”

“Yes--until then.”

“You cared for me, there in the woods. I earned your friendship. And I
hoped that the time had come when I could prove--to you, at least, that
I was not to be found wanting.”

“And yet--you failed,” she said.

“Yes, I failed. Oh, I don’t try to make my sin any the less. I only
want you to remember the circumstances--to acquit me of any intention
to do you harm. I am no despoiler of women, even my enemies will
tell you so. That, thank God, was not a part of my heritage. I have
always looked on women of your sort with a kind of wonder. I have
never understood them--nor they me. I thought of them as I thought of
pictures or of children, things set apart from the grubby struggle for
material and moral existence. I liked to be with them because their
ways fell in pleasant places and because, in respecting them, I could
better learn to respect myself. God knows, I respected you--honored
you! Don’t say you don’t believe that!”

“I--I think you did----” she stammered.

“I tried to show you how much. You knew what was in my heart. I would
have died for you--or lived for you, if you could have wished it so.”

He paused a moment, his brows tangled in thought.

“I learned many things up there--things that neither men nor women nor
books had taught me, something of the directness and persistence of
the forces of nature, the binding contract of a man’s body with his
soul, the glorification of labor and the meaning of responsibility.
I was happy there--happy as I had never been before. I wanted the
days to be longer so that I could work harder for you, and my pride
in your comfort was the greatest pride I have ever known. You were my
fetich--the symbol of Intention. You made me believe in myself, and
defied the Enemy that was plucking at my elbow. I could have lived
there always and I prayed in secret that we might never be found. I
wanted you to believe in me as I was already beginning to believe in
myself. Whatever I had been--here in the world--up there at least I
was a success. I wanted to prove it thoroughly--to kill, that you
might eat and be warm--to hew and build, that you might be comfortable.
I wanted a shrine for you, that I might put you there and keep
you--always. I worshiped you, Jane, God help me, as I worship you now.”

His voice trembled and broke as he paused.

“I--I must not listen to you, Mr. Gallatin,” she said hurriedly, for
her heart was beating wildly.

“I worship you, Jane,” he repeated, “and I ask for nothing but your
pardon.”

“I--I forgive you,” she gasped.

“I’m glad of that. I’ll try to deserve your indulgence,” he said
slowly. He stopped again, and it was a long time before he went on.
The brougham was moving rapidly up the Avenue and the turmoil of night
sounds was fading into silence. Forty-second Street was already behind
them, and the fashionable restaurants were gay with lights. He seemed
to realize then that Jane would soon reach her destination, and he went
on quickly, as though there were still much that he must say in the
little time left to him to say it in. “I suppose it would be too much
if I asked you to let me see you once in a while,” he said quickly, as
though he feared her refusal.

“I--I’ve no doubt that we’ll meet, Mr. Gallatin.”

“I don’t mean that,” he persisted. “I don’t think I’ll be--I don’t
think I’ll go around much this winter. I want to talk to you, if you’ll
let me. I--I can’t give you up--I need you. I need your belief in me,
the incentive of your friendship, your spell to exorcise the--the Thing
that came between us.”

“I am trying to forget that,” she murmured. “It would be easier if--if
you hadn’t said what you did.”

“What did I say? I don’t know,” he said passionately.

“That you--you loved me. It was the brute in you that spoke--not the
man, the beast that kissed-- Oh!” She brushed the back of her hand
across her eyes. “It was not you! The memory of it will never go.”

He hung his head in shame.

“No, no, don’t!” he muttered. “You’re crucifying me!”

“If you had not said that----”

“It was monstrous. It was madness, but it was sweet.”

“Love is not brutal--does not shame--nor frighten,” she said slowly.
“You had been so--so clean--so calm----”

“It was Arcadia, Jane,” he whispered, “your Arcadia and mine. It was
the love in me that spoke, whatever I said--the love of a man, or of
a beast, if you like. But it spoke truly. There were no conventions
there but those of the forest, no laws but those of the heart. I had
known you less than a week, and I had known you always. And you--up
there--you loved me. Yes, it’s true. Do you think I couldn’t read in
your eyes?”

“No, no,” she protested. “It isn’t true. I--I didn’t love you--I
don’t----”

He had captured one of her hands and was leaning toward her, his voice
close at her ear, vibrant with emotion.

“You loved me--up there, Jane. The forest knew. The stream sang of it.
It was in Kee-way-din and the rain. It was part of the primeval, when
we lived a thousand years ago. Don’t you remember? I read it in your
eyes that night when I came in with the deer. You ran out to meet me,
like the cave-woman to greet her man. I was no longer the fugitive who
had built your hut, or made your fires. You had learned that I was
necessary to you, in other ways, not to your body--but to your spirit.”

“No. It’s not true.”

“That night you fed me--watched by me. I saw your eyes in my dreams,
the gentleness in them, their compassion, their perfect womanliness.
Such wonderful dreams! And when I awoke you were still there. I wanted
to tell you then that I knew--but I couldn’t. It would have made things
difficult for you. Then I got sick----”

“Don’t, Mr. Gallatin!”

He had taken her in his arms and held her face so that her lips lay
just beneath his own.

“Tell me the truth. You loved me then. You love me now? Isn’t it so?”

Her lips were silent, and one small tear trembled on her cheeks. But he
kissed it away.

“Look up at me, Jane. Answer. Whatever I am, whatever I hope to be,
you and I are one--indivisible. It has been so since the beginning.
There is no brute in me now, dear. See. I am all tenderness and
compassion. One fire burns out another. I’ll clean your lips with new
kisses--gentle ones--purge off the baser fire. I love you, Jane. And
you----?”

“Yes--yes,” she whispered faintly. “I do love you. I--I can’t help it.”

“Do you want to help it?”

“No. I don’t want to help it.”

“Kiss me, Jane.”

She raised her moist lips to his and he took them.

Past and Future whirled about their ears, dinning the alarm, but they
could not hear it, for the voice of the present, the wonderful present
was singing in their hearts. The brougham rolled noiselessly on, and
they did not know or care. Fifth Avenue was an Elysian Field, and their
journey could only end in Paradise.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

She did.

“I can’t see your eyes, Jane. I want to see them now. They’re like they
were--up there--aren’t they? They’re not cold, or scornful, or mocking,
as they’ve been all evening--not cruel as they were--in the Park? It’s
you, isn’t it? Really you?”

“Yes, what’s left of me,” she sighed. “It’s so sweet,” she whispered.
“I’ve dreamed of it--but I didn’t think it could ever be. I was afraid
of you----”

“Oh, Jane! How cruel you were!”

“I had to be. I _had_ to hurt you.”

“Why?”

“Because of my own pain. I wanted to make you suffer--as I
suffered--only more.”

“I did. Much more. You’re not afraid of me now?”

“No, no. I’m not afraid of you. I shouldn’t be--be where I am, if I
were.”

He took pains to give her locality a new definiteness.

“I’m not--what you thought I was?” he asked after that.

“No--yes--that is--I don’t know----”

“Jane!”

“I mean--I don’t believe I ever thought you anything but what you are.”

“You blessed child. And what am I?”

“A--a person. A dark-haired person--with a--face.”

“Is that all?”

“No. And an unshaven chin, a soiled flannel shirt, and a brown felt hat
with two holes punched in it.”

“Have I always been that?”

“Yes--always.”

“You liked that--that person better than you do this one?”

“I’m--not sure.” She straightened suddenly in his arms and drew away to
look at him. “Why--I’ve only known you--I only met you a few hours ago.
It’s dreadful of me--Mr. Gallatin.”

“Phil,” he corrected.

“Phil, then. The suddenness of everything--I’m not quite sure of
myself----”

“I’m not either. I’m afraid I’ll wake up.”

“You’re not the person with the glowering eyes,” she went on, “and
the--the stubbly chin--or the slouch hat and smelly pipe----”

“I’m too happy to glower. I couldn’t if I wanted to. But I’ve got the
hat and the smelly pipe. I can make the chin stubbly again--if you’ll
only wait a few days.”

“I don’t think I--I’d like it stubbly now.”

He laughed. But she stopped him again.

“I--I wish you’d tell me----”

She paused and he questioned.

“Something bothers me dreadfully.”

“What?”

“You didn’t think--when you--came with me to-night--that I could be
convinced--that you could--could win so easily, did you?”

“No, dear. I didn’t--I----”

“Quickly--or I shall die of shame.”

“I had no hope--none at all. I just wanted you to know how things were
with me. Thank God, you listened.”

“How could I do anything else but listen--in a brougham--I couldn’t
have jumped out into the street. Besides, you might have jumped, too.”

“I _would_ have,” he said grimly.

“It would have made a scene.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And the coachman--Mrs. Pennington would have known. Oh, don’t you see?
Mrs. Pennington only introduced us to-night----”

She drew away from him and looked out of the carriage window. They had
reached a neighborhood which was unfamiliar to her, where the houses
were smaller and the lights less frequent, and upon the left-hand side
there was no Park.

“There is some mistake,” she said a little bewildered. “We have come a
long way.”

He followed her look and laughed outright.

“We’re above the Park,” he said, opening the door. And then to the
coachman. “You got the wrong number.”

“One Hundred and Twentieth, sir,” came a voice promptly.

“_One Hundred and Twenty!_ Where are we now, Dawson?”

“Hundred and Ten, sir.”

Gallatin laughed, but Jane had sunk back in her corner in confusion.

“I said _Seventieth_ distinctly,” she murmured. “I’m _sure_ I did.”

“You’d better turn now,” said Gallatin to the man.

“Where to, sir?”

“To the Battery----”

“Mr. Gal--Phil!” cried Jane.

“I beg pardon, sir,” said Dawson.

Gallatin concealed his delight with difficulty.

“We’ve come too far, Dawson,” he said. “Miss Loring lives in Seventieth
Street.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” came a voice.

Gallatin shut the door and the vehicle turned.

Jane sat very straight in her corner and her fingers were rearranging
her disordered hair.

“Oh, Phil,--I’m shamed. How _could_ I have let him go past----”

“There are no numbers on the streets of Paradise.”

“It must be frightfully late.”

“--or watches in the pockets of demigods----”

“_Will_ you be serious!”

“Demigods are too happy to be serious.”

“That poor horse----”

“A wonderful horse, a horse among horses, but he goes too fast. He’ll
be there in no time. Can’t we take a turn in the Park?”

He stretched his hand toward the door, but she seized him by the arm.

“I forbid it. If Mrs. Pennington knew--” she stopped again in
consternation. “Phil! Do you think that Nellie Pennington----”

“I don’t know. She’s a wonderful woman--keeps amazing
horses--extraordinary coachmen----”

“Could she have told the man--to mistake me--purposely?”

“I think so,” he said brazenly. “She’s capable of
anything--anything--wonderful wom----”

“Phil, I’ll be angry with you.”

“No, you can’t.”

He took her in his arms again and she discovered that what he said was
true. She didn’t want to be angry. Besides, what did it matter, about
anything or anybody else in the world.

“I don’t know how this could have happened. I’ve hated you, Phil,” she
confessed after a while. “Oh, how I’ve hated you!”

“No.”

“Oh, yes. It’s true. I hated you. I really did. You were the living
emblem of my disgrace. When you got in here beside me to-night, I
loathed you. I’m still angry with myself. I can’t understand how I
could have yielded so--so completely.”

“It all happened a thousand years ago.”

“Yes, I know it. Up there--I seemed to remember that.”

“So did I--the same stream, the same rocks, the forest primeval.”

“And the voices----”

“Yes. You couldn’t change things. They were meant to be--from the
beginning.”

She drew closer into his arms and whispered.

“It frightens me a little, though.”

“What?”

“That it has happened in spite of me. That I had no power to resist.”

“Do you want to resist?”

“No, not now--not now.”

“You make me immortal. There’s no need to be frightened for me or for
you. The strength of the ages is in me, Jane. I’ll win out, dear,” he
whispered. “I’ll win out. For you--for us both.”

“I believe it,” she sighed. “It’s in you to win. I’ve known that, too.
You must put the--the Enemy to rout, Phil. I’ll help you. It’s my Enemy
as well as yours now. We’ll face it together--and it will fall. I know
it will.”

He laughed.

“God bless you for that. I’m not afraid of it. We’ve conjured it away
already. You’ve put me in armor, Jane. We’ll turn its weapons aside.”

“Yes, I’m sure of it.”

She looked up at him and by the glow of a street lamp he saw that she
was afraid no longer, for in her eyes was a light of love and faith
unalterable.

She could not know, nor did he, that outside in the darkness beside
their vehicle, his weapons sheathed, baffled and thwarted for the
moment, but still undismayed, strode the Enemy.




XIV

THE JUNIOR MEMBER


The offices of Kenyon, Hood and Gallatin were in the Mills Building,
and consisted of six rooms, one for each of the members of the firm,
and three for the clerks, stenographers and library. They were
plainly but comfortably furnished, and gave no token of extraordinary
prosperity or the lack of it. In no sense did they resemble the
magnificent suites which were maintained elsewhere in the building
by more precocious firms which had discovered the efficacy of the
game of “bluff,” and which used it in their business with successful
consistency. And yet there was an air of solidity here which indicated
a conservatism more to the liking of the class of people who found use
for the services of Kenyon, Hood and Gallatin.

John Kenyon, the senior member, belonged to that steadily decreasing
class of lawyers who look upon their profession as a calling with
traditions. He belonged to an older school of practitioners which still
clung to the ethics of a bygone generation. The business of many big
corporations went up in the elevator which passed before the door of
John Kenyon’s private office to a floor above, where its emissaries
could learn how to take the money that belonged to other people without
being jailed, or, having been jailed, how they could most quickly
be freed to obtain the use of their plunder. But Mr. Kenyon made no
effort to divert this tide. He wanted no part of it in his office. The
corporate interests which he represented were for the most part those
which required his services to resist the depredations planned upstairs.

John Kenyon would have been a great lawyer but for the lack of one
important ingredient of greatness--imagination. His knowledge of the
law was extraordinary. His mind was crystal-clear, analytical but not
inventive, judicial but not prophetic. He would have graced the robes
of a Justice of the Supreme Bench; but as a potent force in modern
affairs he was not far from mediocrity. He had begun his career in
the office of Philip Gallatin’s grandfather, had been associated with
Philip Gallatin’s father, but with the passing of the old firm he had
opened offices of his own. The initiative which he lacked had been
supplied by Gordon Hood, a brisk Bostonian of the omniscient type;
and the accession of young Philip Gallatin four years ago had done
still more to supply the ingredients which modern conditions seemed to
require. It had meant much to John Kenyon to have Phil in the firm, for
the perspective of Time had done little to dim the luster which hung
about the name of Gallatin and the junior member had shown early signs
that he, too, was possessed of much of the genius of his forebears.

Kenyon had watched the development of the boy with mingled delight and
apprehension and, with the memory of the failings of his ancestors
fresh in his mind, had done what he could to avert impending evil. It
was at his advice that young Gallatin had gone to the Canadian woods,
and he had noted with interest and not a little curiosity his return
to his desk two months ago sobered and invigorated. Phil had plunged
into the work which awaited him with quiet intention, and the way he
had taken hold of his problems and solved them, had filled the senior
partner with new hopes for his future. He loved the boy as he could
have loved a son, as he must love the son of Evelyn Westervelt, and
it had taken much to destroy John Kenyon’s belief in Phil’s ultimate
success. But this last failure had broken that faith. Through the
efforts of Gordon Hood the firm had won the suit for which Phil
Gallatin had prepared it, but it was an empty victory to John Kenyon,
who had seen during the preparation of the case Phil Gallatin’s chance,
his palingenesis--the restitution of all his rights, physical and moral.

Fully aware of John Kenyon’s attitude toward him, for two weeks
Philip Gallatin had remained uptown and, until his dinner at Mrs.
Pennington’s, to which he had gone in response to especial pleading,
had hidden himself even from his intimates. He had sent word to John
Kenyon that he was indisposed, but both men knew what his absence
meant. John Kenyon had been the one rock to which Phil Gallatin had
tied, the one man with whom he had been willing to talk of himself, the
one man of all his friends from whom he would even take a reproach. It
was on John Kenyon’s account, more even than on his own, that Gallatin
so keenly suffered for his failure at the critical moment. The time
had indeed come for a reckoning, and yesterday Gallatin had planned to
retire from the firm and save his senior partner the pains of further
responsibility on his account. He had been weighed in the balance, a
generous balance with weights which favored him, and had been found
wanting.

But last night a miracle had happened and the visit of renunciation
which he had even planned for this very morning had been turned into
one of contrition and appeal. And difficult as he found the interview
before him, he entered the office with a light step and a face aglow
with the new resolution which had banished the somber shadow that for
so long had hung about him.

It was early, and the business of the day had just begun. At his
appearance several of the stenographers looked up from their work and
scrutinized him with interest, and the chief clerk rose and greeted him.

“Good morning, Tooker,” he nodded cheerfully. “Is Mr. Kenyon in yet?”

“No, sir. It’s hardly his time----”

“Please tell him I’d like to see him if he can spare me a moment.”

Then he entered a door which bore his name and closed it carefully
behind him, opened his desk, glanced at his watch, made two or three
turns up and down the room and then took up the telephone book,
Logan--Lord--Lorimer, Loring. There it was. 7000 Plaza. He hesitated
again and then rang up the number.

It was some moments before the butler consented to get Miss Loring, and
when he did she did not recognize his voice.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Can’t you guess?”

“Oh, Phil! I didn’t know you at all. Where are you?”

“At the office.”

“Already! And I’m not out of bed!”

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry----”

“I’m glad. I didn’t mean to go to sleep, but I did sleep, somehow----”

“I haven’t been asleep. I couldn’t----”

“Why not?”

“It’s so much pleasanter to be awake.”

“I think so, too, but then I dreamed, Phil.”

“Pleasant dreams?”

“Oh, beautiful ones, full of demigods and things.”

“What things?”

“Enchanted broughams. Oh, how did it happen, Phil?”

“It had to happen.”

“I can’t believe it yet.”

He laughed. “If I were there I’d try to convince you.”

“Yes, I think you could. I’m willing to admit that.”

“Are you sorry?”

“N-o. But I’m so used to being myself. I can’t understand. It’s
strange--that’s all. And I’m glad you called me. I’ve had a terrifying
feeling that you must be somebody else, too.”

“I _am_ somebody else.”

“I mean somebody I don’t know very well.”

“There’s a remedy for that.”

“What?”

“Doses of demigod. Repeat every hour.”

“Oh----!”

“Don’t you like the prescription?”

“I--I think so.”

“Then why not try it?”

“I--I think I ought to, oughtn’t I?”

“I’m sure of it. In a day or so the symptoms you speak of will entirely
disappear.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“I--I think they’re less acute already. You really _are_ you, aren’t
you?”

“If I wasn’t, you wouldn’t be _you_, don’t you see?”

“Yes, and I’d be frightfully jealous if I had been somebody else.” She
laughed. “Oh, Phil! What a conversation! I hope no one is listening.”

“I’m sure they’re not. They couldn’t understand anyway.”

“Not unless they’re quite mad--as we are. What are you doing? Working?”

“Yes, drawing a deed for an acre in Paradise.”

“Don’t be foolish. Who for?”

“Me. And there’s a deed of trust.”

“I’ll sign that.”

“We’ll both sign it. It’s well secured, Jane. Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes, I do,” slowly.

There was a pause and then he asked, “When can I see you?”

“Soon.”

“This afternoon?”

“I’ve a luncheon.”

“And then----”

“Tea at the----Oh, Phil, I’ll have to cut that. There’s a dance
to-night, too, the Ledyards’.”

“This is getting serious.”

“What can I do? I’ve been frightfully rude already. Can’t you go?”

“Not sufficiently urged.”

“Then I shan’t either. I don’t want to go. I want--the acre of
Paradise.”

“Where will I meet you, Jane?”

“Here--at four.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Until then, good-by, and, Phil----”

“Yes.”

“Please wear that flannel shirt, disreputable hat and----”

“And the beard?”

“No--not the beard. But I want to be convinced there’s no mistake.”

“I’d rather convince you without them.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt you will,” she sighed. “There’s so much I’ve got to
say to you, Phil. I won’t know where to begin----”

“Just where you stopped.”

“But I--I wasn’t saying anything--just then. I couldn’t. There--there
were reasons.”

He laughed gayly.

“I’ve still other reasons.”

“Oh!”

“Convincing ones.”

“Phil, I won’t listen. Good-by!”

“Good-by.”

“Hadn’t we better go for a walk?” she asked.

“No--please----”

“Oh, very well,” with a tone of resignation. “There--you see, I’m
submitting again. At four, then. Good-by.” She cut off and he hung up
the receiver, sitting for a long while motionless, looking out of the
window. He took out his watch and was examining it impatiently when the
chief clerk came in.

“Mr. Kenyon will see you now, Mr. Gallatin,” he said.

John Kenyon paused in the reading of his mail and looked up over the
half-moons in his glasses when Gallatin appeared at the door.

“Come in, Phil,” he said quietly, offering his hand. He sat down
at his desk again and formally indicated the chair nearest it. His
manner was kindly and full of an old-fashioned dignity, indicating
neither indifference nor encouragement, and this seemed to make Philip
Gallatin’s position if anything more difficult and painful. Instead of
sitting, Gallatin turned toward the window and stood there.

“I’ve come back, Uncle John,” he muttered.

Kenyon glanced up at him, the calm judicial glance of a man who,
having no venal faults himself, tolerates them in others with
difficulty. There was no family relationship between the men, and
Gallatin’s use of the familiar term at this time meant much, and
something in Phil Gallatin’s pose arrested Kenyon’s eye, the jaw
that had worked forward and was now clamped tightly by its throbbing
muscles, the bulk of the squared shoulders and the decision with which
one hand clasped the chair-back.

“I’m glad of that, Phil,” he said. “I was on the point of thinking you
had given me up.”

“I had. I had given you up. I haven’t been down here because I knew it
wasn’t necessary for me to come and because I thought you’d understand.”

“I understood.”

“I wrote you two or three letters, but I tore them up. I wanted to
sever my connection with the firm. I wanted to save you the pain of
thinking about me any longer. I knew I hadn’t any right here, that I
haven’t had any right here for a long while--two or three years, that
I had been taking my share of fees I had never earned, and that it
was only through your friendship for me that I’ve been encouraged to
stay as long as this. I wanted to save you the pain of talking to me
again----”

“I’ve never denied you my friendship, Phil. I don’t deny it now. I only
thought that you might have----”

Gallatin turned swiftly and raised his hand.

“Don’t, Mr. Kenyon! For God’s sake, don’t reproach me,” he said
ardently. “Reproaches won’t help me--only wound. They’ve already been
ringing in my ears for days--since the last time----” he paused.

“Never mind.”

Gallatin strode the length of the room, struggling for the control of
his voice, and when he came back it was to stand facing the senior
partner quite composed.

“There isn’t a man in the world who would do as much for one who
merited so little. I’m not going over that. Words can’t mean much from
me to you; but what I would like you to know is that I don’t want to
go out of the firm, and that, if you’ll bear with me, I want another
chance to prove myself. I’ve never promised anything. You’ve never
asked me to. Thank God, that much of my self-respect at least is saved
out of the ruins. I want to give my word now----”

“Don’t do that,” said Kenyon hurriedly. “It isn’t necessary.”

“Yes, I must. I’ve given it to myself, and I’ll keep it, never fear.
That--was the last--the very last.”

Kenyon twisted his thin body in his chair and looked up at the junior
member keenly, but as he did so his eyes blurred and he saw, as thirty
years ago he had seen the figure of this boy’s father standing as
Phil Gallatin was standing enmeshed in the toils of Fate, gifted,
handsome, lovable--and yet doomed to go, a mental and physical ruin,
before his time. The resemblance of Philip Gallatin to his father was
striking--the same high forehead, heavy brows and deep-set eyes, the
same cleanly cut aquiline nose, and heavy chin. There were lines, too,
in Phil Gallatin’s face, lines which had appeared in the last two
years which made the resemblance even more assured. And yet to John
Kenyon, there seemed to be a difference. There was something of Evelyn
Westervelt in him, too, the clean straight line of the jawbone and the
firmly modeled lips, thinner than the father’s and more decisive.

“I’m glad of that, Phil,” he said slowly.

“I’m not asking you to believe in me again. Broken faith can’t be
repaired by phrases. I don’t want you to believe in me until I’ve made
good. I want to come in here again on sufferance, as you took me in six
years ago, without a share in the business of the firm that I don’t
make myself or for which I don’t give my services. I want to begin at
the bottom of the ladder again and climb it rung by rung.”

“Oh, I can’t listen to that. Our partnership agreement----”

“That agreement is canceled. I don’t want a partnership agreement. It’s
got to be so. I’ve been thinking hard, Mr. Kenyon. It’s responsibility
I need----”

“You’re talking nonsense, Phil. You did more work in the Marvin case
than either Hood or myself.”

“Perhaps, but I didn’t win it,” he said quickly.

“The firm did.”

“I can’t agree with you. I’ll come in this office on the conditions I
suggest, or I must withdraw. My mind is made up on that. I don’t want
to go, and it won’t be easier for me anywhere else. This is where I
belong, and this is where I want to fight my battle, if I can do it
in my own way without the moral or financial help of any one--of you,
least of all.”

Gallatin paused and walked, his head bent, the length of the room. John
Kenyon followed him with his eyes, then turned to the window and for a
long while remained motionless. Philip Gallatin returned to the vacant
chair and sat leaning forward eagerly.

The senior partner turned at last, his kind homely face alight with a
smile.

“You don’t need my faith, my boy, if you’ve got faith of your own, but
I give it to you gladly. Give me your hand.” He got up and the two men
clasped hands, and Phil Gallatin’s eyes did not flicker or fade before
the searching gaze of the other man. It was a pact, none the less
solemn for the silence with which one of them entered into it.

“You’re awake, Phil?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s it, Uncle John. Awake,” said Gallatin.

“I’m glad--I’m very glad. And I believe it. I’ve never been able to get
used to the idea of your being really out of here. We need you, my boy,
and I’ve got work for you, of the kind that will put your mettle to the
test. There’s a great opportunity in it, and I’ll gladly turn it over
to you. ‘_Sic itur ad astra_,’ my boy. Will you take it?”

“Gladly. A corporation case?”

“_Sanborn et al. vs. The Sanborn Mining Company._ Sit here and I’ll
explain it to you.”




XV

DISCOVERED


Women have a code of their own, a system of signals, a lip and sign
language perfectly intelligible among themselves, but mystifying, as
they purpose it to be, to mere man. Overweening husbands, with a fine
air of letting the cat out of the bag, have been known to whisper that
these carefully guarded secrets are no secrets at all, and that women
are merely children of a larger growth, playing at hide and seek with
one another (and with their common enemy) for the mere love of the
game, that there are no mysteries in their natures to be solved, and
that the vaunted woman’s instinct, like the child’s, is as apt to be
wrong as often as it is right. Of course, no one believes this, and
even if one did, man would go his way and woman hers. Woman would
continue to believe in the accuracy of her intuitions and man would
continue to marvel at them. Woman would continue to play at hide and
seek, and man would continue to enjoy the game.

Call them by what name you please, instinct, intuition, or guesswork,
Mrs. Richard Pennington had succeeded by methods entirely feminine,
in discovering that Phil Gallatin’s Dryad was Jane Loring, that he
was badly in love with her and that Jane was not indifferent to his
attentions. Phil Gallatin had not been difficult to read, and Mrs.
Pennington took a greater pride in the discovery of Jane’s share in the
romance, for she knew when Jane left her house in company with Phil
that her intuition had not erred.

Jane Loring had kissed her on both cheeks and called her “odious.”

This in itself was almost enough, but to complete the chain of
evidence, she learned that Dawson, her head coachman, in the course of
execution of her orders, had gone as far North as 125th Street before
his unfortunate mistake of Miss Loring’s number had been discovered by
the occupants of the brougham.

Mrs. Pennington realized that this last bit of evidence had been
obtained at the expense of a breach of hospitality, for she was not a
woman who made a practice of talking with her servants, but she was
sure that the ends had justified the means and the complete success of
her maneuver more than compensated for her slight loss of self-respect
in its accomplishment.

But while her discovery pleased her, she was not without a sense of
responsibility in the matter. She had been hoping for a year that a
girl of the right kind would come between Phil and the fate he seemed
to be courting, for since his mother’s death he had lived alone, and
seclusion was not good for men of his habits. She had wanted Phil to
meet Jane Loring, and her object in bringing them together had been
expressed in a definite hope that they would learn to like each other
a great deal. But now that she knew what their relations were, she was
slightly oppressed by the thought of unpleasant possibilities.

It was in the midst of these reflections that Miss Jaffray was
announced, and in a moment she entered the room with a long
half-mannish, half-feline stride and took up her place before the
mantelpiece where she stood, her feet apart, toasting her back at the
open fire. Mrs. Pennington indicated the cigarettes, and Nina Jaffray
took one, rolling it in her fingers and tapping the end of it on her
wrist to shake out the loose dust as a man would do.

“I’m flattered, Nina,” said Nellie Pennington. “To what virtue of mine
am I indebted for the earliness of this visit?”

“I slept badly,” said Nina laconically.

“And I’m the anodyne? Thanks.”

“Oh, no; merely an antidote.”

“For what?”

“Myself. I’ve got the blues.”

“You! Impossible.”

“Oh, yes. It’s quite true. I’m quite wretched.”

“Dressmaker or milliner?”

“Neither. Just bored, I think. You know I’ve been out five years now.
Think of it! And I’m twenty-four. Isn’t that enough to make an angel
weep?”

“It’s too sad to mention,” said Mrs. Pennington. “You used to be such a
nice little thing, too.”

Nina Jaffray raised a hand in protest.

“Don’t, Nellie, it’s no joke, I can tell you. I’m _not_ a nice little
thing any longer, and I know it. I’m a hoydenish, hard-riding,
loud-spoken vixen, and that’s the truth. I wish I _was_ a ‘nice little
thing’ as you call it, like Jane Loring for instance, with illusions
and hopes and a proclivity for virtue. I’m not. I like the talk of
men----”

“That’s not unnatural--so do I.”

“I mean the talk of men among men. They interest me, more what they say
than what they are. They’re genuine, somehow. You can get the worst
and the best of them at a sitting. One can’t do that with women. Most
of us are forever purring and pawing and my-dearing one another when
we know that what we want to do is to spit and claw. I like the easy
ways of men--collectively, Nellie, not individually, and I’ve come and
gone among them because it seemed the most natural thing in the world
to do. I’ve made a mistake. I know it now. When a girl gets to be ‘a
good fellow’ she does it at the expense either of her femininity or her
morals. And men make the distinction without difficulty. I’m ‘a good
fellow,’” she said scornfully, “and I’m decent. Men know it, but they
know, too, that I have no individual appeal. Why only last week at the
Breakfast the Sackett boy clapped me on the back and called me ‘a jolly
fine chap.’ I put him down, I can tell you. I’d rather he’d called
me anything--anything--even something dreadful--if it had only been
feminine.”

She flicked her cigarette into the fire and dropped into a chair.

Mrs. Pennington laughed.

“All this is very unmanly of you, Nina.”

“Oh, I’m not joking. You’re like the others. Just because I’ve ridden
through life with a light hand, you think I’m in no danger of a
cropper. Well, I am. I’ve had too light a hand, and I’m out in the
back-stretch with a winded horse. _You_ didn’t make that mistake,
Nellie. Why couldn’t you have warned me?”

Mrs. Pennington held off the embroidery frame at arm’s length and
examined it with interest.

“You didn’t ask me to, Nina,” she replied quietly.

“No, I didn’t. I never ask advice. When I do, it’s only to do the other
thing. But you might have offered it just the same.”

“I might have, if I knew you wouldn’t have followed it.”

“No,” reflectively. “I think I’d have done what you said. I like
you immensely, you know, Nellie. You’re a good sort--besides being
everything I’m not.”

“Meaning--what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’re all woman, for one thing.”

“I have had two children,” smiled the other toward the ceiling. “I
could hardly be anything else.”

“Is _that_ it?” asked the visitor; and then after a pause, “I don’t
like children.”

“Not other people’s. You’d adore your own.”

“I wonder.”

Mrs. Pennington’s pretty shoulders gave an expressive shrug.

“Marry, my dear. Nothing defines one’s sex so accurately. Marry for
love if you can, marry for money if you must, but marry just the same.
You may be unhappy, but you’ll never be bored.”

Nina Jaffray gazed long into the fire.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” she said. “That’s what I came to see you
about.”

“Oh, Nina, I’m delighted!” cried Nellie Pennington genuinely, “and so
flattered. Who, my dear child?”

“I’ve been thinking--seriously.”

“You must have had dozens of offers.”

“Oh, yes, from fortune hunters and gentlemen jockeys, but I’m not
a philanthropic institution. Curiously enough my taste is quite
conventional. I want a New Yorker--a man with a mind--with a future,
perhaps, neither a prig nor a rake--human enough not to be too good,
decent enough not to be burdensome--a man with weaknesses, if you like,
a poor man, perhaps----”

“Nina. Who?”

Miss Jaffray paused.

“I thought I’d marry Phil Gallatin,” she said quietly.

Mrs. Pennington laid her embroidery frame down and looked up quickly.
Nina Jaffray’s long legs were extended toward the blaze, but her head
was lowered and her eyes gazed steadily before her. It was easily to
be seen that she was quite serious--more serious than Mrs. Pennington
liked.

“Phil Gallatin! Oh, Nina, you can’t mean it?”

“I do. There isn’t a man in New York I’d rather marry than Phil.”

“Does he know it?”

“No. But I mean that he shall.”

“Don’t be foolish. You two would end in the ditch in no time.”

Nina straightened and examined her hostess calmly.

“Do you think so?” she asked at last.

“Yes, I think so----” Nellie Pennington paused, and whatever it was
that she had in mind to say remained unspoken. Instinct had already
warned her that Nina was the kind of girl who is only encouraged by
obstacles, and it was not her duty to impose them.

“Stranger things have happened, Nellie,” she laughed.

“But are you sure Phil will--er--accept you?”

“Oh, no, and I shan’t be discouraged if he refuses,” she went on
oblivious of Nellie Pennington’s humor.

“Then you _do_ mean to speak to him?”

“Of course.” Nina’s eyes showed only grave surprise at the question.
“How should he know it otherwise?”

“Your methods are nothing, if not direct.”

“Phil would never guess unless I told him. For a clever man he’s
singularly stupid about women. I think that’s why I like him. Why
shouldn’t I tell him? What’s the use of beating around the bush? It’s
such a waste of time and energy.”

Mrs. Pennington’s laugh threw discretion to the winds.

“Oh, Nina, you’ll be the death of me yet. There never was such a
passion since the beginning of Time.”

“I didn’t say I _loved_ Phil Gallatin,” corrected Nina promptly. “I
said I’d decided to marry him.”

“And have you any reason to suppose that he shares your--er--nubile
emotions?”

“None whatever. He has always been quite indifferent to me--to all
women. I think the arrangement might be advantageous to him. He’s quite
poor and I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. He’s not a
fool, and I’m--Nellie, I’m not old-looking or ugly, am I? Why shouldn’t
he like me, if he doesn’t like any one else?”

“No reason in the world, dear. _I’d_ marry you, if _I_ were a man.”

Mrs. Pennington took to cover uneasily, conscious that here was a
situation over which she could have no control. She was not in Phil
Gallatin’s confidence or in Jane Loring’s, and the only kind of
discouragement she could offer must fail of effectiveness with a girl
who all her life had done everything in the world that she wanted
to do, and who had apparently decided that what she now wanted was
Phil Gallatin. Nina’s plans would have been amusing had they not been
rather pathetic, for Nellie Pennington had sought and found below
her visitor’s calm exterior, a vein of seriousness, of regret and
self-reproach, which was not to be diverted by the usual methods. Did
she really care for Phil? Clever as Mrs. Pennington was, she could not
answer that. But she knew that it was a part of Nina Jaffray’s methods
to do the unexpected thing, so that her sincerity was therefore always
open to question. Nellie Pennington took the benefit of that doubt.

“Has it occurred to you, Nina, that he may care for some one else?”

Her visitor turned quickly. “You don’t think so, do you?” she asked
sharply.

“How should _I_ know?” Mrs. Pennington evaded.

“I’ve thought of that, Nellie. Who was Phil’s wood-nymph? He’s very
secretive about it. I wonder why.”

“I don’t believe there _was_ a wood-nymph,” said Mrs. Pennington
slowly. “Besides, Phil would hardly be in love with that sort of girl.”

“That’s just the point. What sort of a girl was she? What reason could
Phil have for keeping the thing a secret? Was it an amourette? If it
was, then it’s Phil Gallatin’s business and nobody else’s. But if the
girl was one of Phil’s own class and station, like----”

“Miss Loring,” announced the French maid softly from the doorway.

Nina Jaffray paused and an expression of annoyance crossed her face.
She straightened slowly in her chair, then rose and walked across
the room. Mrs. Pennington hoped that she would go, but she only took
another cigarette and lit it carefully.

“You’re too popular, Nellie,” she said, taking a chair by the fire.

Mrs. Pennington raised a protesting hand.

“Don’t say that, Nina. For years I’ve been dreading that adjective.
When a woman finds herself popular with her own sex it means that she’s
either too passée to be dangerous, too staid to be interesting, or too
stupid to be either. Morning, Jane! So glad! Is it chilly out or are
those cheeks your impersonal expression of the joy of living?”

“Both, you lazy creature! How do you do, Nina? This is my dinner call,
Mrs. Pennington. I simply couldn’t wait to be formal.”

“I’m glad, dear.” And then mischievously, “Did you get home safely?”

“Oh, yes, but it was a pity to take _poor_ Mr. Gallatin so far out of
his way,” she replied carelessly.

“_Poor_ Phil! That’s the fate of these stupid ineligible bachelors--to
act as postilion to the chariot of Venus. Awfully nice boy, but so
uninteresting at times.”

“Is he? I thought him very attractive,” said Jane. “He’s one of _the_
Gallatins, isn’t he?”

“Yes, dear, the last of them. I was afraid you wouldn’t like him.”

“Oh, yes, I do. Quite a great deal. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he,
Nina?”

“I’ve known him for ages,” said Miss Jaffray dryly; and then to Mrs.
Pennington, “Why shouldn’t Jane like him, Nellie?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she finished with a gesture of graceful retirement.
Their game of hide and seek was amusing, but hazardous in the present
company, so she quickly turned the conversation into other channels.

Nina Jaffray and Jane Loring had met in the late autumn at a house
party at the Ledyards’ place in Virginia, and while their natures were
hardly concordant, each had found in the other some ingredients which
made for amiability. Jane’s interest had been dictated by curiosity
rather than approval, for Nina Jaffray was like no other girl she had
ever met before. Whatever her manners, and these, Jane discovered,
could be atrocious, her instincts were good, and her intentions seemed
of the best. To Miss Jaffray, Jane Loring was ‘a nice little thing’ who
had shown a disposition not to interfere with other people’s plans, a
nice little thing, amiable and a trifle prudish, for whom Nina’s kind
of men hadn’t seemed to care. They had not been, and could never be
intimate, but upon a basis of good fellowship, they existed with mutual
toleration and regard.

Nellie Pennington, from her shadowed corner, watched the two girls
with the keenest of interest and curiosity. Nina Jaffray sat with
hands clasped around one upraised knee, her head on one side listening
carelessly to Jane’s enthusiastic account of the Ledyards’ ball,
commenting only in monosyllables, but interested in spite of herself
in Jane’s ingenuous point of view, aware in her own heart of a slight
sense of envy that she no longer possessed a susceptibility to those
fresh impressions.

Nina was not pretty this morning, Nellie Pennington thought. Hers
was the effectiveness of midnight which requires a spot-light and
accessories and, unless in the hunting field, midday was unkind to her;
while Jane who had danced late brought with her all the freshness of
early blossoms. But she liked Nina, and that remarkable confession,
however stagy and Nina-esque, had set her thinking about Jane Loring
and Mr. Gallatin. It was a pretty triangle and promised interesting
possibilities.

Jane was still speaking when Nina interrupted, as though through all
that she had heard, one train of thought had persisted.

“What did you mean, Nellie, about Phil Gallatin being ineligible?” she
asked. “And I _know_ you don’t think him stupid. And why shouldn’t Jane
Loring like him? I don’t think I understand?”

Nellie Pennington smiled. She had made a mistake. Hide and seek as a
game depends for its success upon the elimination of the bystander.

“I am afraid, of course, that Jane would be falling in love with him,”
she said lightly. And then, “That would have been a pity. Don’t you
think so, Nina?”

“There’s hardly a danger of that,” laughed Jane, “seeing that I’ve
just--just been introduced to the man. You needn’t be at all afraid,
Nina.”

“I’m not. Besides he’s awfully gone on a wood-nymph. You saw him blush
when I spoke of it at dinner here--didn’t you, Jane?”

“Yes, I did,” said Jane, now quite rosy herself.

“Phil wouldn’t have blushed you know,” said Nina confidently, “unless
he was terribly rattled. He _was_ rattled. That’s what I can’t
understand. Suppose he did find a girl who was lost in the woods.
What of it? It’s nobody’s business but his own and the girl’s. I’d be
furious if people talked about me the way they’re talking about Phil
and that girl. I was lost once in the Adirondacks. You were, too, in
Canada only last summer, Jane. You told me so down in Virginia and----”

Jane Loring had struggled hard to control her emotion, and bent her
head forward to conceal her discomposure, but Nina’s eyes caught the
rising color which had flowed to the very tips of her ears.

“Jane!” cried Nina in sharp accents of amazed discovery. “It was you!”

The game of hide and seek had terminated disastrously for Jane, and her
system of signals, useful to deceive as well as reveal had betrayed
her. It was clearly to be seen that further dissimulation would be
futile, so she raised her head slowly, the color gone from her cheeks.

“Yes, it was I,” she said with admirable coolness. “Meeting Mr.
Gallatin here the other night reminded me of it. That was one of the
things I came to tell Mrs. Pennington this morning. But I don’t suppose
there’s any reason why you shouldn’t know it, too, Nina. If it hadn’t
been for Mr. Gallatin I know I should have _died_. You see, I had
slipped and wrenched my ankle and, of course, couldn’t move----”

“It must have been terrible!” put in Nellie Pennington in dire
distress. “You poor child!”

“I haven’t spoken of it,” Jane went on hurriedly, “because there
wasn’t any reason why I should. But now, of course, that this story
is going the rounds, it’s just as well that people knew. It wasn’t
necessary to tell Mr. Gallatin my name up there, and until he met me
in New York he did not know who I was. That, of course, is why the
whole thing has seemed so mysterious.” She paused and smiled rather
obtrusively at her companions. “It’s really a very trivial matter to
make such a fuss about, isn’t it?”

“Absurd!” said Mrs. Pennington, with enthusiasm. “I wouldn’t worry
about it in the least.”

“It _does_ sound rather romantic, though,” laughed Jane uneasily, “but
it wasn’t a bit. We nearly starved and _poor_ Mr. Gallatin was almost
dead with fatigue--when they found us.”

“Who found you?” asked Miss Jaffray.

“The guides, of course.”

“Oh!” said Nina.

Nellie Pennington put down her embroidery and rose. This wouldn’t do.

“Jane,” she said laughing. “You make me wild with envy. You’re a person
to whom all sorts of interesting things are always happening. And now I
hear you’re engaged to Coleman Van Duyn. Come, child, sit here and tell
me all about it.”

“It’s not true. I’m very flattered, of course, but----”

“You’d better admit it. Nina won’t tell, will you, Nina?”

But Miss Jaffray had risen and was drawing on her gloves.

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t tell. Besides--you know I don’t believe it.” She
glanced at the clock, and brushed a speck from her sleeve.

“I think I’ll be going on,” she said. “Good-by, Jane. Nellie, I’ll see
you at the ‘Pot and Kettle,’ won’t I?” and went out of the room.

Mrs. Pennington followed her to the upper landing and when she had
gone, returned thoughtfully to the room.




XVI

BEHIND THE ENEMY’S BACK


As she turned and came into the room again, Jane Loring met her in the
middle of the rug, seized her in her arms, kissed her rapturously on
both cheeks, and confessed, though not without some hesitation, the
object of her visit. Nellie Pennington led her to a divan near the
window, and seated there holding one of her visitor’s hands in both
of hers, listened enchanted to the full tale of Jane’s romance. Her
delight was undisguised, for Nina Jaffray’s rather frigid exit had
already been forgotten by them both.

“Oh, Nellie, I’m so happy. I simply _had_ to tell somebody. I wanted to
come here yesterday, but I couldn’t muster up the courage.”

“And I’m not really ‘odious’?” asked Mrs. Pennington.

“No, no,” laughed Jane. “You’re a sister to the angels. I hated him,
Nellie, that night. I would have died rather than let him know I cared
for him--and yet--I _did_ let him know it----”

“Love and hate are first cousins. Love hates because it’s afraid, Jane.”

“Yes, that’s true. I was afraid of myself--of him----”

“Not now?”

“No,” proudly. “Not even of Fate itself. We’ll face whatever is to
come--together. I believe in him--utterly.”

Nellie Pennington kissed her.

“So do I, Jane. I always have--and in you. I can’t tell you how glad I
am that you have told me all this. Flattered, too, child. I’m rather
worldly wise, perhaps, even more so than your mother----”

“I haven’t told mother,” Jane put in with sudden demureness.

“Take my advice and do so immediately. Omit nothing. Your mother must
put a stop to this story by telling the truth.”

“Mother, you know, had hoped that I would marry Coleman Van Duyn. She
doesn’t approve of Phil, and father--” Jane paused as she remembered
her father’s estimate of Phil Gallatin--“and neither does my father,”
she finished thoughtfully.

“Oh, it will work out some way; such things do. But tell them at once.”

“I think I had already decided that. But it isn’t going to be easy.
With me--with mother, my father is the soul of kindness, but with
men----” She paused.

“Phil must take his chance.”

“Yes, but father must respect him.”

“Phil must earn his respect.”

Jane was silent for a moment.

“My father has a sharp tongue at times,” she went on. “He has mentioned
Phil Gallatin’s name--unpleasantly. I couldn’t stand hearing him spoken
about in that way. I couldn’t listen. I couldn’t tolerate it--even from
my father. I have made a decision and father must abide by it. He must
accept Phil as I have accepted him. I am satisfied. A man’s past is his
own. He can only give a girl his future. I used to think differently,
but I’m content with that. Phil’s future is mine, and I’ll take my half
of it, whatever it is.”

At the mention of her father, Jane had risen and walked restlessly
about, but as she finished speaking she turned and faced her companion
squarely. Nellie Pennington rose and took her again in her arms.

“You’ll do, Jane. I’m not afraid for you--for either of you. Let me
help you. I want to. I don’t think I could be happier if I were in love
myself. He’s worthy of you. I’m sure of it. Shall you marry him soon,
dear?”

Jane colored adorably.

“No--not soon, I think. We have not spoken of that. Phil wants time--to
prove--to show--everybody----”

She paused and Nellie Pennington breathed a sigh of relief. Her
responsibilities had oppressed her.

“Let him, Jane,” she urged quickly. “It’s better so. You’re very young.
There’s plenty of time. A year or two and then----”

“I’ll marry him when he asks me to,” Jane finished simply.

Nellie Pennington pressed her hands warmly, and they sat for a
long time side by side while Jane told of all that had happened in
the woods, including the sudden and unpleasant termination of her
idyl. Nellie Pennington listened soberly, and learned more of the
definiteness with which fate had placed the steps of these two young
people upon the same pathway into the future. Love dwelt in Jane’s
eyes and confidence, a trust and belief in Phil Gallatin that put
Nellie Pennington’s rather assertive indorsement of him to the blush.
She realized now that below Jane Loring’s placid exterior, there was
a depth of feeling, a quiet strength and resolution of which she had
never even dreamed; for she, too, had thought Jane a “nice little
thing”--a pretty, amiable, cheerful soul without prejudices, who would
add much to her own joy of life, and to the intimate circle of young
people she chose to gather around her. Some of the girl’s faith found
its way into her own heart and she saw Phil now, as she had always
hoped to see him, taking his place among the workers of the world,
using the brains God had given him, and accomplishing the great things
that she knew had always been within his power to accomplish.

When Jane rose to go, Mrs. Pennington detained her a moment longer.

“How well do you know Nina Jaffray?” she asked slowly.

“Oh, we’ve always got along admirably, because we’ve never interfered
with each other, I think. But I don’t understand her--nor does she me.
Why do you ask?”

“Oh--I don’t know----”

“I thought you liked her, Nellie.”

“I do. I like everybody who doesn’t bore me. Nina amuses me because she
keeps me in a continual state of surprise. That’s all very well so long
as her surprises are pleasant ones; but when she wishes to be annoying,
I assure you she can be amazingly disagreeable.”

“I imagine so. But I don’t think we’ll have differences--at least I
hope----”

“Don’t be too intimate--that’s all. Understand?”

They kissed; after which Jane departed, and on the way uptown found
herself wondering from time to time whether Nellie Pennington could
have meant something more than Jane thought she did. But in her state
of exaltation nothing could long avail to divert her spirit from its
joyous flight among the enchanted realms that had been discovered
to her. That afternoon late, it was only going to be very late in
the afternoon she now remembered, Phil Gallatin was to walk home
with her from somebody’s tea, to-morrow they were to dine at the
Dorsey-Martin’s, and late in the week there was the party at the
“Pot and Kettle.” After that--but what did it matter what happened
after that? Each day, she knew, was to be more wonderful than the one
that had gone before and it was not well to question the future too
insistently. Sufficient unto the day was the good thereof, and Solomon
indeed was not arrayed--inwardly at least--as Jane was.

Taking Mrs. Pennington’s advice, as soon as she reached home she
sought her mother’s room. Mrs. Loring was reclining at full length on
a portable wooden table which had been set up in the middle of her
large apartment, and an osteopath was busy manipulating her small
body. There wasn’t really anything the matter with her except social
fag, but she chose this method of rehabilitating her tired nerves
instead of active exercise which she abhorred. It was almost with a
feeling of pity that Jane sat beside her mother when the practitioner
had departed, for she knew that a scene would follow her confidences.
And she was not mistaken; for when half an hour later, Jane went to
her own room, her mother was in a state of collapse upon her bed, and
Jane’s nerves were singing like taut wires, while on her mind were
unpleasantly impressed the final words of maternal recrimination. But
Jane knew that in spite of the violence of her mother’s opposition, she
was very much less to be dreaded than her father, and that by to-morrow
she would be reconciled to her daughter’s point of view and even might
be reckoned upon as an ally. Nor would she speak to Mr. Loring without
her daughter’s acquiescence. This Jane had no intention of giving, for
she was sure that a meeting of her father and Phil, which must, of
course, ensue at once, was not to be looked forward to with pleasurable
expectation.

It was therefore in no very happy mood that Jane met Phil Gallatin late
that afternoon at the Suydams’ tea whence he went home with her. She
had said nothing of her interview with her mother, and was relieved to
learn at the house that Mrs. Loring had gone out.

She led Phil back into the library and they sat before the open fire.

“What is it, Jane?” he asked. “Are you regretting----?”

“No,” she smiled. “There isn’t room in my heart for regret. It’s full
of--other things.”

“I’m very dense. Can you prove it?”

“I’ll try.”

The davenport was huge, but only one end of it complained of their
weight.

“Phil, are you _sure_ there is no mistake?”

“Positive.”

“And you never cared for any one else?”

[Illustration: “‘And you never cared for any one else?’”]

“Never.”

“Not Nina Jaffray?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“She once told me you had a boy-and-girl affair.”

“Oh, that! She used to tease me and I would wash her face in the snow.
That’s Nina’s idea of mutual affection.”

“It isn’t her idea now, is it?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Larry Kane.”

“And you don’t ever think about her?”

“No--except with vague alarm for the safety of the species.”

Jane laughed. “I don’t want you to be unkind,” she said, but was not
displeased.

There was a silence in which Gallatin peered around the great room and
his eyes smiled as they sought her face again.

“What are you thinking of?” she asked.

“Of this shelter--and another.”

“Up among the pine trees? Oh, how white and cold it must be there now!
It’s ours though, Phil, so personal----”

“I’ll build another--here in New York.”

“Not like this?”

“No--hardly--” he smiled.

“I’m glad of that. This house oppresses me. It’s so big--so silent and
yet so noisy with the money that has been spent on it. I don’t like
money, Phil.”

“That’s because you’ve never felt the need of it. I’m glad you don’t,
though. You know I’m not very well off.”

“I don’t suppose Daddy would ever let me starve,” she laughed.

His expression changed and he chose his words deliberately, his face
turned toward the fire.

“It isn’t my intention to place you in any such position,” he said with
curious precision. “I don’t think you understand. It isn’t possible for
me to accept anything from your father, except yourself, Jane. I’ll
take you empty-handed as I first found you--or not at all.”

“But even then you know it was _my_ saucepan----”

But he shook his head. “It isn’t a question of saucepans now.”

“You’re not fair, Phil,” she murmured soberly. “Is it my fault that
father has become what he is? Why shouldn’t I help? I have something of
my own--some stock in----”

He closed her lips with a kiss.

“I’ve got to have my own way. Can’t you understand?” he whispered
earnestly. “It’s my sanity I’m fighting for--sanity of body and mind,
and the medicines are toil--drudgery--responsibility. I’ve never
known what work really meant. One doesn’t learn that sort of thing
in the crowd I’ve been brought up with. It’s only the money a fellow
makes himself that does him any good. I’ve seen other fellows raised as
I was--losing their hold on life--slipping into the quagmire. I always
thought I could pull up when I liked--when I got ready. But when I
tried--I found I couldn’t.”

He paused and Jane pressed his hand in both of hers. But he went on
decisively, “Desperate illnesses need desperate remedies, Jane. I
learned that--up there with you. I’ve been ill, but I’ve found the
cure and I’m taking it already. Downtown I’ve cut myself off from all
financial support. I shan’t have a dollar that I cannot make. I’m
driven to the wall--and I’m going to fight.”

He paused and then turned and looked into her eyes. “That’s why it is
that I want you to come to me empty-handed. I want to remember every
hour of the day that on my efforts alone your happiness depends--_your_
peace of mind, _your_ future.”

“Yes, I understand--but it might be made easier----”

“There isn’t any easy way. And, whatever my other sins, I wouldn’t
climb to fortune on a woman’s shoulders. I’ve nothing to offer you but
my love----”

“It’s enough.”

“No, I came into your life a pauper--a derelict--an idler--a dr----”

“Don’t, Phil,” she whispered, her fingers on his lips.

“I shall come to you sane and whole or I shall not come to you. I ask
nothing of you. You must make me no promises.”

“I don’t see how you can prevent that,” she smiled. “I shall make them
anyway.”

“No, you’re not promised to me.”

“I am.”

“No.”

“I don’t see how you can prevent my promising. I promise to love, honor
and obey----”

“Then obey at once and stop promising.”

“I won’t----”

“Then what validity has a promise, broken the moment it’s made?” His
logic was inevitable.

“Cherish, then,” she evaded.

He held her away from him, looked into her eyes and laughed. “If it
establishes no precedent--er--you may cherish me at once.”

“What does cherish mean?”

He showed her.

“I’m afraid the precedent is already established, Phil,” she sighed.
She sank back in his arms and he kissed her tenderly.

“I can’t stop seeing you, Jane,” he whispered at her ear. “You renew
me, give me new faith in myself, new hope for the future. I know that I
oughtn’t to have the right, but I can’t give you up. I need you. When
I’m with you, I wonder how there could ever be any sin in the world.
Your eyes are so clear, dear, like the pool--_our_ pool in the woods
and my image in them is as clear as they are. Whatever I’ve said I
don’t want that image to go out of them. Keep it there, Jane, no matter
what happens, and believe in me.”

“I will,” she whispered, “whatever happens.”

“I’ll come for you some day, dear,--soon perhaps. I’m working on a big
case, one that involves large issues. All of me that isn’t yours, I’m
giving to that--and that’s yours, too.”

“You’ll win, Phil.”

“Yes, I’ll win. I must win,” he finished. “I _must_.”

“Oh, Phil, dear,” she murmured. “It doesn’t matter. What should I care
whether you win or lose? Whatever you have been, whatever you are or
hope to be, you’ve kissed me and I’m yours--until the end. What does
it matter what I promise--or what I fail to promise? I’ll wait for you
because you wish it, but I would tell the world to-morrow if you’d let
me.”

“No,” he said quickly. “Not yet. I want to look my Enemy in the eyes,
Jane, for--for a long while. I’ll stare him down until he slinks
away--not into the shadows behind me--but away--far off--so far that he
shall not find me again--or I him--ever.”

“Is the Enemy here--now?” she questioned anxiously.

“No,” he smiled. “Not here. I drove away from him in an enchanted
brougham.”

Jane straightened and looked into the fire.

“Phil.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve told Nellie Pennington and--and mother.”

He folded his arms and gazed steadily into the fire.

“What did they say?”

“Nellie Pennington was pleased; mother was not,” she said frankly.

“I’m sorry to hear that. But I could hardly have expected----”

“It doesn’t matter,” she went on hastily. “I thought you ought to know.”

“I shall see Mr. Loring,” he said, his brows tangling.

“Is it necessary--at once?”

“I think so. There mustn’t be any false positions. I hope I can make
him understand. Obviously I can’t visit the house of a man who doesn’t
want me there.”

Jane couldn’t reply at once. And when she did her face was as serious
as his own.

“Won’t you leave that to me, Phil?” she said gently.




XVII

“THE POT AND KETTLE”


The “Pot and Kettle” was up in the hills near Tuxedo, within motoring
distance of the city and near enough to a station to be convenient to
those who were forced to depend upon the railroad. It was a gabled
farmhouse of an early period converted by the young men of Colonel
Broadhurst’s generation into its latter-day uses as a club for
dilettante cooks, where the elect might come in small parties on snowy
winter nights, or balmy summer ones, and concoct with their own hands
the glasses and dishes most to their liking. Its membership was limited
and its fellows clannish. Most of the younger members of the Club had
been proposed on the day of their birth, and accession at the age of
twenty-one to its rights and privileges had always been the signal for
a celebration with an intent both gastronomic and bibulous. On club
nights every one contributed his share to the evening’s entertainment,
and the right to mix cocktails, make the salad dressing, or grill the
bird was transmitted by solemn act in writing from those of the older
generation to those of the new, who could not be dispossessed of their
respective offices without a proper delegation of authority or the
unanimous vote of those present.

A member of the “Pot and Kettle” had the privilege of giving private
entertainments to a select few, provided due notice was given in
advance, and upon that occasion the Club was his own and all other
members were warned to keep off the premises. This gave the “Pot and
Kettle” affairs a privacy like that which the member enjoyed in his
own home, for it was the unwritten law of the Club that whatever passed
within its doors was not to be spoken of elsewhere.

Egerton Savage had long ago discovered that no preparation was
necessary to make entertainments successful at the “Pot and Kettle.”
The number of a party given, to the steward and his wife, all a host
had to do was to put on his white apron and await the arrival of his
guests. But to give an added zest to this occasion the fortunate ones
had been advised that the party was “for children only.”

And as children they came. Ogden Spencer, Larry Kane and Coley Van
Duyn in a motor direct from the Cosmos Club arrived first and hurried
upstairs with their packages from the costumers to dress; the Perrines
and Betty Tremaine followed; then Mrs. Pennington, the chaperon, and
a limousine full of débutantes; Jane Loring with Honora Ledyard and
Bibby Worthington; and Dirwell De Lancey with Clifford Benson, and
Freddy Sackett. Nina Jaffray had driven out alone. Most of the girls
had dressed at home and arrived ready for the fray, and after a few
finishing touches in the ladies’ dressing-room upstairs were ready to
greet their host, at the foot of the stairs. Egerton Savage, his thin
legs emerging from velvet knee breeches, as _Little Boy Blue_, met
_Little Miss Muffett_, _Old King Cole_, _Old Mother Hubbard_, _Peter
Piper_, _Margery Daw_, _Bobby Shafto_, _Jack Spratt_, _Solomon Grundy_,
and all of the rest of the nursery crew. Nellie Pennington’s débutantes
scattered about the building like a pack of inquisitive terriers,
investigating every nook and cranny, peering into cupboards and closets
and punctuating the clatter of arrival with pleasant little yelps of
delight.

As they all assembled at last in the kitchen, large white aprons, which
covered their costumes from neck to foot, were handed out and the real
business of the evening was begun. Egerton Savage, chief-cook and
arbiter, with a shrewd knowledge of the capabilities of débutantes,
handed each of the young ladies a loaf of bread and a long toasting
fork, their mission being to provide the toast, as well as the toasts
of the night; and presently an odor of scorching bread pervaded the
place.

Jane rebelled.

“I simply _won’t_ be subjected to such an indignity, Mr. Savage,” she
laughed. “I can cook--really I can.”

He eyed her askant and laughed.

“You must be _Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary_, aren’t you?”

“I am, and I _won’t_ cook toast.”

At last he commissioned her to poach the eggs.

Larry Kane, a club member, as the _Infant Bacchus_, in fleshlings
and cheesecloth with a garland of grape-leaves on his head, had
already begun the concoction known as the “Pot and Kettle punch,” an
amber-colored fluid with a fragrant odor of spices, and a taste that
was mildness itself, but in which there lurked the potent spell of the
wassail of many lands. It was against this punch that Nellie Pennington
had taken pains on the way out in the machine, to warn her small
brood; and some of those young ladies who had already retired from the
fire, stood beside the mixer of ingredients, sniffing at the uncorked
bottles, making pretty faces and lisping in childish disapproval.

Coleman Van Duyn, as _Little Jack Horner_, his scarlet face rising
like a winter sunset from his white apron, was superintending the
broiling of the lobsters; Dirwell De Lancey, who proclaimed himself
_Simple Simon_, was carving cold turkey, Freddy Sackett was making
the salad-dressing; while Betty Tremaine, a very comely _Bo-Peep_, was
drying the lettuce leaves and crushing them to the proper consistency
between her slender pink fingers; Yates Rowland stewed the terrapin;
Percy Endicott made the coffee; and Sam Purviance, with Nina Jaffray’s
help, made the cocktails.

The festivities of supper were well under way before Phil Gallatin
arrived. It had been late before he could leave the office, and so
he had been obliged to come out by train. After getting into costume
he sought the room eagerly for Jane and their eyes met in wireless
telegraphy across the table. The chairs beside her were occupied by
Worthington and Van Duyn, so he dropped into a chair Savage offered him
between Mrs. Pennington and Miss Tremaine. His host thrust a cocktail
in front of him on the table, and Phil thanked him over his shoulder,
but when Savage had gone, he pushed it away. Nellie Pennington realized
that he looked a little tired and serious, but made no comment.
Gallatin had been working hard all day and until the present moment
had forgotten that he had had no lunch. Food revived him and it was
not long before he could enter into the gay spirit of the company.
They were children, indeed. The cooking finished, their white aprons
had been discarded and loud was the joy at the appearance of the men
and eager the compliments for the ladies. The babel of baby rattles
and tin whistles, discontinued for a time, arose again and the table
rang from end to end with joke and laughter. Bibby Worthington’s wig of
_Bobby Shafto_ got askew and at an unfortunate moment was jostled off
into the salad-bowl, upon which his bald head received baptism in fizz
at the hands of the _Infant Bacchus_. Freddy Perrine, who had had more
than his share of punch, was shooting butter-balls from the prongs
of a fork at Kent Beylard’s white shirt-front, for Beylard hadn’t had
time to go to the costumer. Dirwell De Lancey insisted upon singing
“The Low-Backed Car,” but was prevented from doing so by the vehemence
of his chorus which advised him to get a limousine. Sam Purviance
began telling a story which seemed to be leading toward Montmartre
when Nellie Pennington rose from the table, and followed by her buds,
adjourned to another room. Here the sound of a piano was immediately
heard and the tireless feet of the younger set took up the Turkey Trot
where they had left off at three o’clock the night before.

No word had passed between Phil Gallatin and Jane, and he had just
gotten to his feet in pursuit of her when Nina Jaffray stood in his way.

“Hello, Phil,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to see you.”

“Me? I’m glad of that, Nina. You’re certainly a corker in that get-up.
What are you?”

“I’m _Jill_. Won’t you help me fetch a pail of water?”

“And have my crown broken? No, thanks. Besides I couldn’t. It wouldn’t
be in the part. You see I’m----

    “‘Tommy Trot, the man of law,
     Who sold his bed to lay on straw.’”

“Are you? It isn’t true, is it, Phil? I heard you were going out of the
firm.”

“Oh, no. I’ve been working, Nina. Sounds queer, doesn’t it? Fact,
though.”

“There’s something I want to see you about, Phil. I’ve been on the
point of looking you up at the office.”

“You! What is it?” he laughed. “Breach of promise or alienation of the
affections?”

“Neither,” slowly. “Seriously--there’s something I want to say to
you.” Gallatin looked at her and she met his eye fairly. “I’d like to
talk to you here--now--if you don’t mind.”

“Oh--er--of course. But if it’s anything of a serious
nature--perhaps----”

“I can speak here--will you follow me?”

Gallatin glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the room into
which Jane had disappeared, but there was nothing left but to follow,
so he helped the girl find a quiet spot on the back stairway where Nina
settled herself and motioned to him to a place at her feet. Gallatin
sat trying to conceal his impatience in the smoke of a cigarette, and
wondering how soon Nina would let him go to Jane.

“Phil, you and I have known each other a good many years. We’ve always
got along pretty well, haven’t we?”

“Of course,” he nodded.

“You’ve never cared much for girls and I’ve never thought much about
men--sentimentally I mean--but we always understood each other
and--well--we’re pretty good friends, aren’t we?”

“I’d be very sorry if I thought anything else,” he said politely.

She paused and examined his profile steadily.

“You know, Phil, I’m interested in you. I think I’ve always been
interested--but I never told you so because--because it seemed
unnecessary. I thought if you ever needed my friendship you’d come and
ask me for it.”

“I would--I mean, I do,” he stammered.

“Something has been bothering me,” she went on slowly. “The other
morning at Nellie Pennington’s, Jane Loring told us the truth about the
Dryad story.”

“Yes.”

“And, of course, even though friendship doesn’t give me the privilege
of your confidence unless you offer it voluntarily, I thought you might
be willing to tell me something----”

“What, Nina?”

“You’re not in love with--you’re not going to marry Jane Loring, are
you?”

Gallatin smiled.

“I’m hardly the sort of person any girl could afford to marry,” he said
slowly.

“Does Jane Loring think so?” she persisted.

“She has every reason to think so,” he muttered.

“You’re not engaged?” she protested quickly.

“No,” he said promptly.

She gave a sigh of relief.

“Oh--that’s all I wanted to know.”

Something unfamiliar in the tones of her voice caused him to look at
his companion.

“What did you want to know for, Nina?” he questioned.

“Because if you _were_ engaged--if you really were in love with
Jane, I wouldn’t care--I wouldn’t have the right to speak to you in
confidence.” She hesitated, looking straight at the bare wall before
her, but she smiled her devil-may-care smile and went on with a touch
of her old manner. “I doubt if you really know me very well after all.
I don’t think anybody does. I’ve got a name for playing the game wide
open and riding roughshod over all the dearest conventions of the
dodos. But I’m straight as a string, Phil, and there isn’t a man or
woman in the Cedarcroft or out that can deny it.”

Gallatin smiled.

“It wouldn’t be healthy for anybody to deny it.”

“I don’t care much whether they deny it or not. People who don’t like
my creed are welcome to their own. I won’t bother them and they
needn’t bother me. But I do care for my friends--and I’m true. You know
that, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And I’m not all hoyden, Phil.”

“Who said you were?”

“Nobody--but people think it.”

“I don’t.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. Inside of me I think I’m quite womanly at
times----”

He smiled and looked at her curiously.

“But I’m tired of riding through life on a loose snaffle. I want to
settle down and have a place of my own and--and all that.”

“I hadn’t an idea. Is that what you wanted to tell me? Who is it, Nina?”

“I’m not in love, you know, Phil,” she went on. “I’ve watched the
married couples in our set--those who made love matches--or thought
they did, those who married for money or convenience, and those
who--well--who just married. There’s not a great deal of difference
in the result. One kind of marriage is just about as successful or as
unsuccessful as another. It’s time I married and I’ve tried to think
the thing out in my own way. I’ve about decided that the successful
marriage is entirely a matter of good management--a thing to be
carefully planned from the very beginning.”

Gallatin listened with dull ears. The girl beside him was talking
heresies. Happiness wasn’t to be built on such a scientific formula.
Love was born in Arcadia. He knew. And Jane----

“You know, Phil,” he heard Nina Jaffray saying again, “I’m in the habit
of speaking plainly, you may not like my frankness, but you can be
pretty sure that I mean what I say. I’ve made up my mind to marry and
I wanted you to know about it so that you could think it over.”

“Me! Nina!” Gallatin started forward suddenly aware of the personal
note in her remarks. “You don’t mean that I----”

“I thought that you might like to marry me,” she repeated coolly.

“You can’t mean it,” he gasped. “That you--that I----”

“I mean nothing else. I’d like to marry you, Phil.”

Gallatin laughed.

“Really, Nina, I was almost on the point of taking you seriously. You
and I--married! Wouldn’t we have a lark, though?”

“I’m quite serious,” she insisted. “I’d like to marry you, if you
haven’t any other plans.”

“Plans!” He searched her eyes again. “Why, Nina, you silly child,
you’ve never even--even flirted with me, at least, not for years.”

“That’s true. I couldn’t somehow. I couldn’t flirt with anybody I cared
for.”

“Then you do--_care_ for--me?” he muttered in bewilderment.

“Don’t mistake me, Phil,” she put in. “I care for you, yes, but I’m not
in the least sentimental. I abhor sentimentality. You’re simply the
nearest approach I have found to my idea of masculine completeness.
You’re not an ideal person by any means. Your vices are quite brutal,
but they don’t terrify me--and you’re pretty well endowed with
compensating virtues. It’s about time you gathered in your loose reins
and took to the turnpike. I’d like to help you and I think I could.”

“I--I haven’t any doubt of it,” he stammered. “Only----”

“What?”

“I’m not a marrying man, that’s all,” he blundered on, still struggling
with incomprehension.

She remained silent a moment.

“You say that, because you believe you oughtn’t to marry, don’t you,
Phil?”

“I say it because I’m not going to marry--until I know just where I
stand--just what I’m worth in a long game. Single, I haven’t hurt
anybody but myself, but I’m not going to let any woman----”

He stopped suddenly. And then with an abrupt gesture rose.

“I can’t talk of this, Nina,” he said quickly. “You must see it’s--it’s
impossible. You’re not in love with me--or likely to be----”

“Oh, I’m in no hurry. I might learn,” she said calmly.

There was no refuge from her quiet insistence but in laughter, and so,
brutally, he took it.

“Really, Nina, if I hadn’t known you all my life, I could almost
believe you serious.”

“Don’t laugh! I am,” she said immovably.

And now that it seemed to Gallatin there remained no doubt that she
meant it, he sat down again beside her and took her hand in his,
his face set in serious lines. He liked Nina, but like many other
persons had always weighed her lightly. Even now he felt sure that, by
to-morrow, she would probably have forgotten the entire conversation.
But the situation was one that required a complete understanding.

“If I can believe you, you’ve succeeded in flattering me a great deal.
I’ve always been used to expect amazing things of you, but I can’t say
I’m quite prepared for the extraordinary point of view on married life
which you ask me to share. I’ve always had another idea of marriage,
the same one that you have deep down in your heart, for without it you
wouldn’t be a woman. You’ll marry the man you love and no other.”

“And if the man I love won’t marry _me_?”

“It will be time to settle that when you meet him.”

“I’ve already met him.”

Gallatin searched her eyes for the truth and was again surprised when
he found it in them. Her gaze fell before his and she turned her head
away, as though the look he had seen in her eyes had shamed her.

“It isn’t true, Nina. It can’t be----”

“Yes,” she murmured. “It’s quite true. I think I’ve pitied you a
little, but I’m quite sure that I--I’ve cared for you always.”

There was a silence and then she heard,

“God knows, I’m sorry.”

There was a note of finality in his tone which affected her strangely.
It was not until then that she guessed the truth.

“You--you care for Jane Loring?”

“Yes,” he said almost inaudibly. “I do.”

He owed her that frankness.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “It’s strange I shouldn’t have guessed.
I--I didn’t think you cared for any one. You never have, you know. And
it never entered my head that you could be really interested in--in a
girl like Jane. Even when I learned that you had been together in the
woods, I couldn’t believe--I don’t think I quite believe it yet. She’s
hardly your style----”

She stopped and he remained silent, his head averted.

“Funny, isn’t it?” she went on. “Larry Kane wants to marry me, I want
to marry you, and you want to marry Jane. Now if Jane would only fall
in love with Larry!”

She laughed and drew away from him, for over his head she saw the
figures of Jane Loring and Coleman Van Duyn who had just entered the
kitchen. Jane had glanced just once in their direction and then had
turned aside. Nina glanced at Phil. He was unconscious of the presence
of the others--it almost seemed, unconscious of herself.

All the mischief in her bubbled suddenly to the surface. Jane Loring at
least should see----

“I’m sorry, Phil,” she murmured. “I think I’ll survive. We can still be
friends. I want one favor of you, though.”

He questioned.

“Kiss me, will you, Phil?” she whispered.

And Gallatin did; to turn in a moment and see Jane Loring’s skirts go
fluttering past the dining-room door, through which, grinning broadly
over his shoulder, Coleman Van Duyn quickly followed her.




XVIII

THE ENEMY AND A FRIEND


It was a moment before Gallatin realized the full significance of the
incident, but when he turned to look at Nina, he found her leaning
against the wall convulsed with silent laughter.

“You knew, Nina?” he said struggling for his self-control. “You saw
them--there?”

“Oh, yes, I saw them,” she replied easily. “I couldn’t help it very
well.”

“You asked me to--to kiss you!” he stammered, his color rising.

“Yes, I did. You never _had_ kissed me before, you know, Phil.”

“You--you wanted her to see,” he asserted.

“I didn’t mind her seeing--if that’s what you mean.”

“You had no right----”

She held up her hand with a mock gesture of command.

“Don’t speak! You’ll say something you’ll regret. It’s not often I ask
a man to kiss me, and when I do I expect a display of softer emotions.
But anger--dismay! I’m surprised at you. You’re really quite too
rustic, or is it rusty? Besides, you know, I’ve done you the greatest
of favors.”

“Favors!” he exclaimed.

“Precisely. In addition to accepting your--er--fraternal benediction,
I’ve succeeded in creating a diversion in the ranks of the dear enemy.
Jealousy is the vinegar of the salad of love, Phil. Jane is quite sure
to love you madly now.”

“Come,” he said briefly, “let’s get out of this.”

“You mustn’t use that tone to me. It’s extremely annoying.”

“You’re mischievous,” he growled.

“Am I?” with derisive sweetness. “I hadn’t meant to be. Perhaps my
infatuation has blinded me. I’m really very badly in love with you,
Phil. And you must see that it’s extremely unpleasant for me to
discover that you’re in love with somebody else. You know I can’t
yield placidly. I’m not the placid kind. I may be in advance of my
generation, but I’m sure if I had my way I’d abduct you to-night in the
motor and fly to Hoboken.”

Gallatin laughed. He couldn’t help it. She was too absurd. And her
mocking effrontery made it difficult for him to remember that a moment
ago he had thought her serious.

“Fortunately, I am capable of moderating my emotions,” she went on.
“My heart may be beating wildly, but behold me quietly submissive to
your decision. All I ask is that you won’t offer to be a brother to me,
Phil. I really couldn’t stand for that.”

“Nina, you’re the limit.”

“I know I am--I’m excited. It’s the outward and visible expression of
inward and spiritual dissolution. What would you advise, Paris green
or a leap from the Metropolitan Tower? One exit is plebeian, the
other squashy; or had I better blow out the gas? Will you see that my
headlines are not too sentimental? Not, ‘She Died for Love’; something
like ‘Scorned--Social Success Suicides’ or ‘Her Last Cropper,’ are more
in my line. Sorrowfully alliterative, if you like, but chastely simple.
Aren’t you sorry for me, Phil?”

“Hardly. As the presentment of disappointed affection you’re not a
success. Your martyrdom has all the aspects of a frolic at my expense.
Don’t you think you’ve made a fool of me long enough?”

“Yes, I think so. I _have_ made a fool of you, haven’t I? I’m sorry. I
didn’t intend to until I found that you had made a fool of me. I wanted
company.”

Her humor changed as he turned away from her and she restrained him
with a hand on his arm, her eyes seeking his.

“You’re my sort, Phil, not hers,” she whispered earnestly. “You’re
a vagabond--a vagrant on life’s highway, as I am--a failure, as I
am, only a worse one. You’ve tried to stem the tide against you,
but you couldn’t. What have you to do with Jane Loring’s bourgeois
respectability? Do you think you’ll be immune because of her? Do you
think that she can cleanse you of the blood of your fathers and make
you over on her own prim pattern? You’re run in a different mold.
What Jane Loring wants is a stupid respectable Dodo, an impoverished
patriarch with an exclusive visiting list. Let her buy one in the open
market. The clubs are full of them.” She laughed aloud. “What does Jane
Loring know of you? What chance have you----?”

“I think I’ve heard enough, Nina,” said Gallatin. He walked to the
dining-room and stood, waiting for her to pass before him. She paused,
shrugged her shoulders carelessly and, as she passed through the door,
she leaned toward him and whispered.

“You’ll never marry her, Phil. Do you hear? Never!”

Gallatin inclined his head slightly and followed.

The dance was in full swing, and outside in the enclosed veranda a game
of “Pussy Wants a Corner” had come to an end because Sam Purviance
insisted upon standing in the middle of the floor and reciting
tearfully the tale of “Old Mother Hubbard and Her Dog.” Then they
tried charades which failed because the actors insisted on disappearing
into the wings and couldn’t be made to appear, and because the audience
found personal problems more interesting. A game of “Follow My Leader,”
led by Larry Kane upstairs and down, developed such amazing feats of
gymnastics that Nellie Pennington rebelled.

Phil Gallatin followed Jane with his eyes, but she refused even to
glance in his direction and he was very unhappy. There seemed no
chance of getting a word with her, for when at the end of the dance
he approached her, she snubbed him very prettily and went out with
Van Duyn to sit among the palms at the end of the veranda. Gallatin
felt very much like the fool Nina had said he was and wandered around
from group to group joining half-heartedly in their conversations, his
uneasiness apparent to any who chose to perceive. Several times Nina
Jaffray passed him smiling wickedly, and once she stopped and whispered.

“Hadn’t you better go home in my car, Phil? I don’t believe there will
be room for you in Jane’s.”

He laughed with an air of unconcern he was very far from feeling.

“Thanks, I’m afraid you’d take me to Hoboken.”

She went on to the dance and Gallatin watched her until she
disappeared. He was alone in the dining-room. Through the door by which
she had gone came the sound of the piano and the chatter of gay voices.
Through the other door he could see a jovial group of his familiars
sitting around a table in the center of which was a tall bottle bearing
a familiar label, his Enemy enthroned as usual in this company. He was
like a vessel in the chop of two tides, one of which would bring him to
a safe port and the other to sea.

He looked away, hesitated, then walked hastily to the Colonial
sideboard where he drew a cup of hot coffee and drank it quickly. Then
he followed Nina into the dancing-room.

He waited impatiently until the dance was finished, and then, when Jane
Loring was left for a moment alone, with more valor than discretion,
went up to her.

“Jane,” he whispered, “you’ve got to give me a moment alone.”

She turned away, but he stood in front of her again.

“It’s all a mistake, if you’ll let me explain----”

“Let me pass, please.”

“No, not until you promise to listen to me--to-night. I’ll go in your
machine, and then----”

“I’m sorry. There’s no room for you, Mr. Gallatin.”

“I must see you to-night.”

“No--not to-night,” and in lowered tones, “or any other night.”

“Jane, I----”

“Let me pass, please.”

The music began again and Percy Endicott at this moment came up,
claiming her for a partner. Before Gallatin could speak again, Jane was
in Endicott’s arms, and laughing gayly, was sweeping around the room to
the measure of a two-step. Gallatin stared at her as though he had not
been able to believe his own ears. He waited a moment and then slowly
walked back toward the kitchen.

His appearance in the doorway was the signal for a shout from Egerton
Savage who held a glass aloft and offered his health. His health! He
swayed forward heavily. What did it matter? His blood surged. What
would it matter--just once? Just once!

He lunged forward into the chair somebody pushed toward him, took up
the glass of champagne his host had poured for him, drained it, his
eyes closed, and put it down on the table.

Just once! It was a beautiful wine--sent out for the occasion from
Mr. Savage’s own collection in town, and it raced through Gallatin’s
veins like quicksilver, tingling to his very finger ends. He looked
up and laughed. Something had bothered him a moment ago. What was it?
He had forgotten. Life was a riot of color and delight and here were
his friends--his men friends--who were always glad to see a fellow, no
matter what. It was good to have that kind of friends.

Somebody told a story. Gallatin had not heard the beginning of it, but
he realized that he was laughing uproariously, more loudly than any one
else at the table. The lights swam in a mist of tobacco smoke and the
figures of the men around him were blurred. Egerton Savage had filled
his glass again, and Gallatin was in the very act of reaching forward
to take it when Bibby Worthington, who sat alongside, rose suddenly as
though to get a match from the holder, and the sleeve of his laced coat
somewhat obtrusively swept Gallatin’s glass off the table to the stone
flagging.

“Beg pardon,” he said cheerfully. “There’s many a lip ’twixt the nip
and the pip. Sorry, Phil.”

The crash of glass had startled Gallatin, who looked up into
Worthington’s face for a possible meaning of the incident, for it was
the clumsiest accident that could befall a sober man. But Bibby, his
lighted match suspended in mid-air, returned his gaze with one quite
calm and unwavering. Gallatin understood, and a dark flush rose under
his skin. He was about to speak when Bibby broke in.

“Phil, I’m probably the most awkward person in the world,” he said
evenly. “The only thing about me that’s ever in the right place is my
heart. Understand?”

If Gallatin had thought of replying, the words were unuttered, for he
lowered his head and only muttered a word or two which could not be
heard.

Bibby blew the strands of his tousled wig from his eyes and carefully
brushed the liquor from his sleeve with his lace handkerchief.

“Sad thing, that,” he said gravely, “vintage, too.”

“Lucky there’s more of it,” said Savage, taking up the bottle. “Hand me
one of those glasses on the side table there, Bibby.”

Worthington turned slowly away, looked down at Gallatin and a glance
passed between the two men. As Bibby moved off Gallatin took out his
case and hastily lit a cigarette.

“Never mind, Bibby,” he found himself saying. “No, thanks, Egerton,
I’m--er--on the wagon.” He lit his cigarette, rose, opened the door,
and looked out into the winter night, drinking in deep draughts of the
keen air. His evil moment had passed.

“Howling success, this party, Egerton,” somebody was saying. “Listen to
those infants on the veranda.”

“Hello,” cried Bibby. “It’s _Bobby Shafto_, by George. I’ll have to
go in and make my bow. Come along, Phil. They’ll be calling for you
presently. What the devil _are_ you anyway?”

Phil Gallatin took his arm and walked out on the terrace.

“I--I’m a d---- fool, Bibby, pretty poorly masked,” he muttered heavily.

“You are, my boy. But it takes a wise man to admit he is a fool. Glad
you know it. Awfully glad. Not sore, are you?”

“No,” said Gallatin slowly. “Not in the least.”

“Nothing like the crash of glass--to awake a fellow. Feel all right?”

“Yes, I--I think so.”

“I had a lot of nerve to do a thing like that, Phil, but you see----”

“I’m glad you did. I--I won’t forget it, Bibby.”

The two men clasped hands in the darkness in a new bond of friendship.

They entered the house from another door and passed through the closed
veranda. Upon the floor of the living room, in a large circle facing
the center, the infants sat, tailor fashion, singing lustily, and
greeted _Bobby Shafto’s_ appearance with shouts of glee. They made him
get into their midst and dance, which he did with all the grace of a
jackdaw, while Betty Tremaine played the accompaniment on the piano.

    Bobby Shafto’s gone to sea
    Silver buckles on his knee
    He’ll come back and marry me
    Darling Bobby Shafto.

“But _who_ is he going to marry?” maliciously chortled one of the
débutantes, in the ensuing pause.

“_You_, my angel, if you’ll have me?” and leaning over he quickly
kissed her.

There was a laugh at the girl’s expense and Bibby retired in triumph.

One by one the characters were summoned and noisily greeted: _Old King
Cole_, who was Yates Rowland; _Old Mother Hubbard_, who was Percy
Endicott (“Aptly taken, by Jove!” was Spencer’s comment) and _Simple
Simon_, who was Dirwell De Lancey (and looked the part). But the hit
of the occasion was the dance which followed between _Jill_ and the
_Infant Bacchus_. It was clear that no nursery music would be suitable
here. So Betty Tremaine’s fingers hurried into the _presto_ of Anitra’s
Dance from the “Peer Gynt” music, which caught the requirements of
the occasion. The dancers were well-matched and the audience upon the
floor, which had at first begun to clap its hands to the gay lilt,
slowly drew back to give more room, and then finding itself in danger
from the flying heels dispersed and looked on from adjacent doorways.
The dance was everything and it was nothing--redowa, tarantella,
cosaque, fandango, and only ended when the dancers and pianist were
exhausted.

The party broke up amidst wild applause and led by Mrs. Pennington
the guests were already on their way to the dressing-rooms, when Nina
Jaffray, still breathless from her exertions stepped before Gallatin
and whispered amusedly:

“It almost seems as if you _might_ go with me after all, doesn’t it,
Phil?” she laughed. “It’s too late for a train and all the machines but
mine are crowded----”

“You’re very kind, but I think I’ll walk. It’s only twenty miles.”

“Don’t be disagreeable, Phil. Larry Kane wanted to go with me, but I’ve
sent him along with Ogden Spencer--just because I wanted to apologize
to you.”

“Apology!” he laughed. “Why dwell on that? Besides you’re a little too
prompt to be quite sincere.”

“Haven’t you any sense of humor, Phil?”

“No.”

“What a situation! _You_ kiss me and _I_ apologize for it! Laugh, Phil,
laugh! Mrs. Grundy is shrieking with delight. O boy! What a silly thing
you look!”

“Good night, Nina.”

“No, au revoir,” she corrected. “You know, Phil, you mustn’t insult
me--not publicly, that is. You see you couldn’t force yourself into
somebody else’s machine, when I’m going home alone in an empty one.
Besides, it’s all arranged with Egerton.”

Gallatin smiled and shrugged. “Oh, of course,” he said, “you seem to
have me at your mercy.”

“I’ll be very good though, Phil,” she said, moving toward the stairway,
“and if you’re afraid of me, I’ll ask Egerton to be chaperon.” She
laughed at him over her shoulder, and he had to confess that this was
the humor which suited her best.

Gallatin went slowly toward his dressing-room, his lips compressed,
his head bent, a prey to a terrible depression made up of fervid
self-condemnation. He had been on the very verge of--that which he
most dreaded. In his heart, too, was a dull resentment at Jane’s
intolerance--an attitude he was forced to admit when he could think
more clearly that he had now amply justified, not because Jane had been
a witness of the incident upon the kitchen stairway, but because of the
other thing. Slowly he began to realize that to a woman a kiss is a
kiss, whether coolly implanted near the left ear, as his had been, or
upon a more appropriate spot; and the distinction which, at the time of
the occurrence, had been so clear to his mind, seemed now to be less
impressive. Jane’s position was unreasonable, but quite tenable, and he
now discovered that unless he threw Nina’s confidences into the breach,
a defense hardly possible under the circumstances, the matter would
be difficult to explain. And yet the act had been so harmless, his
intention so innocent, that, weighed in the balance with his love for
Jane, the incident seemed to him the merest triviality, with reference
to which Jane should not have condemned him unheard. He heard her laugh
as she went down the stairs, and the carelessness of that mirth cut
him to the marrow. What right had she to be gay when she knew that he
must be suffering?

He entered Nina’s limousine, very much sobered, with a wish somewhere
hidden in his heart that for this night at least Nina had been in
Jericho. If the lady in the machine divined his thought she gave not
the least sign of it; for when they had left the Club, some time after
the others, and were on their way to the city, she carelessly resumed.

“I didn’t ask Egerton to come, Phil. You’re not really alarmed, are
you?”

“Not in the least,” he smiled. “In fact, I was hoping we’d be alone.”

“Phil, you’re improving. Why?”

“So that we may continue our interesting conversation at the point
where we left off.”

“Where did we leave off? Oh, yes, you kissed me, didn’t you? Shall we
begin there?”

“I suppose that’s what you asked me here for, isn’t it?” he said
brutally.

“Oh, Phil, you don’t believe--that!”

She deserved this punishment, she knew, but the carelessness of his
tone shocked her and she moved away into her corner of the vehicle
and sat rigidly as though turned to stone, her eyes gazing steadily
before her at the white circle of light beyond the formless back of the
chauffeur. In the reflected light Gallatin saw her face and the jest
that was on his lips was silenced before the look he found there. And
when she spoke her voice was low and constrained.

“I’m sorry you said that.”

“Are you? You weren’t sorry earlier in the evening.”

“I’m sorry now.”

“It’s a little late to be sorry.”

She didn’t reply. She was looking out into the light again with peering
eyes. Objects in the landscape emerged, shadowless, in pale outline,
brightened and disappeared.

“It isn’t like you--not in the least like you,” she murmured. “You’ve
rather upset me, Phil.”

“What did you expect?” he asked. “You’ve made a fool of me. You’ve been
flirting with me abominably.”

“And you repay me----”

“In your own coin,” he put in.

“Don’t, Phil.” She covered her face with her hands a moment. “You’ve
paid me well. Oh, that you could have said that! I meant what I said,
Phil, back there. You’ve got to believe it now--you’ve shamed me so.
You’ve got to know it--to believe it. I wasn’t flirting with you. I
was serious with you when I said I--I loved you. It’s the truth, the
ghastly truth, and you’ve got to believe it, whatever happens. No,
don’t touch me. I don’t want you to think I’m that kind of a girl. I’m
not. I’ve never been kissed before to-night, believe it or not. It’s
true, and now----”

She stopped and clutched him by the arm. “Tell me you believe it,
Phil,” she said almost fiercely, “that I--that I’m not that kind of a
girl.”

“Of course, you’ve said so----”

“No--not because I’ve said so, but because you think enough of me to
believe it whether I’ve said so or not.”

“I had never thought you that sort of a girl,” he said slowly. “I’ve
known you to flirt with other fellows, but I didn’t think you really
cared enough about men to bother, least of all about me. That’s why I
was a little surprised----”

“I couldn’t flirt with you--I didn’t feel that way. I don’t know why.
I think because there was a dignity in our friendship--” she stopped
again with a sharp sigh. “Oh, what’s the use? I’m not like other
girls--that’s all. I can’t make you understand.”

“I hope I--understand----”

“I’m sorry, Phil, about what happened to-night.”

She stopped, leaned back in her corner and, with one of her curious
transitions, began laughing softly.

“It was such a wonderful opportunity--and you were so blissfully
ignorant! Oh, Phil, and you did look such a fool!”

“Oh, did I?”

“I’m sorry. But I’d probably do it again--if I might--to-morrow. Jane
Loring is so prim, so self-satisfied----”

The motor had been moving more slowly and the man in front after
testing various mechanisms, brought the machine to a stop and climbed
out. They heard him tinkering here and there and after a moment he
opened the door and announced.

“Sorry, Miss Jaffray, but there’s come a leak in the tank, and we’ve
run out of gasoline.”




XIX

LOVE ON CRUTCHES


Mrs. Pennington’s philosophy had taught her that it was better to be
surprised than to be bored, and that even unpleasant surprises were
slightly more desirable than no surprises at all. It was toward the
end of January on her halting journey homeward from Aiken, one morning
in Washington, that she saw in a local journal the announcement of
an engagement between Miss Jane Loring and Mr. Coleman Van Duyn. To
say that she was surprised puts the matter mildly, and it is doubtful
whether the flight of her ennui compensated her for the sudden pang of
dismay which came with the reading of this article. She had left New
York the day after the affair at “The Pot and Kettle,” and so had only
the memory of Jane’s confidences and Phil Gallatin’s happy face to
controvert the news.

And when some days later she arrived in New York, she found that,
though unconfirmed in authoritative quarters, the rumors still
persisted among her own friends and Jane’s. Of Phil Gallatin she saw
nothing and learned that he was out of town on an important legal
matter and would not return for a week. When she called on the Lorings,
Jane showed a disposition to avoid personal topics and at the mention
of Philip Gallatin’s name skillfully turned the conversation into other
channels.

To a woman of Mrs. Pennington’s experience the hint was enough and she
departed from the Loring mausoleum aware that something serious had
happened which threatened Phil Gallatin’s happiness. But, in spite of
the warmth of Jane’s greeting and the careless way in which she had
discussed the gossip of the hour, Nellie Pennington was not deceived,
and by the time she was in her own brougham had made one of those rapid
deductions for which she was famous. Jane looked jaded. Therefore, she
was unhappy; therefore, she still loved Phil Gallatin. Phil Gallatin
was working hard. Therefore, Phil was keeping straight; there must be
some other cause for Jane’s defection. What? Obviously--a woman. Who?
Nina Jaffray.

Having reached this triumphant conclusion, Mrs. Pennington set about
proving her several premises without the waste of a single moment of
time. To this end she sought out Percy Endicott, who as she knew was
better informed upon most people’s affairs than they were themselves,
and from him learned the truth. Philip Gallatin had been discovered
with Nina Jaffray in his arms on the kitchen stairs at the “Pot
and Kettle.” Percy Endicott’s talent for the ornamentation of bare
narrative was well known and before he had finished the story he had
convinced himself, if not his listener, that this happy event had
brought to a culmination a romance of many years’ standing and that
Nina and Phil would soon be directing their steps, with all speed, to
church.

Mrs. Pennington laughed, not because what Percy told amused her, but
because this narrative showed her that however much she was still
lacking in reliable details, her earliest deductions had been correct.
She would not believe the story until it had been confirmed by “Bibby”
Worthington to whom Coleman Van Duyn had related it as an eye-witness,
and then herself supplied the grain of salt to make it palatable.

The grain of salt was her knowledge of Nina Jaffray’s extraordinary
personality, which must account for any differences she discovered
between the Phil Gallatin who kissed upon the back stairs and the Phil
Gallatin with whom she was familiar. Whatever his deficiencies in other
respects, he had never been considered as available timber by the gay
young married women of Mrs. Pennington’s own set who had given him
up in the susceptive sense as a hopeless case; and if Phil had been
addicted to the habit of promiscuous kissing, he had gone about the
pursuit with a stealth which belied the record of his unsentimental
but somewhat tempestuous history. She found herself wondering not so
much about what had happened to Phil as about how Nina had managed what
_had_ happened. Nina’s remarkable confession a few days before Egerton
Savage’s party recurred to her mind, and Nina’s clearly expressed
intention to bring Phil to her chariot-wheel seemed somehow to have an
intimate bearing upon the present situation. And yet, even admitting
Nina’s direct methods of seeking results, she could not understand how
a fellow as much in love with another girl as Phil was could have been
made so ready a victim. Could it be? No. There was no talk of _that_.
And if Phil had again been in trouble, Mrs. Pennington knew that the
indefatigable Percy would have told her of it.

She thought about the matter awhile and finally gave it up, uncertain
whether to be anxious or only amused. But as the week went by she was
given tangible evidence that whatever feelings Jane Loring cherished
in her heart for Phil Gallatin, the wings of victory, for the present
at least, were perched upon the banneret of Mr. Coleman Van Duyn. Jane
rode, walked, and danced with him, and within a few short weeks, from a
state of ponderous misery Coleman Van Duyn had revived and now bore the
definite outlines of a well-fed and happy cupid.

The rumors of an engagement persisted, and Mrs. Pennington was not
the only person forced against her judgment or inclination to believe
that the old Van Duyn mansion would once more have a mistress. Dirwell
De Lancey, whose tenderness in Jane’s quarter had been remarked, went
into retirement for a brief period, and only emerged when resignation
had conquered surprise. Colonel Crosby Broadhurst sat in his corner
at the Cosmos and wondered, as other people did, what the devil Jane
Loring could see in Coley. Bibby Worthington still hovered amiably in
Jane’s background and would not be dislodged. He had proposed in due
form to Jane and had been refused, but the cheerful determination of
his bearing and his taste in cravats advised all who chose to concern
themselves that he was still undismayed.

After Mrs. Pennington, who thought that she saw a light, perhaps the
person most surprised at Jane’s sudden attachment for Coleman Van Duyn
was Mrs. Loring. She had listened with incredulity to Jane’s first
confession of her relations with Philip Gallatin and had waited with
resignation a resumption of the conversation. But as the days passed
and her daughter said nothing, she thought it time to take the matter
into her own hands and told Jane of her intention to speak of it to her
husband.

“I’ll save you the trouble, Mother,” said Jane, kissing her gravely on
the forehead. “There is nothing between Mr. Gallatin and myself.”

Mrs. Loring concealed her delight with difficulty.

“Jane, dear, something has happened.”

“Nothing--nothing at all,” said Jane. “I’ve changed my mind--that’s
all.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Loring. This much imparted, Jane would say no more; the
matter was dropped, and to Mrs. Loring it seemed that in so far as
Jane was concerned, Mr. Gallatin had simply ceased to exist.

But it was not without some difficulty that Jane convinced herself that
this was the case. The day after the “Pot and Kettle” affair, Phil
Gallatin wrote, ’phoned, wired and called. His note Jane consigned to
the fire, his telephone was answered by Hastings, his wire followed
his note, and to his visit she was out. This, she thought, should
have concluded their relations, but the following morning brought
another letter--a long one. She hesitated before deciding whether to
open it or to return it, but at last she broke the seal and read it
through, her lips compressed, her brows tangled angrily. It was a
plea for forgiveness, and that was all. There were many regrets, many
protestations of love, but not one word of explanation! He had even
gone so far as to call the incident a trifle (a trifle, indeed!) and to
call _her_ to account for an intolerance which he had the temerity to
say was unworthy of the great love that he had given her.

The impudence of him! What did he mean? Was the man mad? Or was this
the New York idea? She realized now that he was an animal that she
had met in an unfamiliar habitat, and that perhaps the things to be
expected of him here were those dictated by the inconsiderable ideals
of the day. It dismayed her to think that after all here in New
York, she had only known him a little more than a week. His vision
appeared--and was banished, and his letter, torn again and again into
small pieces was consigned to the flames of her open fire. She made no
reply.

Another letter came on the morrow, was read like the other, but
likewise destroyed. His persistence was amazing. Would he not take a
hint and save her the unpleasant duty of sending his letters back
to him unopened? Apparently not! And with the letters came baskets
of flowers which, like those from Mr. Van Duyn, filled her room with
pleasant odors.

She was willing to believe now that a word of explanation, a clue to
his extraordinary behavior might have paved the way to reconciliation,
and she found herself wondering in a material way what was becoming of
him and worrying, in spite of herself, as to his future, of which, as
she had once fondly believed, she was the guardian. What was he doing
with himself in the evenings?

This thought sent the blood rushing to her cheeks and hardened her
heart against him. He was with Nina Jaffray, of course. In his last
letter he had written that he must go away on business and for two
mornings no letter arrived. She missed these letters and was furious
with herself that it was so. But the energy of her anger was conserved
in the form of further favors for Coley Van Duyn who radiated it
in rapturous good-will toward all the world. When the letters were
resumed, she locked them in her desk unread, determining upon his
return to town to make them into a package and send them back in bulk.
Many times she unlocked her desk and scrutinized the envelopes, but it
was always to thrust them into their drawer which she shut and locked
each time with quite unnecessary violence.

Another matter which caused some inquietude was Nellie Pennington’s
return to town, for Mrs. Pennington was the only person, besides Mr.
Gallatin and her mother, in actual possession of her secret, the only
person besides Mr. Gallatin whom it was necessary to convince as to
the definiteness of her recantation. At their first meeting Jane had
carried off the situation with a carelessness which she felt had
rather overshot the mark. Her visitor had accepted the hints with a
disconcerting readiness and composure, and Jane had a feeling after
Mrs. Pennington left the house that her efforts had been singularly
ineffective; for she was conscious that her visitor had scrutinized
her keenly and that anything she had said had been carefully sifted,
weighed and subjected to that kind of cunning alchemy which clever
women use to transmute the baser metals of sophistry into gold.

Mrs. Pennington had now taken an initiative in the friendship and
refused to be disconcerted. Jane’s engagements with Coleman Van Duyn
provided no effectual hindrance to Mrs. Pennington’s enthusiastic
fellowship, and she frequently helped to make a party in which, to Mr.
Van Duyn at least, three was a crowd. Mrs. Pennington accepted his
presence without surprise, without annoyance or other emotion; and
somehow succeeded in conveying the impression that she was conferring
a favor upon them both, a favor for which, in her own heart at least,
Jane was grateful.

It was not surprising to Jane, therefore, when one morning Nellie
Pennington called up on the ’phone and made an engagement for the
afternoon at five, at the Loring house, urging a need of Jane’s advice
upon an important matter. She entered the library, where Jane had been
reading, with a radiance which did much to dispel the gloom of the day
which had been execrable; and when her hostess suggested that they go
upstairs to her own dressing-room, where they might be undisturbed,
Nellie Pennington threw off her furs.

“No, thanks, darling,” she said. “I can’t stay long. And you know when
one reaches my mature years, each stair has a separate menace.”

“There’s the lift,” Jane laughed.

“Oh, never! That would be a public confession. I’ll stay here if you
don’t mind,” and she sank into an armchair by the fire.

“Coley isn’t coming?” she inquired.

“No,” said Jane. “I had a headache.”

Nellie Pennington sighed gratefully.

“You know, Jane, Coley is a nice fellow, but he’s just about as plastic
as the Pyramid of Cheops. You’ve done wonders with him, of course, and
he is really quite bearable now, but it must have been wearing, wasn’t
it?”

“Oh, no,” Jane smiled. “He’s quite obedient.”

“I sometimes wonder whether men are worth the pains we women waste on
them.” Mrs. Pennington went on reflectively. “When we are single they
adore us for our defects; married, we have a real difficulty in making
them love us for our virtues. But love abhors the word obedience. It
knows no arbitrary laws. An obedient husband is like an egg without
salt and far more indigestible. You’re not going to marry Coley, are
you, Jane?” she finished abruptly.

Jane paled and her head tilted the fraction of an inch. It was the
first time Nellie Pennington had approached the subject so directly,
and Jane had not decided whether to silence her questioner at once or
to laugh her off when she broke in again.

“Oh, don’t reply if you don’t want to. I’m sure nothing I could say
would have the slightest influence on your decision. It doesn’t matter
in the least whom one marries anyway, because whatever the lover is,
the husband is always sure to be something quite different. If Coley is
obedient now, married he’ll be a Tartar.”

“I--I didn’t say I was going to marry Mr. Van Duyn.”

“You didn’t say you weren’t.”

“Why should I? Must a girl marry, because she receives the
attentions----”

“_Exclusive_ attentions,” put in Mrs. Pennington quickly. “Jane, you’re
rather overdoing it,” she finished frankly.

“I like Mr. Van Duyn very much,” said Jane, her head lowered.

“But you don’t love him. Oh, Jane,” she whispered earnestly, “play the
scene in your own way if you like, but don’t try to hide the real drama
from me.”

“There is no drama,” put in Jane. “It was a farce----”

“It’s a drama in Phil Gallatin’s heart. Can you be blind to his
struggle?”

“I care nothing for Mr. Gallatin’s struggles,” said Jane, her head high.

“You do. Love like yours comes only once in a woman’s eyes. I saw
it----”

“You’re mistaken.”

“No. And it isn’t quenched with laughter----”

“Don’t, Nellie.”

“I must. You’re trying to kill something in you that will not die.”

“It’s dead now.”

“No--nor even sleeping. Don’t you suppose I read you, silly child,
your false gayety, the mockery of your smiles, and the way you’ve
thrown Coley Van Duyn into the breach to soothe your pride--even let an
engagement be undenied so that Phil could think how little you cared?
You once let me behind the scenes; no matter how much you regret it,
I’m still there.”

“Mr. Gallatin is nothing to me.”

Mrs. Pennington leaned back in her chair and smiled.

“You told me that your faith in Phil was unending. Your eternity, my
dear, lasted precisely one week.”

Jane flashed around at her passionately, aroused at last, as Nellie
Pennington intended that she should be.

“Oh, why couldn’t he have explained?”

“Explain! At the expense of another girl? Phil is a gentleman.”

Mrs. Pennington had had that reply ready. She had considered it
carefully for some days.

Jane paused, and her eyes, scarcely credulous, sought the face of her
visitor. Nellie Pennington met her look eagerly.

“Nina Jaffray’s,” she went on. “Could Phil tell why it happened?
Obviously not.”

“But he kissed her----”

Mrs. Pennington shrugged her pretty shoulders.

“As to that, Nina, of course, had reasons of her own.”

“Nina--Miss Jaffray--reasons?”

“She probably asked him to----”

“Impossible!”

“She did.”

“Do you know that?”

“No, but I know Nina.”

“I can’t see that that alters anything.”

“But it does--amazingly--if you’ll only think about it.”

“I saw it all.”

“Oh! Did you? I’m glad.”

“Glad! Oh, Nellie!”

“Of course. Think how much worse it might have seemed if you hadn’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If some one else had told you, you might have believed anything.”

“I saw enough to believe----”

“What did you see?”

“He--he--he just kissed her.”

“Oh, Jane, think! What did you see? Why should Phil kiss a girl he
doesn’t love? Aren’t there any kisses in the world but lovers kisses?
Think. You must. Phil’s whole life and yours depend upon it.”

Jane rose and walked quickly to the window.

“This conversation--is impossible.”

Nellie Pennington watched her narrowly. She had created a diversion
upon the flank, which, if it did nothing else, had temporarily driven
Jane’s forces back in confusion. She looked anxiously toward the door
of the drawing-room and then smiled, for a figure had entered and was
coming forward without hesitation.

With one eye on Jane, who was still looking out of the window, Nellie
Pennington rose and greeted the newcomer.

“Hello, Phil. I had almost given you up. You don’t mind, do you, Jane.
I had to see Mr. Gallatin and asked if he wouldn’t stop for me here.”

At the sound of his name Jane had twisted around and now faced them,
breathless. Mrs. Pennington was smiling carelessly, but Phil Gallatin,
hat in hand, stood with bowed head before her. At the door into the
hallway, the butler, somewhat uncertainly, hovered.

“Thank you, Hastings,” Jane summoned her tongue to say. “That will be
all.”




XX

THE INTRUDER


And when the man had gone her voice came back to her with surprising
clearness.

“You were going, I think you said, Nellie, dear. So sorry. If you’ll
excuse me I think I’ll hurry upstairs. I’m dining out and----”

“Jane!” Gallatin’s voice broke in. “Don’t go. Give me a chance--just
half an hour--ten minutes. I won’t take more than that--and then----”

“I’m sorry, but----”

“You wouldn’t see me or reply to my letters, and so I had to choose
some other way. Give me a moment,” he pleaded. “You can’t refuse me
that.”

“I don’t see--how anything that you say can make the slightest
difference--in anything, Mr. Gallatin,” she said haltingly. “We both
seem to have been mistaken. It’s very much better to avoid a--a
discussion which is sure to--to be painful to us both.”

“What do you know of pain,” he whispered, “if you can’t know the pain
of absence? Nothing that you can say will hurt more than that, the pain
of being ignored--forgotten--for another. I have stood it as long as I
can, but you needn’t be afraid to tell me the truth. If you say that
you love--that you’re going to marry Van Duyn, I’ll go--but not until
then.”

“Mrs. Pennington is waiting for you, I think,” she gasped. But when she
turned and looked into the drawing-room Mrs. Pennington was nowhere to
be seen.

“No,” he went on quickly. “She has gone. I asked her to. Oh, Jane,
listen to me. I made a mistake--under the impulse of a foolish moment.
I’ve been a fool--but I’m not ashamed of my folly. Perhaps it shocks
you to hear me say that. But I’m not ashamed--my conscience is clear.
Do you think I could look you in the eyes if there was any other image
between us? Call me thoughtless, if you like, careless, inconsiderate
of conventions, inconsiderate even of you, but don’t insult yourself
by imputing motives that never existed--that never could exist while
you were in my thoughts. Oh, Jane, can’t you understand? You’re the
life--the bone--the breath of me. I have no thought that does not
come from you, no wish--no hope that you’re not a part of. What
has Nina Jaffray to do with you and me? If I kissed her it was
because--because----” He stopped and could not go on.

“That is precisely what I want to know,” she said coolly.

“I--I can’t tell you.”

“No,” she said dryly. “I thought not. Miss Jaffray has every reason
to be flattered at your attitude. I can only be thankful that you at
least possess the virtue of silence--that you really are man enough to
preserve the confidence of the women of your acquaintance. Otherwise, I
myself might fare badly.”

“Stop, Jane!” he cried, coming forward and seizing her by the elbows.
“It’s sacrilege. Look up into my eyes. You dare not, because you know
that I speak the truth, because you know that you’ll discover in them a
token of love unending--the same look that you’ve always found there,
because when you see it you will recognize it as a force too great to
conquer--too mighty to be argued away for the sake of a whim of your
injured pride. Look up at me, Jane.”

He had his arms around her now; but she struggled in them, her head
still turned away.

“Let me go, Mr. Gallatin,” she gasped. “It can never be. You have hurt
me--mortally.”

“No. I’ll never let you go, until you look up in my eyes and tell me
you believe in me.”

“It’s unmanly of you,” she cried, still struggling. “Let me go, please,
at once.”

Neither of them had heard the opening and closing of the front door,
nor seen the figure which now blocked the doorway into the hall, but
at the deep tones which greeted them, they straightened and faced Mr.
Loring.

“I beg your pardon, Jane,” he was saying with ironical amusement.
“I chose the wrong moment it seems,” and then in harsher accents as
Gallatin walked toward him. “You! Jane, what does this mean?”

Miss Loring had reached the end of the Davenport where she stood
leaning with one hand on its arm, a little frightened at the expression
in her father’s face, but more perturbed and shaken by the fluttering
of her own heart which told her how nearly Phil Gallatin had convinced
her against her will that there was nothing in all the world that
mattered except his love and hers.

Her father’s sudden appearance had startled her, too, for though
no words had passed between father and daughter, she knew that her
mother had already repeated the tale of her romance and of its sudden
termination. She tried to speak in reply to Mr. Loring’s question, but
no words would come and after a silence burdened with meaning she heard
Phil Gallatin speaking.

“It means, Mr. Loring,” he was saying steadily, “that I love your
daughter--that I hope, some day, to ask her to be my wife.”

Loring came into the room, his eyes contracted, his bull neck thrust
forward, his face suffused with blood.

“_You_ want to marry my daughter? _You!_ I think you’re mistaken.” He
stopped and peered at one and then the other. “I’ve heard something
about you, Mr. Gallatin,” he said more calmly. “Your ways seem to be
crossing mine more frequently than I like.”

“I hardly understand you,” said Gallatin clearly.

“I’ll try to make my meaning plain. We needn’t discuss at once the
relations between you and my daughter. Whatever they’ve been or are
now, they’re less important than other matters.”

“Other matters!” Gallatin exclaimed. Jane had straightened and came
forward, aware of some new element in her father’s antipathy. Loring
glanced at her and went on.

“For some weeks past I’ve been aware of the activity of certain
interests that you or your pettifogging little firm represent in regard
to the plans of the Pequot Coal Company. I’ve followed your movements
with some curiosity and read the letters you’ve written to the New York
office with not a little amazement.”

“_You_ have read them?”

“Yes, I. _I_ am the Pequot Coal Company, Mr. Gallatin.”

Gallatin drew back a step and glanced at Jane.

“I was not aware----” he began.

“No, I guess not. But it’s about time you were,” Loring chuckled. He
walked the length of the room and back, his hands behind him, passing
Jane as though he was unaware of her existence, his huge bulk towering
before Gallatin again.

“You are trying to stop the sale of the Sanborn mines,” he sneered.
“You’re meddling, sir. We tested that matter in the courts. The court
records----”

“_Your_ courts, Mr. Loring,” put in Gallatin, now thoroughly aroused.
“I’m familiar with the evidence in the case you speak of.”

“_My_ courts!” Loring roared. “The Supreme Court of the State! We
needn’t discuss their decisions here.”

“No, but we will discuss them--elsewhere,” he said soberly. He stopped
and, with a quick change of voice. “Mr. Loring, you’ll pardon me if I
refuse to speak of this further. I’m sorry to learn that----”

“I’m not through yet,” Loring broke in savagely, with a glance at
Jane. “We’ve known for some time that the Sanborn case was in the
hands of Kenyon, Hood and Gallatin, and we’ve been at some pains to
keep ourselves informed as to any action that would be taken by your
clients. We know something about you, too, Mr. Gallatin, and we have
followed your recent investigations with some interest and not a little
amusement. If we ever had any fear of a possible perversion of justice
in this case, through your efforts, I may say that it has been entirely
removed by our knowledge of your methods and of the personal facts of
your career.”

“Father!” Jane’s fingers were on his arm, and her whisper was at his
ear, but he raised a hand to silence her, putting her aside.

[Illustration: “‘Father!’ Jane’s ... whisper was at his ear.”]

“You’re aligning yourself with a discredited cause, sir. Your case is
a bubble which I promise to prick at the opportune moment. The tone
of your letters requesting an interview with a view to reopening the
case is impertinent. The compromise suggested is blackmail and will be
treated as such.”

Gallatin flushed darkly and then turned white at the insult.

“Mr. Loring, I’ll ask you to choose your words more carefully,” he said
angrily, his jaw set.

“I’m not in the habit of mincing words, and I’ll hardly spare you or
the people who employ you for the sake of a foolish whim of a girl,
even though she is----”

“You _must_ not, Father,” whispered Jane again, in tones of anguish.
“You’re in your own house. You’re violating all the----”

“Be quiet,” he commanded shortly, “or leave the room.”

“I can’t be quiet. Mr. Gallatin for the present is my guest and as
such----”

“Whatever Mr. Gallatin’s presence here means, there’s little doubt----”

“I--I asked him to come here,” Jane stammered. “I beg you to leave us.”

“No! If Mr. Gallatin has come here at your invitation, all the more
reason that you, too, should hear what I have to say to him.”

“I will not listen. Will you please go, Mr. Gallatin, at once?”

Phil Gallatin, pale but composed, was standing immovable.

“Thank you. If there’s something else your father has to say, I’ll
listen to it now,” he said. “I can only hope that it will be nothing
that he will regret.”

Jane drew aside and threw herself on the divan, her head buried in her
hands.

“There’s hardly a danger of that,” said Loring grimly. “I’ll take
the risk anyway. I’m in the habit of keeping my house in order, Mr.
Gallatin, and I’m not the kind to stop doing it just because a duty is
unpleasant. There seems to be something between you and my daughter.
God knows what! I have known it for some days, but I haven’t spoken
of it to her or hunted for you because I had reason to believe that
she had had the good sense to forget the silly romantic ideas you had
been putting into her head. I see that I was mistaken. Your presence in
this house is the proof of it. I’ll try to make my objections known in
language that not only you but my daughter will understand.”

With a struggle Gallatin regained his composure, folded his arms and
waited. Jane raised her head, her eyes pleading, then quietly rose and
walking across the room, laid her fingers on Phil Gallatin’s arm and
stood by his side, facing her father. Mr. Loring began speaking, but
she interrupted him quickly.

“Whatever you say to Philip Gallatin, Father, you will say to me.
Whatever you know of him--I know, too, past or present. I love him,”
she finished solemnly.

One of Gallatin’s arms went around her and his lips whispered, “Thank
God for that, Jane.” And then together they faced the older man. Mr.
Loring flinched and some of the purple went out of his face, but his
lower lip protruded and his bulk seemed to grow more compact as the
meaning of the situation grew upon him. His small eyes blinked two or
three times and then glowed into incandescence.

“Oh, I see,” he muttered. “It’s as bad as that, is it? I hadn’t
supposed----”

“Wait a moment, sir,” said Gallatin clearly. “Call it bad, if you like,
but you haven’t a right to condemn me without a hearing.”

Loring laughed. “A hearing? I know enough already, Mr. Gallatin.”

Gallatin took a step forward speaking quietly. “You’re making a
mistake. Whatever you’ve heard about me, I’ve at least got the right of
any man to defend himself. You’ve already chosen to insult me in your
own house. I’ve passed that by, because this is not the time or place
to answer. Kenyon, Hood and Gallatin are not easily intimidated--nor
am I. I want you to understand that here--now.” His voice fell a note.
“When I speak of myself it is a different matter. I don’t know what
you’ve heard about me, and I don’t much care, for in respect to one
thing at least I’ll offer no excuse or extenuation. That’s past and
I’m living in the hope that as time goes on, it will not be borne too
heavily against me. But you’ve got to believe whether you want to or
not that I would rather die than have your daughter suffer because of
me.”

“She has suffered already.”

“No, no!” cried Jane. “Not suffered--only lived, father.”

“And now you’ve quit, I suppose,” said the old man ironically,
“reformed--turned over a new leaf. See here, Mr. Gallatin, this thing
has gone far enough. I’ve listened to you with some patience. Now you
listen to me! You’ve come into my house unbidden, invaded my privacy
here and insinuated yourself again into the good graces of my daughter,
who, I had good reason to believe, had already forgotten you. Your
training has served you well. Fortunately I’m not so easily deceived.
Until the present moment I have trusted my daughter’s good judgment.
Now I find I must use my own. If she isn’t deterred by a knowledge of
your history, perhaps I can supply her with information which will not
fail. I can hardly conceive that she will overlook your conduct when it
involves the reputation of another woman!”

“Father!”

Henry Loring had reached the drawing-room door and now stood, his legs
apart, his fists clenched, his words snapping like the receiver of a
wireless station.

“Deny--if you like! It will have no conviction with me--or with her.
Look at her, Mr. Gallatin,” he said, his finger pointing. “There are
limits even to _her_ credulity. She will hardly be pleased to learn of
the accident to the motor which obliged you and your companion--very
opportunely, indeed, to spend the night in a----”

“Stop, sir!” Gallatin’s hand was extended and his voice dominated. “Say
what you like about me. I’ve invited that, but I’ll not listen while
you rob a woman of her name.”

Jane stood like an ivory figure in the pale light, her eyes dark with
incomprehension, searching Gallatin’s face for the truth.

“There was a woman?” she asked.

Gallatin hesitated.

“Yes, there was a woman. There needn’t be any mystery about that. I
wasn’t aware that there had been any mystery. It was Nina Jaffray. We
were stranded back in the country coming from the ‘Pot and Kettle.’ We
found a farmhouse and stayed there. There wasn’t anything else to do.
You can’t mean that you believe----!”

Jane had turned from him and walked toward the door.

“It hadn’t been my intention to mention the lady’s name,” Loring
laughed. “But since Mr. Gallatin has seen fit to do so----”

“You’re going too far, Mr. Loring. There are ways of reaching a man
even of your standing in the community.”

Loring chuckled.

“I fancy that this is a matter which won’t be discussed elsewhere,” he
said.

Gallatin’s eyes sought Jane’s, who now stood in the doorway into the
hall, one hand clutching the silken hangings.

“You can’t believe this, Jane? You have no right to. Your father has
been told a sinful lie. It’s doing Nina a harm--a dreadful harm. Can’t
you see?”

At the mention of Nina’s name Jane’s lips twisted scornfully and with a
look of contempt she turned and was gone.

Gallatin took a few steps forward as though he would have followed her,
but Loring’s bulky figure interposed.

“We’ve had enough of this, sir,” he growled. “Let’s have this scene
over. We’re done with you. You’ve played h---- with your own life and
you’ll go on doing it, but you won’t play it with me or with any of
mine, by G----. I’ve got your measure, Mr. Gallatin, and if I find
you interfering here again, I’ll take some other means that will be
less pleasant. D’ye hear? I’ve heard the story they’re telling about
you and my daughter up in the woods. It makes fine chatter for your
magpies up and down the Avenue. D---- them! Thank God, my daughter is
too clean for them or you to hurt. It was a great chance for you. You
knew what you were about. You haven’t lived in New York all these years
for nothing. You thought you could carry things through on your family
name, but to make the matter sure you tried to compromise my daughter
so that----”

Loring paused.

Gallatin had stood with head bowed before the door through which
Jane had disappeared. His ears were deaf to Loring’s tirade; but as
he realized the terms of the indictment, he raised his head, stepped
suddenly forward, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing into those of
the older man, scarcely a foot away. In Phil Gallatin’s expression was
the dumb fury of an animal at bay, a wild light in his eyes that was a
personal menace. Loring did not know fear, but there was something in
the look of this young man who faced him which told him he had gone too
far. Gallatin’s right arm moved upward, and then dropped at his side
again.

“You--you’ve said enough, Mr. Loring,” he gasped, struggling for
his breath. “Almost more than is good--for both--for either of us.
You--you--you’re mistaken, sir.”

And then as though ashamed of his lack of control he turned aside, and
took up his hat. Henry Loring strode to the wall and pressed his thumb
to a bell.

“I’ll stand by my mistakes,” he said more calmly. “You came to the
wrong house, Mr. Gallatin, and I think you won’t forget it. I’d like
you to remember this, too, and I’m a man of my word. You keep your
fingers off my affairs, either business or personal, or I’ll make New
York too hot to hold you,” and then as the man appeared, “Hastings,
show this gentleman out!”




XXI

TEMPTATION


Philip Gallatin had a bad night. From the Loring house he trudged forth
into the rain and sleet of the Park where he walked until his anger had
cooled; then dined alone in a corner at the Cosmos, avoiding a group of
his familiars who were attuned to gayety. From there he went directly
to his rooms.

The house of his fathers was in a by-street in the center of the
fashionable shopping district, and this dwelling, an old-fashioned
double house of brown stone, was the only relic that remained to
Phil of the former grandeur of the Gallatins. Great lawyers, however
successful in safeguarding the interests of their clients, are notable
failures in safeguarding the interests of their own. Philip Gallatin,
the elder, had inherited a substantial fortune, but had added nothing
to it. He had lived like a prince and was known as the most lavish
host of his day. He consorted with the big men of his generation when
the Gallatin house was famous alike for its cellar and kitchen. Here
were entertained presidents and ex-presidents of the United States,
foreign princes, distinguished artists and literary men, and here it
was claimed, over Philip Gallatin’s priceless Madeira, the way had been
paved for an important treaty with the Russian government.

Philip Gallatin, the second, had made money easily and spent it more
easily, to the end that at the time of his death it was discovered
that the home was heavily mortgaged, and that his holdings in great
industrial corporations, many of which he had helped to organize,
had been disposed of, leaving an income which, while ample for Mrs.
Gallatin and her only child during the years of his boyhood, when the
taste of society was for quieter things, was entirely inadequate to
the growing requirements of the day. At his mother’s death, just after
he came of age, Phil Gallatin had found himself possessed of less than
eight thousand a year gross, and a mortgage which called for almost
one-half that sum. But he resolutely refused to part with the house,
for it had memories and associations dear to him.

Three years ago, with a pang which he still remembered, he had decided
to rent out the basement and lower floors for business purposes and
apply the income thus received to taxes and sinking fund, but he still
kept the rooms on the third floor which he had always occupied, as his
own. An old servant named Barker, one of the family retainers, was in
attendance. Barker had watched the tide of commerce flow in and at
last engulf the street which in his mind would always be associated
with the family which he had served so long. But he would not go, so
Philip Gallatin found a place for him. In the building he was janitor,
engineer, rent collector, and valet. He cooked Phil’s breakfast of eggs
and coffee and brought it up to him, made his bed and kept his rooms
with the same scrupulous care that he had exercised in the heydey of
prosperity. He was Phil’s doctor, nurse and factotum, and kept the
doors of Gallatin’s apartments against all invaders.

Phil Gallatin wearily climbed the two long flights which led to the
rooms. He had had a trying day. All the morning had been spent with
John Sanborn, and a plan had been worked out based upon the labors of
the past three weeks. One important decision had been reached, and
a concession wrung at last from his clients. He had worked at high
tension since the case had been put into his hands, traveling, eating
when and where he could, working late at the office, sleeping little,
and in spare moments had written to or thought of Jane. The strain of
his anxiety was now beginning to tell. The events of the afternoon had
filled him with a new sense of the difficulties of his undertakings.
Loring would fight to the last ditch. All the more glory in driving him
there!

But of Jane he thought with less assurance. His own mind had been so
innocent of transgression, his own heart so filled with the thought
of her, that her willingness to believe evil of him and of Nina had
caused a singular revulsion of feeling which was playing havoc with
his sentiments. It had not mattered so much when Jane’s indictment had
been for him alone; that, he had deserved and had been willing to stand
trial for; but with Nina’s reputation at stake Jane’s intolerance took
a different aspect. Whatever Nina Jaffray’s faults, and they were many,
Phil Gallatin knew, as every one else in the Cedarcroft crowd did,
that they were the superficial ones of the day and generation and that
Nina’s pleasure was in the creation of smoke rather than flame.

The failure of the motor after the “Pot and Kettle” party had been
unfortunate, and the lack of oil subsequently explained by the
drunkenness of the chauffeur who had been discharged on Miss Jaffray’s
return to town. Phil Gallatin had found a farmhouse, where Nina had
been made comfortable. There was no gasoline within five miles of the
place. The chauffeur was unable to cope with the situation and there
was nothing for it but to wait until morning, when the farmer himself
drove Gallatin to the nearest village for the needed fuel.

Under other circumstances it might have been an amusing experience,
but the events of the evening had put a damper on them both. Nina’s
impudence was smothered in her fur collar, and she had sat sulkily
through the hours of darkness, gazing at the stove, saying not a word,
and the delinquent chauffeur had meanwhile gone to sleep on the floor
of the kitchen. Morning saw them safe in town at an early hour, and it
had been at Nina’s request that the incident had not been mentioned.
Until to-day Gallatin had not given it a thought. He had not seen Nina,
and while he had frequently thought of her, the flight of time and the
press of affairs had given her singular confession a perspective that
took something from its importance. But Jane’s attitude had suddenly
made Nina the dominant figure in the situation. Whatever mischief she
had created in his own affairs, she had not deserved this!

He entered his rooms filled with bitterness toward Henry Loring, dull
resentment toward Jane. Everything in the world that he hoped for had
centered about her image, and he loved her for what she had been to
him, what she had made of him and for what he had made of himself, but
in his mind a definite conviction had grown, that in so far as he was
concerned their relations were now at an end. He had abased himself
enough and further efforts at a reconciliation could only demean his
dignity, already jeopardized, and his pride, already mortally wounded.

He threw himself heavily into his Morris chair and tried to think
about other things. Upon the table there was a legal volume which he
had brought up from the office the night before, filled with slips of
paper for the reference pages which Tooker had placed there for him.
He took it up and began to read, but his mind wandered. The type swam
before his eyes and in its place Jane’s face appeared, ivory-colored
as he had last seen it, and her eyes dark with pain and incomprehension
looked scornfully out of the page. He closed the book and gazed
around the room, into the dusty corners, with their mementos of his
career: the oar that had been his when he had stroked the crew of his
university, boxing gloves, foils and mask, photographs of football
teams in which he had been interested, a small cabinet of cups--golf
and steeplechase prizes, a policeman’s helmet, the spoils of a college
prank, his personal library (his father’s was in a storage warehouse),
trinkets of all sorts, steins innumerable, a tiny satin slipper, some
ivories and--a small gold flask.

He got out of his chair, picked the flask up, and examined it as if it
had been something he had never seen before. He ran his fingers over
the chasing of the cup, noted the dents that had been made when it had
fallen among the rocks, and the dark scar made in the embers of their
fire.

Their fire! His fire and Jane’s--burned out to ashes.

He put the flask back in its place and began slowly to pace the floor,
his hands behind his back, his head bent forward, his eyes peering
somberly. He stopped in his walk and put a lump of coal into the grate.
He was dead tired and his muscles ached as though with a cold. In the
next room his bed invited him, but he did not undress, for he knew
that if he went to bed it would only be to lie and gaze at the gray
patch of light where the window was. He had done that before and the
memory of the dull ache in his body during the long night when he had
suffered came to him and overpowered him. He had that pain now--coming
slowly, as it had sometimes done before when he had been working on his
nerve. It didn’t grip him as once it had done, with its clutch of fire,
driving everything else from his thoughts. But he was conscious that
the craving was still there, and he knew that the thing he wanted was
the panacea for the thoughts that oppressed him. By its means all the
aches of his body would be cured and the pain of his thoughts. Yes! He
stopped at the table and took up a cigarette. But there was one thing
in him, one thing more important than physical pain, than physical
exhaustion or singing nerves, one small celestial spark that he had
kindled, fostered, and tended which had warmed and comforted his entire
being--the glow of his returning self-respect; and this thing he knew,
if those physical pangs were cured, would die.

He took up his measured tread of the floor, counting his footsteps
from window to door and back again, watching the patterns in the rug
and picking out the figures upon which he was to put his feet. Once or
twice his footsteps led him as though unconsciously to the cabinet in
the corner, where he stopped with a short laugh. He had forgotten that
there was no panacea there. Later on he rang the bell for Barker, only
to remember that the man had gone away for the night. He wanted some
one to talk to--some one--any one who could make him forget. What was
the use? What did it matter to any one but himself if he forgot or not?
What was he fighting for? For himself? Yesterday and the days before he
had been fighting for Jane, fighting gladly--downtown, in his clubs,
at people’s houses, in the Enemy’s country, where the Enemy was to be
found at every corner, at his very elbow, because he knew that nothing
could avail against his purpose to win Jane back to him.

Now he had no such purpose. Jane had turned from him because some one
had lied about him, turned away and left him here alone in the dark
with this hideous thing that was rising up in him and would not let him
think.

He went to the table and filled a pipe with trembling fingers. A
terror oppressed him, the imminence of a danger. It was the horror of
being alone, alone in the room where this thing was. He knew it well.
It had been here before and it had conquered him. It lurked in the dark
corners and grinned from his bookshelves and laughed in the crackling
of his fire. “Come,” he could hear it say, “don’t you remember old Omar?

    “Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
       The Winter Garment of Repentance fling;
     The Bird of Time has but a little way
       To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.”

His pulses throbbed and his head was burning, though a cold sweat had
broken out on his brows and temples, and his feet were cold--ice cold.
The tobacco had no taste, and it only parched his throat the more. He
stumbled into the bathroom and bathed his head and hands in the cold
water, and drank of it in huge gulps. That relieved him for a moment
and he went back to his chair and took up his book.

His sickness came back upon him slowly, a premonitory faintness and
then a gripping, aching fire within. The book trembled in his hands and
the type swam in strange shapes. He clenched his fingers, threw the
book from him and rose with an oath, reaching for his hat and coat and
stumbling toward the door. Downstairs, less than a block away----

Beside the bookcase he caught a glimpse of his image in the pier glass.
He stopped, glared at himself and straightened.

“Where are you going, d----n you? Where? Like a thief in the night?
Look at me! You can’t! Where are you going?”

There was no answer but the laughter of the flames and the sneer of a
motor in the Avenue.

His hand released the knob and he turned back into the room, with eyes
staring, teeth set and face ghastly.

“No, by G----. You’ll not go, Phil Gallatin, not from this room
to-night--not for that. Do you hear? You’ll fight this thing out here
and now.”

He dropped his coat and hat and strode like a fury to the window. There
he lay across the sill, and throwing the sash open wide, drank the
night air into his lungs in deep breaths.

In a moment the crisis had passed. After a while he closed the window,
came back into the room and sank into his chair, utterly exhausted. His
mind comprehended dully that he had fought and won, not for Jane, nor
for his future, but for that small fire that was still glowing in his
breast. He closed his eyes and relaxed his clenched fingers. His nerves
still tingled but only slightly like the tremor of harpstrings in a
passing storm. He was very tired and in a moment he fell asleep.

When he awoke, the light of dawn was filtering in at the windows. The
lamp had gone out. He struck a match and made a light. It was six
o’clock. He had slept seven hours. He yawned, stretched himself and
looked at his disordered reflection in the mirror, suddenly awake to
the beginning of a new day. The aches in his body had gone and his
mind was clear again. He leaned forward upon the mantel and silently
apostrophized his image.

“You’re going to win, Phil Gallatin. Do you hear? You’re _not_ afraid.
You don’t care what the world says. You’re not fighting for the world’s
opinion. It’s only your own opinion of yourself that matters a d----n.
If you win that, you’ve won everything in the world worth winning.”

He laughed pleasantly and his image smiled back at him.

“Salut! Monsieur! You’re a good sort after all! You’ve got more sand
than I thought you had. I’m beginning to like you a great deal. You
can look me in the eye now, straight in the eye. That’s right. We
understand each other.”

He faced around into the room which had been the scene of so many of
his failures, and of his last and greatest success. The light from the
windows was growing brighter. It was painting familiar objects with
pale violet patches, glinting on glassware and porcelain like the cold
light of intellect, which now dominated the merely physical. He swept
the room with a glance. Before the light the shadows were fading. The
Enemy----

There _was_ no Enemy!

Gallatin poked down the embers of the fire and heaped on wood and coal.
He stripped to his underclothes, did twenty minutes with dumb-bells and
chest weights, and then went in to draw his bath, singing. He soused
himself in the cold water and came out with chattering teeth, but in a
moment his body was all aglow.

“It’s a good body,” he mused as he rubbed it, “a perfectly good body,
too good to abuse. There’s a soul inside there, too. Where, nobody
seems to know, but it’s there and it isn’t in the stomach, and that’s
a sure thing, though that’s where the stomach thinks it is. We’ll give
this body a chance, if you please, a square deal all around.”

He chuckled and thumped himself vigorously, as though to assure himself
of the thoroughness of his recuperation. Seven o’clock found him on
the street walking vigorously in the direction of the Park. He knew
that there was no chance of meeting Jane Loring at this hour of the
morning, but he chose the west side that he might not even see the
marble mass where she was sleeping, for the memory of what had happened
there yesterday rankled like an angry wound.

He breakfasted at the Cosmos at eight, and before nine was at the
office where he finished the morning mail before even Tooker and the
clerks were aware of his presence there. There were many threads of the
Sanborn case still at a loose end and he spent a long while writing
and dictating to his stenographer, who was still at his side, when, at
about eleven o’clock, the office boy brought in Nina Jaffray’s card.

He was still looking at it when Nina entered.

“I was afraid you might be busy, Phil,” she said calmly, “but I wanted
to see you about something.”

He nodded to his stenographer and she took up her papers and went.

“The mountain wouldn’t come to Mahomet and so----”

“Do sit down, Nina.”

“I’m not interrupting you _very_ much, am I?”

He laughed.

“No. I’m glad you came, if only to prove to my friends that I really
_do_ work.”

“Oh, is _that_ all?”

“No. I’m glad to see you for other reasons.”

“I’m curious to know them.”

“To be assured, for one thing, that you’ve forgiven me for my
boorishness----”

“Oh, that! Yes. Of course.”

“And for another--that your mood will spare me the pains of further
making a fool of myself.”

Nina shrugged lightly and laughed at him.

“Of course you know your limitations, Phil. How could I promise you
that?”

Gallatin smiled at her. She was very fetching this morning in a wide
dark beaver hat with a lilac veil, and her well-cut tailor-made, snugly
fitting in the prevailing mode, defined the long lines of her slim
figure which seemed in his office chair to be very much at its ease.

“_Will_ you be serious?”

“In a moment. For the present I’m so overjoyed at seeing you, that I’ve
forgotten what I came for. Oh, yes--Phil, I’m hopelessly compromised
and you’ve done it. Don’t laugh and don’t alarm yourself. You’re doing
both at the same time--but I really am--seriously compromised. There’s
a story going around that you and I----”

“Yes, I’ve heard it,” he said grimly.

“What interest people can possibly discover in the mishaps of a belated
platonic couple in a snowstorm is more than I can fathom. Of course,
if there had been anything for them to talk about, I’d have come off
scot-free. As it is I’m pilloried in the market place as a warning
to budding innocence! Imagine it! Me! I’m everything that’s naughty,
from Eve to Guinevere. It would be quite sad, if it wasn’t so amusing.
Weren’t we the very presentment of amatory felicity? Can’t you see us
now, swathed in our fur coats, sitting like two bundled mummies upon
each side of that monstrosity they called a stove, ‘The Parlor Heater,’
that was the name, from Higgins and Harlow, Phila., Pa., done in
nickel at the top. Can’t you see us sitting upright on those dreadful
hair-cloth chairs, silent and so miserable? That, my dear Philip, was
the seductive hour in which I fell from grace. Touching picture, isn’t
it?”

Gallatin refused to smile.

“Who told this story, Nina?”

“The chauffeur probably. I discharged him the next day.”

“Of course--that was it. But it’s such a silly yarn. Who will believe
it----?”

She threw up her hands in mock despair.

“Every one--unfortunately. You see Coley Van Duyn didn’t help matters
any by telling about your kissing me on the stairs.”

“D----n him,” said Phil, through his teeth.

“Besides, I’ve been careless of their opinion for so long that people
are only glad to get something tangible.”

“But it isn’t tangible. That farmer out there could----”

Nina raised her hand.

“Denial is confession, my dear. I shall deny nothing. I shall only
smile. In my saddest moments the memory of Higgins and Harlow’s
parlor heater with its nickel icicles around the top will restore my
equanimity. I don’t think I’ve ever before really appreciated the true
symbolism of the nickel icicle.”

Gallatin had risen and was pacing the floor before her.

“This gossip must be stopped,” he said scowling at the rug. “If I can’t
stop it in one way, I can in another.”

“And drag my shattered fabric into the rumpus? No, thanks. _J’y
suis--j’y reste._ The rôle of martyr becomes me. In my own eyes I’m
already canonized. I think I like the sensation. It has the merit of
being a novel one at any rate.”

“Nina, do stop talking nonsense,” he put in impatiently. “I’m not going
to sit here placidly and let them tell this lie.”

“Well,”--Nina leaned back in her chair and tilted her head
sideways--“what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll make them answer to me--personally. It was my fault. I ought to
have walked home, I suppose.”

“But you didn’t--that’s the rub. They won’t answer to you personally
anyway, at least nobody but the chauffeur, and he might do
it--er--unpleasantly.”

“I’ll thrash him--I’ll break his----”

“No, you won’t. It wouldn’t do the least bit of good, and besides it
would make matters worse if _he_ thrashed _you_. There’s only one thing
left for you to do, my friend.”

“What?”

“Marry me!”

Phil Gallatin stopped pacing the floor and faced her, frowning.

“You still insist on that joke?”

“I do. And it’s no joke. It seems to be the least thing that you can
do, under the circumstances.”

“Oh, is it?”

“Of course. You wouldn’t leave things as they are, would you? Think
of my shrinking susceptibilities, the atrocious significance of your
negligence. Really, Phil, I don’t see how you can refuse me!”

Gallatin laughed. He understood her now.

“I’m immensely flattered. I’ll marry you with great pleasure----”

“Oh, thanks.”

“If I ever decide to marry any one.”

“Phil!”

She glanced past him out of the window, smiling. “And you’re not going
to marry--any one?”

“No.”

“I was afraid you might be.” She rose and took up her silver
bric-a-brac which clanked cheerfully. She had learned what she came for.

“Oh, well, I won’t despair. I’m not half bad, you know. Think it over.
Some day, perhaps.”

“It would be charming, I’m sure,” he said politely.

“And, Phil----” She paused.

“What?”

“Come and see a fellow once in a while, won’t you? You know,
propinquity is love’s _alter ego_.”

“I’m sure of it. Perhaps that’s why I’m afraid to come.”

She laughed again as she went out and he followed her to the door of
the outer office where Miss Crenshaw and Miss Gillespie scrutinized her
perfectly appointed costume and then tossed their heads the fraction of
an inch, adjusted their sidecombs and went on with their work.




XXII

SMOKE AND FIRE


Downstairs Miss Jaffray entered her machine and was driven northward.

It is not for a moment to be supposed during the weeks which followed
Mr. Egerton’s party that Miss Jaffray had retired from the social
scene. And if her rebuff at Phil Gallatin’s hands had dampened the
ardor of her enjoyment, no sign of it appeared. She was more joyously
satirical, more unmitigably bored, more obtrusively indifferent
than ever. But those who knew Nina best discovered a more daring
unconvention in her opinions and a caustic manner of speech which
spared no one, not even herself. She was, if anything, a concentrated
essence of Nina Jaffray.

A woman’s potentiality for mischief proceeds in inverse ratio to her
capacity for benevolence, and Nina’s altruism was subjective. She gave
her charity unaffectedly to all four-legged things except the fox,
which had been contributed to the economic scheme by a beneficent
Providence for the especial uses of cross-country riders. She spent
much care and sympathy upon her horses, and exacted its equivalent in
muscular energy. Two-legged things enjoyed her liking in the exact
proportion that they contributed to her amusement or in the measure
that they did not interfere with her plans.

But the word benevolent applied to Nina with about as much fitness as
it would to the Tropic of Capricorn.

The motto of New York is “The Devil Take the Hindmost,” and it
feelingly voiced Nina’s sentiments in the world and in the hunting
field. She had always made it a practice to ride well up with the
leaders, and to keep clear of the underbrush, and had never had much
sympathy for the laggards. There was a Spartan quality in her point
of view with regard to others, which remained to be put to the test
with regard to herself. The occasion for such a test, it seemed, had
arrived. For the first time in her life she was apparently denied
the thing she most wanted. She had even been willing to acknowledge
to herself that she wouldn’t have wanted Phil Gallatin if she hadn’t
discovered that he wanted some one else.

But her liking for him had been transmuted into a warmer regard with
a rapidity which really puzzled her and forced her to the conclusion
that she had cared for him always. And Phil Gallatin’s indifference had
stimulated her interest in him to a degree which made it necessary for
her to win him away from Jane Loring at all hazards.

She was not in the least unhappy about the matter. Here was a real
difficulty to be overcome, the first in personal importance that she
had ever faced, and she met it with a smile, aware that all of the arts
which a woman may use (and some which she may not) must be brought into
play to accomplish her ends.

As a matter of fact, Nina’s mechanism was working at the highest degree
of efficiency and she was taking a real delight in life, such as she
had never before experienced. Since the “Pot and Kettle” affair she
had thought much and deeply, had noted Coleman Van Duyn’s attentions
to Jane Loring, and her acceptance of them, had heard with an uncommon
interest of their reported engagement and had kept herself informed
as to the goings and comings of Phil Gallatin. And she read Jane
Loring as one may read an open book. Their personal relations were the
perfection of amiability. They had met informally on several occasions
when Nina had noted with well-concealed amusement the slightly
exaggerated warmth of Jane’s greeting, and had taken care to return
this display of friendship in kind. Everything added to the conviction
that Jane’s love of Phil was only exceeded by her hatred of Nina
Jaffray.

And yet until this morning Nina had had moments of uncertainty, for the
incident Jane had witnessed was too trivial to stand the test of sober
second thought, and Jane was just silly enough to forgive and forget it.

Nina’s visit to Phil Gallatin’s office had agreeably surprised her, for
Phil had made it perfectly clear that his estrangement from Jane still
existed. But to make the matter doubly sure, Nina had decided to play
a card she had been holding in reserve. In other words, more smoke was
needed and Nina was prepared to provide the fuel.

First she met Coleman Van Duyn by appointment at her own house, and
they had a long chat, during which, without his being aware of it, he
was the subject of a searching examination which had for its object the
revelation of the exact relation between himself and Miss Loring. Even
Coley, it seemed, was not satisfied with the state of affairs. They
were not engaged. No. He was willing to admit it, but he had hopes that
before the winter was over Miss Loring would see things his way. His
dislike of Phil Gallatin was thinly veiled and Nina played upon it with
a skill which left nothing to be desired, to the end that at the last
Coley came out into the open and declared himself flat-footed.

“I don’t know--your relations with him, Nina. Don’t care, really. You
know your way about and all that sort of thing, but he’s going it too
strong. I’m tired of beatin’ about the bush. I know a thing or two
about Phil Gallatin and I’ll tell ’em soon. It’s time people knew the
sort of a Johnny that fellow is.”

“Oh, I know, Coley. You’re prejudiced. You’ve got a right to be. A man
doesn’t want any scandal hanging around the name of the girl he’s going
to marry. Everybody knows, of course, that Phil and Jane Loring were
together last summer up in the woods and that----”

Van Duyn had risen, his eyes more protrusive, his face more purple than
was good for him. It was the first time he had heard that story spoken
of with such freedom, and it shocked him.

“It wasn’t Jane,” he roared. “She wasn’t the only woman in Canada last
summer. How do you know it was Jane?”

“She admitted it,” said Nina sadly.

“Oh, she did! Well, what of it? If I don’t care, what business is it of
anybody else? She suits me and I’m going to marry her.”

He stopped and glared at Nina, as though it was she who was the sole
author of his unhappiness. Nina only smiled up at him encouragingly.

“Of course, you are. That’s one of the things I wanted to see you
about. I think I can help you, Coley, if you’ll let me.”

She made him sit down again and when he was more composed, went on.

“You see it’s this way. I don’t mind your running Phil down, if it
gives you any pleasure, but you might as well know that I don’t share
your opinions. He isn’t your sort, you don’t understand him, and he has
managed to come between you and Jane. But I don’t see the slightest
use in getting excited. These silly romantic affairs of the teens are
seldom really dangerous. Phil’s infirmities excited her pity.”

“His infirmities!”

“Yes, but Jane Loring isn’t the kind of a girl to put up with that kind
of thing long.”

“Rather--not!”

“Oh, I don’t mean what you do. I mean that she isn’t suited to him,
that’s all. There are other women who might marry him and make
something of him.”

“Who?” he sneered.

“I,” she said calmly.

Her quiet tone transfixed him.

“You want to--to marry him?”

“Yes--and I’m going to. Perhaps you understand now how we can help each
other.”

“By George! I hadn’t an idea, Nina. I knew you’d been flirting with
him--and all that--but marriage!”

She nodded.

“You _are_ a good sort,” he grinned. “Do you really mean it? Of course
I’ll help you if I can, but I hardly see----”

“You don’t have to see. Jane Loring may still have a fancy for Phil
Gallatin, but it ought to be perfectly obvious that she can’t marry him
if he’s going to marry me. All I want you to do just now is to make
yourself necessary to Jane Loring. Propose to her again to-morrow,” and
then with convincing assurance, “I think she’ll accept you.”

“You do? Why?”

“That, if you’ll pardon me, is a matter I do not care to discuss.” She
arose and dismissed him gracefully, and Van Duyn wandered forth into
Gramercy Park with a feeling very like that of a timorous hospital
patient who has for the first time been subjected to the X-ray.

Nina lunched alone, then dressed for the afternoon and ordered her
machine. She had made no mistake in presupposing that Jane Loring’s
curiosity would outweigh her prejudices. In their talk upon the
telephone there had been a slight hesitation, scarcely noticeable, on
Jane’s part, after which, she had expressed herself as delighted at the
opportunity of seeing Nina at the Loring house.

Miss Jaffray entered the portals of the vast establishment, her slender
figure lost in the great drawing-room, as she moved restlessly from one
object of art to another awaiting her hostess, like a mischievous and
lonely bacillus newly liberated into a new field of endeavor.

“Nina, dear!” said Jane effusively as she entered. “_So_ sweet of you.
I haven’t really had a chance to have a talk with you for _ages_.”

“How wonderfully pretty you look, Jane? I’m simply _wild_ with envy of
you.”

It was the feminine convention. Each pecked the other just once below
the eye and each wished that the other had never been born. Jane led
the way into the library where they sat side by side on the big divan,
where they both skillfully maneuvered for an opening for a while,
feinting and parrying carte and tierce, advancing, retreating, neither
of them willing to risk a thrust.

But at last, the preliminaries having given her the touch of her
opponent’s foil, Nina returned.

“You’re really the success of the season, Jane. And you know when a
back number like I am admits a thing like that about a débutante, it’s
pretty apt to be true. But the thing I can’t understand is why you want
to end it all and marry.”

“Marry--whom?”

“Coley.”

“Oh, you have some private source of information on the subject?” Jane
asked pleasantly.

“None but your own actions,” Nina replied coolly. “It’s funny, too,
because I’ve had an idea--ever since that Dryad story--I’ve feared that
you were rather keen on Phil Gallatin.”

Nina was forced to admiration of the carelessness of Jane’s parry.

“Mr. Gallatin!” she said, her eyes wide with wonder. “What in the
world made you think of him? If I was ever grateful to the man for his
kindness up there in the woods, every instinct in me revolted at the
memory of what people said of us. Do you think I could care for a man
who would let a thing like that be told?” She hesitated a moment and
then added, “Besides, there are other reasons why Mr. Gallatin and I
could never be friends.”

“Oh, I see,” Nina said slowly, her gaze on the fire. “You know, I’m
very fond of Phil, and though you may not approve of him, he’s really
one of the best fellows in the world.”

“Well, why don’t you marry him?” said Jane carelessly.

“Marry! Me!” Nina laughed softly up at the portrait over the mantel.
“Good Lord, Jane, you want to bridle me! No, thanks. I’ve only one
life, you know, and I hardly feel like spending it on the Bridge of
Sighs. _My_ recording angel wouldn’t stand domestication. She’s on
the point of giving up the job already. I suppose I’ll have to marry
some day, but when I do I’ll select the quiet, elderly widower of some
capable person who has trained him properly. A well-trained husband may
be a dull blessing, but he’s safe. Not Phil Gallatin, my dear. The girl
who marries Phil will have her hands full. But he’s _such_ a dear!
So solemn, so innocent-looking, as though butter wouldn’t melt in his
mouth, and yet----” she paused and sighed audibly.

Jane glanced at her and was silent.

“I’ve never thought of Phil as a marrying man,” Nina went on. “The
thing is impossible, and I’d very much rather have him as he is. But it
does seem a pity about him because he has so many virtues--and he--he
really makes love like an angel.”

“Does he?” asked Jane, yawning politely. “But then so many men do that.”

“Yes--I suppose so, but Phil is different somehow.”

Jane laughed. “Yes, I gathered that--at the ‘Pot and Kettle.’”

Nina glanced up and away. “You _did_ see? It’s a pity. I’m sorry. Quite
imprudent of me, wasn’t it? I suppose I ought to be horribly mortified,
but I’m not. I’ve reached a point where I’m quite hardened to people’s
opinions--even to yours, Jane. But I confess I _was_ bothered a little
about that. I _am_ glad you don’t care for Phil, because it would have
been awkward and it might have made a difference in our friendship.
You’d have been sorry, wouldn’t you?”

Jane swallowed. “Oh--of course, I would.”

“But it doesn’t matter now whether you saw or not, because I’m sure
that you and Coley understand.”

“I’m not sure that I do understand,” said Jane with a smile toward the
cloisonné jar at the window. “As a form of diversion I can’t say that
kissing has ever appealed to me.”

“But then, you know, Jane, you’re very young--may I say verdant?
It’s an innocent amusement, if considered so. The harm of it is in
considering it harmful. You’re a hopeless little Puritan. I can’t see
how you and I have got along so well. I suppose it’s because we’re so
different.”

“Yes, perhaps that’s it. But I’m sure we wouldn’t be nearly so friendly
if we ever interfered with each other.”

“I’m glad we haven’t, Jane, darling. I’ve really gotten into the way of
depending on your friendship. You don’t think I’ve strained it a little
to-day by my--er--modern view of old conventions?”

“Not at all. For a Puritan I’m surprisingly liberal. I don’t care at
all whom my friends kiss--or why. It’s none of my affair. I’d hardly
make it so unless I was asked to.”

Nina laid her fingers on Jane’s arm. “But we _do_ understand each
other, don’t we, Jane?”

“Yes, wonderfully. I’m so glad that you think it worth while to confide
in me.”

“I do. You’re so sensible and tolerant. I’m almost too much of a
freethinker for most people, and they’re ready to believe almost
anything of me. But you don’t care what they say, do you, Jane?”

“No, I don’t, Nina. It wouldn’t make the slightest difference to me
what people said of you.”

And this was the truth, perhaps the first truth in fact or by inference
which either of them had uttered. So far so good. Honors were even.
Each of them was aware that the other was a hypocrite, each of
them was playing the game of hide and seek, bringing into play all
the arts of dissimulation to which the sex is heir. All is fair in
love and war. This was both. Under such conditions, to the feminine
conscience anything is justifiable. Nina had begun the combat with
leisurely assurance; Jane, with a contempt which fortified her against
mishap. The manners of each were friendly and confiding, their tones
caressing, but neither of them deceived the other and each of them
knew that she didn’t. Nina had taken the initiative. She had a mission
and in this was at a slight advantage, for Jane had not yet begun to
suspect what that mission was. She had made up her mind, feminine
fashion, not to believe what Nina wanted her to believe; but before
long she began to find that Nina was mixing truth and fiction with such
skill that it was difficult to distinguish one from the other.

The dangers of the social jungle develop remarkable perceptions in deer
and bird of paradise, but these defensive instincts are not always
proof against the craft of the cat tribe. If they were, the cat tribe
would long since have ceased to exist as a species. Other things being
equal, the stalker of prey has all the advantage. Nina knew that Jane
knew that she was lying. So, to gain her point, she was prepared if
necessary to use the simple expedient of _telling the truth_.

Nina was leaning forward, her chin in her hand, her gaze on the rug.

“You’ve heard, I suppose, this story people are telling about Phil and
me,” she said in a lower tone.

“No,” said Jane in tones of curiosity. “Is it something very dreadful?”

“I’m afraid it is--at least people seem to think it so. It began with
an accident to my motor and ended at a Parlor Heater.”

“A Parlor Heater! Do go on, Nina. I’m immensely interested.”

“Phil and I, on the way home from Egerton’s party, you remember? He
went home in my motor. I know people thought it awfully rude of us
as the other motors were so crowded--but it just happened so and we
started home alone--after all the others had gone. We ran out of oil
and had to put up for the night where we could. Unfortunate wasn’t it?
We were miles from nowhere and not a gallon of gasoline in sight. The
farmer seemed to think we were suspicious characters, but he let us in
at last to sit beside his stove until morning. I’m sure he was peeping
over the balusters most of the time to be sure we didn’t make off with
the family Bible.” Nina laughed at the recollection, a little more
loudly than seemed necessary.

“Phil was very sweet about it all. He was so afraid of compromising
me, poor fellow. I really felt very sorry for him. The farmer wouldn’t
volunteer to help us, so Phil wanted to trudge the five miles through
the snow to get the oil. But I wouldn’t let him. I _couldn’t_, Jane. It
was frightfully lonely there. The chauffeur was drunk and I was afraid.”

“Y--you were quite right,” said Jane in a suppressed tone.

Nina glanced at her and went on.

“We sat all night huddled in our furs on opposite sides of that
dreadful parlor stove. I don’t think I can ever forget it. I’ve
never been so miserable in my life--never! We spoke to each other in
monosyllables for a while and at last--er--I went to sleep in disgust.
I woke up with a frightful pain in my back from that dreadful chair.
What a night! And to think that it was for this--_this_, that Phil and
I have been talked about! It’s maddening, Jane. If we only had given
them a little flame, just a tiny one--for all this smoke! Poor Phil!
He was terribly provoked about it this morning. He wants to kill that
wretched chauffeur, for of course the whole story came from him. You
know, Jane, I discharged him as soon as we got back to town, and this
was his revenge. Sweet, wasn’t it? It seems as if one was very much at
the mercy of one’s mechanician. They’re servants, of course, but you
can never get them to think that they are. I haven’t dared tell father.
I don’t know what _he_ would do about it. I’m afraid----”

Jane Loring had risen and was looking out of the window into the
gathering dusk.

“What’s the use, Nina?” she asked quietly.

“The use of what?”

“Telling me all this. I understand, I think.”

“I hope you do,” said Nina quickly. “I wanted you to. That’s why I told
you.”

She got up and took a few rapid paces forward.

“Jane!” she cried suddenly. “What do you mean? That I--_you_ believe--?
Oh, how could you?”

She stood a moment, her face hidden in her hands, as though the horror
of it all had just come to her.

Jane Loring faced around calmly, her face grave.

“What difference does it make what I believe?” she asked.

Nina looked at her a long while, then dropped her gaze, turned away and
picked up her accessories. Her mission here was ended.

“I’m sorry. I seem to have misjudged you--your friendship.”

“Yes,” said Jane. “I think perhaps you have.”

Nina moved toward the door, and Jane, motionless, watched her. She did
not speak again--nor did Jane; and in a moment the door closed between
them--for the last time.

Nina was smiling when she entered her machine, but Jane climbed the
stairs wearily.




XXIII

THE MOUSE AND THE LION


There was an activity in the offices of Kenyon, Hood and Gallatin
chiefly centering around the doings of the youngest member of the
firm which had caused the methodical Tooker some skeptical and
unquiet moments. He had witnessed these spurts of industry before and
remembered that they had always presaged the bursting of a bubble
and the disappearance of the junior partner for a protracted period,
at the end of which he would return to the office, pale, nervous and
depressed. But as the weeks went by, far beyond the time usually marked
for this event, Tooker began to realize that something unusual had
happened. The chief clerk could hardly be called an observant man,
for his business in life kept him in a narrow groove, but he awoke
one morning to the discovery that a remarkable change had taken place
in the manner and bearing of Mr. Gallatin. There were none of those
fidgety movements of the fingers, that quick and sometimes overbearing
speech, or the habit Mr. Gallatin had had (as his father had had it
before him) of pacing up and down the floor of his room, his hands
behind his back, his brows bent over sullen eyes. Mr. Gallatin’s manner
and speech were quieter, his gaze more direct and more lasting. He
smiled more, and his capacity for work seemed unlimited. Tooker waited
for a long while, and then came to the conclusion that a new order of
things had begun and that the junior partner had found himself.

There had been frequent important conferences in Mr. Kenyon’s office
between the partners during which Philip Gallatin had advised the firm
of the progress of the Sanborn case, but it was clear that for the
present at least the junior partner dominated the situation. All his
life Tooker had been accustomed to follow in the footsteps of others,
and was prepared to follow Gallatin gladly, if the junior partner would
give him footsteps to follow. And he was now beginning to appreciate
the significance of those long visits of Mr. Gallatin in Pennsylvania,
and the infinite care and study with which Gallatin had fortified
himself. He understood, too, what those piles of documents on Mr.
Gallatin’s desk were for, and in the conferences of the firm, when John
Kenyon’s incisive voice cut in, he realized that it was more often in
encouragement, advice, and appreciation, than in contention or argument.

The Sanborn Company’s directors were represented by the firm of
Whitehead, Leuppold, Tyson and Leuppold. This was one of the firms
previously mentioned which had offices upon an upper floor and included
among its clients many large corporations closely identified with “The
Interests.” A correspondence had been passing between Mr. Gallatin and
Mr. Leuppold with all of which Tooker was familiar. Mr. Gallatin’s
early letters stated that he hoped for a conference with Mr. Loring.
Mr. Leuppold’s first replies were couched in polite formulas, the
equivalent of which was, in plain English, that Mr. Gallatin might go
to the devil, saying that Mr. Loring had nothing to do with the matter.
Mr. Gallatin’s reply ignored this suggestion, and again proposed a
conference. Mr. Leuppold refused in abrupt terms. Mr. Gallatin gave
reasons for his request. Mr. Leuppold couldn’t see them. Mr. Gallatin
patiently gave other reasons. Mr. Leuppold ignored this letter. Mr.
Gallatin wrote another. Mr. Leuppold in reply considered the matter
closed. Mr. Gallatin considered the matter just opened. Mr. Leuppold
fulminated politely and satirically suggested intimidation. Mr.
Gallatin regretted Mr. Leuppold’s implication but persisted, giving, as
his reasons, the discovery of material evidence.

The next day Mr. Leuppold came in person, was shown into Mr. Gallatin’s
office and Tooker had been present at the interview. It had been a
memorable occasion. Mr. Leuppold wore that suave and confident manner
for which he was noted and Gallatin received him with an old-fashioned
courtesy and the deference of a younger man for an older, which left
nothing to be desired. Accepting this as his due, Leuppold began in a
fatherly way to impress upon Gallatin the utter futility of trying to
win the injunction in the Court of Appeals. The contentions of Sanborn
_et al._ had no basis either in law or in equity. Mr. Gallatin had
doubtless been unduly influenced by doubtful precedents. He, Leuppold,
was familiar with every phase of the case and had defended the previous
suit which had been brought and lost by a legal firm in Philadelphia.
There was absolutely nothing in Mr. Gallatin’s position as stated in
his correspondence and he concluded by referring “his young friend” to
certain marked passages in a volume which he had brought in under his
arm. Gallatin read the passages through with interest and listened with
a show of great seriousness to Mr. Leuppold’s interpretation of them.
Mr. Leuppold had a mien which commanded attention. Gallatin gave it,
but he said little in reply which could indicate his possible ground of
action, except to express regret that Mr. Leuppold’s clients had taken
such an intolerant view of his own client’s claims and to deplore the
unfortunate tone of Mr. Leuppold’s own letter of some days ago.

When it was quite clear to Mr. Leuppold that the young man was not to
be moved by persuasion, his manner changed.

“I have done my best, Mr. Gallatin,” he said irritably, “to prove to
you the utter futility of your course. My clients have nothing to
fear. I am only trying to save them the expense of further litigation.
But if you insist on bringing this case to trial, we will welcome
the opportunity to show further evidence in our possession. We have
been content for the sake of peace to let matters go on as they have
been going, but if this suit is pressed, I warn you that it will be
unfortunate for your clients.”

“I hope not. I hope we won’t have to bring suit,” replied Gallatin
easily. “I’m only asking for a conference of all the parties
interested, Mr. Leuppold. That certainly is little enough, an amicable
conference, a discussion--if you like----”

“There is nothing to discuss.”

“I beg to differ. Leaving aside for a moment the question of the
new evidence in the Sanborn case, do you think that Mr. Loring, who
controls its stock, would care to have his connection with the Lehigh
and Pottsville Railroad Company brought into court?”

Mr. Leuppold gasped. He couldn’t help it. How and where had this polite
but surprising young man obtained this information, which no member of
his own firm besides himself possessed. It was uncanny. Was this the
fellow they had talked about and smiled over upstairs? Mr. Leuppold
took to cover skillfully, hiding his uneasiness under a bland smile.

“You’re dreaming, sir,” he said.

Gallatin shook his head.

“No, I’m not dreaming.”

Gallatin rose and took a few paces up and down the room. “See here,
Mr. Leuppold, I’m not prepared to discuss the matter further now. I’ve
asked you for a conference and you call my request intimidation--which
might mean a much uglier thing. You’ve treated my correspondence in
a casual way and you’ve patronized me in my own office. I’ve kept my
temper pretty well, and I’m keeping it still; but I warn you that you
have been and still are making a mistake. I’ve asked for a conference
because I believe this matter can be settled out of court, and because
I didn’t think it fair to your client to go to court without giving him
a chance to save himself. We have no desire to enter into a long and
expensive litigation, but we are prepared to do so and will take the
preliminary steps at once, unless we have some immediate consideration
of our claims. If you stand suit on this appeal you will lose, and I
fancy the evidence presented will be of such character that you will
not care to take the matter further. Don’t reply now, Mr. Leuppold.
Think it over and let me hear from you in writing.”

Mr. Leuppold had not moved. He was watching Gallatin keenly from under
his beetling brows. Was this mere guess work? What did the young man
really know? What evidence had he? Was it a bluff? If so, he made it in
tones with which Leuppold was unfamiliar. But it was no time to back
water now. He smiled approvingly at Phil Gallatin’s inkwell.

“Mr. Gallatin, your imagination does you credit. A good lawyer must
have intuition. But he’s got to have discretion, too. You think,
because the interests we represent are wealthy ones, that you can
throw a stick in our direction and be sure of hitting something.
Unfortunately you have been misinformed--on all points. Mr. Loring has
voluntarily submitted his holdings in Pennsylvania to investigation.
You can never prove any connection between the Pequot Coal Company and
the Lehigh and Pottsville Railroad. There is none.”

He rose pompously and took up his hat and books.

“There isn’t any use in our talking over this case. It will lead us
nowhere. But I’ll promise you if you’ll put your proposition in writing
to submit it to careful consideration.”

“Thanks,” said Gallatin dryly. He picked a large envelope up from the
table and handed it to his visitor. “I have already done so. Will you
take it with you or shall I mail it?”

“I--you may give it to me, Mr. Gallatin.”

Gallatin walked to the outer door and politely bowed him out, while
Tooker, his thin frame writhing with ecstasy, fussed with some papers
on the big table in the junior partner’s office until he was more
composed, and then went on about his daily routine. He realized now
for the first time the full stature of the junior partner. In a night,
it almost seemed to Tooker, he had outgrown his boyhood, his brilliant
wayward boyhood that had promised so much and achieved so little. He
was like his father now, but there was a difference. Philip Gallatin,
the elder, he remembered, had dominated his office by the mere force
of his intellect. He had directed the preparation of his cases with an
unerring legal sense and he had won them through his mastery of detail
and the elimination of the unessential. But it was when presenting his
case to a jury that he was at his strongest, for such was the personal
quality of his magnetism that jurors were willing to be convinced less
by the value of his cause than by the magic of his sophistry. But to
Tooker, who was little more than a piece of legal machinery, there
was something in the methods of the son which compensated for the more
spectacular talents of the father, the painstaking and diligent way in
which Gallatin had planned and carried out his present investigations
and the confidence with which he was putting his information to use.
It was clear to Tooker that Leuppold had been unprepared for Philip
Gallatin’s revelations. Even now Tooker doubted the wisdom of them, for
Mr. Leuppold would not be slow to take advantage of his information and
to cover the traces left by his clients as well as he might. But when
he spoke of it to Gallatin, the junior partner had laughed.

“Don’t you bother, old man. Wait a while. We’ll hear from Mr. Leuppold
very soon--before the week is out, I think.”

In the offices upstairs, Mr. Leuppold’s return was the signal for an
immediate consultation of the entire firm, which would have flattered
and encouraged Philip Gallatin had he been aware of it. Mr. Tyson and
Mr. Whitehead discovered in Mr. Leuppold’s account of the interview
undue cause for alarm. They were themselves adepts in the game Mr.
Gallatin was evidently playing and could be depended upon at the proper
moment to out-maneuver him. Mr. Leuppold disagreed and was forced to
admit the weakness of Mr. Loring’s position, if, as he suspected,
Mr. Gallatin had succeeded in fortifying himself with the proper
evidence. The stock was, of course, not in Mr. Loring’s name, but a man
of resource might have been able to find means to establish a legal
connection of the mine with the railroad. Mr. Leuppold’s opinions
usually bore weight, but just now he seemed to have no definite
opinions.

The conference of the partners lasted until late in the afternoon,
during which time messengers came and went between the firm’s offices
and those of the Pequot Coal Company and that of the President of the
L. and P. Henry K. Loring was out of town and would not return until
the end of the week. A wire was sent to him to return to New York at
once, and it was decided that no reply to Mr. Gallatin’s letter should
be sent until Mr. Loring had been advised.

Phil Gallatin, in high good humor, lunched that morning with the senior
partner at a fashionable restaurant uptown. His work on the Sanborn
case was finished. He had been at it very hard for two months, and the
two of them had planned to spend the afternoon and following day up at
John Kenyon’s farm in Westchester, where they would do some riding,
some walking and some resting, of which both were in need. The lunch
was a preliminary luxury and they found a table in a corner on the
Avenue and ordered.

There was no talk of office matters. John Kenyon had been thoroughly
advised of Phil’s work and knew that there was nothing in the way of
suggestion or advice that he could offer. He had noticed for some days
the gaunt look in his young partner’s face. There were indications
of his growing maturity and shadows of the struggle through which he
had passed, but there were marks which John Kenyon knew belonged to a
different kind of trouble. Gallatin had told him what had happened in
the woods and Kenyon had learned something of Phil’s romance in New
York. But Kenyon was not given to idle or curious questioning, and he
knew that when Phil was ready to speak of private matters he would do
so.

Their oysters had been served and their planked fish brought when a
fashionable party entered and was conducted by the head waiter to
an adjoining table which had been decorated for the occasion. Mrs.
Pennington led the way, followed by Miss Ledyard, Mrs. Perrine and Miss
Loring. Behind them followed Ogden Spencer, Bibby Worthington, Colonel
Broadhurst and Coleman Van Duyn, who was, it appeared, the host.

Phil had hoped that his presence might pass unnoticed; but Nellie
Pennington espied him and nodded gayly, so that he had to rise and
greet her. This drew the eyes of others and when the party was seated
he discovered that Miss Loring, on Van Duyn’s right, was seated
facing him and that her eyes after one blank look in his direction
were assiduously turned elsewhere. John Kenyon caught the change
in Gallatin’s expression, but in a moment Phil had resumed their
conversation upon the comparative merits of the Delaware River and
Potomac River shad, and their luncheon went on to its conclusion.
But the spirits of John Kenyon’s guest had fallen, and Kenyon’s most
persuasive stories failed to find a response. In spite of himself
Phil Gallatin found himself looking at Jane and thinking of Arcadia.
It was three weeks now since that much to be remembered and regretted
interview at the Loring house had taken place. The glance he stole at
Jane assured him that if he had ever had a hope of reconciliation, the
chances for it were now more remote than ever. She wore a huge hat
which screened her effectually, and the glimpses he had of her face
showed it dimpling in smiles for Coleman Van Duyn or Bibby Worthington,
who sat on either side of her. When their eyes had first met he had
thought her pale, but as the moments passed a warm color mounted her
cheeks. It seemed to Gallatin that never before within his memory had
she ever appeared so care-free. She was youth untrammeled, a sister
to Euphrosyne, the spirit of joy. It seemed as if she realized that
the grim specter which had stolen into her life for a while had been
exorcised away, and that she had already forgotten it in the beckoning
of the jocund hours. Phil Gallatin had come into her life and gone,
leaving no trace in her mind or in her heart.

After this their eyes met but once. He was looking at her, thinking
of these things, oblivious of what John Kenyon was saying, unaware of
the intentness of his gaze, which at last compelled her to look in
his direction. It was a startled glance that she gave him, wide-eyed,
almost fearful, as though he had challenged her to this silent combat.
Then her lids lowered insolently, her chin lifted and she turned aside.

Their coffee had been served. Phil gulped his down hastily. “Come,
Uncle John,” he said hoarsely. “Let’s get out of this, will you?”

John Kenyon paid the check and they rose. Unfortunately the only path
to the door lay by Mr. Van Duyn’s table, and as Gallatin passed,
nodding to his acquaintances, Mrs. Pennington got up and stood in front
of him.

“I do so want to see you for a moment, Phil. Will you excuse me,
Coley?” she said, and led the way into a room where she found an
unoccupied corner. John Kenyon went elsewhere to smoke his cigar.

“Oh, Phil!” she whispered. “Why wouldn’t you come to see me? I’ve had
so much to talk to you about.”

“I--I’ve been very busy, Nellie. I haven’t been anywhere.”

“My house isn’t ‘anywhere.’ I want to talk to you--you know what I
mean.”

“It won’t do any good, Nellie,” he muttered. “There isn’t anything more
to be said.”

“Perhaps not--but I want to say it just the same. I want you to
promise----”

“I can’t,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t ask me to come and talk to
you--about that.”

“Well, then, come and talk to me about other things.”

“I can’t. If I come I must talk about what you remind me of.”

She hesitated, looking at him critically.

“Phil, you’re an idiot,” she said at last.

“Thanks,” he replied, “I’m aware of it.”

“Are you going to give up?”

“I’ve given up.”

Nellie Pennington shrugged. “For good? You’re going to let--Oh, I’ve no
patience with you.”

“I’m sorry. You did what you could and I’m thankful. Don’t think I’m
ungrateful. I’m not. One of these days I’ll prove it. You did a lot.
I’m awake, Nellie. You woke me and I’m not going to sleep again.”

“I’m proud of you, Phil, but you’re not awake--not really awake or you
couldn’t sit by and see the girl you love forced into an engagement
with a man she doesn’t care for.”

Gallatin flushed.

“Is that--” he asked slowly, “is that what this--this luncheon means?”

“Judge for yourself. He is with her always. And they’ve even rebelled
against my chaperonage. Their relations are talked of freely in Jane’s
presence and she laughs acquiescence. Imagine it!”

Gallatin turned away.

“I--I have no further interest in--in Miss Loring,” he said quietly.

“Well, _I_ have. And I’m not going to let her make a fool of herself if
I can help it.”

“Miss Loring will probably not agree with you.”

“I hardly expect her to.” She hesitated. “Phil,” she asked at last.

“What, Nellie?”

“Will you answer a question?”

“What?”

“Was this story they’re telling about you and Nina mentioned?”

“Yes, it was.”

“I thought so,” triumphantly. “Phil we must talk this thing out.”

“It can do no good----”

“And no harm. There’s been a mistake somewhere--something neither you
nor I understand.” She stopped and tapped her forehead with her index
finger. “I can’t tell what--but I sense it--here. Something has gone
wrong--what, I don’t know. I’ve got to think about it.”

“Yes--it’s gone wrong--and it can’t be righted.”

“Perhaps not,” she said rising. “But I _do_ want you to come to see me.
Won’t you?”

“You’re very persistent, aren’t you? Very well, I’ll come.”

“I must go now. Coley will be furious. I hope so, at any rate.”

She smiled at him again and went back to her luncheon party while
Gallatin found John Kenyon and drove to the Grand Central station.




XXIV

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND


It was the middle of March, and fashionable New York, having been at
least twice through its winter wardrobe, had gone southward for a
change of speed. Aiken, Jekyl Island and Palm Beach had all done their
share in the midwinter rejuvenation, but the particular set of people
with which this story concerns itself were spending the last days of
the Lenten season at the Dorsey-Martin’s place in Virginia.

Dorsey-Martin was rich beyond the dreams of Alnaschar, but unlike the
unfortunate brother of the barber, had not smashed the glassware in his
basket until he had sold it to somebody else, when he was enabled to
buy it in again at a much reduced rate. His particular specialty was
not glassware, but railroads which, while equally fragile, could be put
together again and be made (to all appearances) as good as new.

The fruits of this fortunate talent were in evidence in his
well-appointed house in New York with its collection of old English
portraits, his palace at Newport just finished, and in his “shooting
place” in Virginia.

The Dorsey-Martins had “arrived.” They had been ten years in transit,
and their ways had been devious, but their present welcome more
than compensated for the pains and money which had been spent in
the pilgrimage. The Virginia place, “Clovelly” adjoined that of the
Ledyards, and consisted of a thousand acres of preserved woodland and
dale, within a night’s journey of New York. Autumn, of course, was
the season when “Clovelly” was most in use, but spring frequently
found it the scene of gay gatherings such as the present one, for in
addition to the squash courts and swimming pool there was court tennis,
with a marker constantly in attendance, a good stable, and hospitable
neighbors.

It was Nellie Pennington who had prevailed upon Phil Gallatin to accept
Mrs. Dorsey-Martin’s invitation, for she knew that Jane Loring was
staying at “Mobjack,” the Ledyards’ place, and she hoped that she might
yet be the means of bringing the two together. Her interview with Phil
had been barren of results, except to confirm her in the suspicion that
Nina Jaffray held the key to the puzzle. Nina, who had been one of the
early arrivals at “Clovelly,” had so far eluded all her snares; and
Nellie Pennington was now convinced that here was a foeman worthy of
her subtlest metal. She enjoyed the game hugely, as, apparently, did
Nina, and their passages at arms were as skillful (and as ineffectual)
as those of two perfectly matched _maîtres d’escrime_. Nina knew that
Nellie Pennington suspected her of mischief, but she also knew that it
was unlikely that any one would ever know, unless from Jane, just what
that mischief had been.

The arrival of Phil Gallatin, while it gave Nina happiness, made
her keep a narrower guard against the verbal thrusts of her playful
adversary.

Phil Gallatin had regained his poise and reached “Clovelly” in a
jubilant frame of mind. Two days ago Henry K. Loring had agreed to a
conference.

Mr. Leuppold, more suave, more benign, more patronizing than ever, had
called and told Gallatin of this noteworthy act of condescension on
the part of his client. Nothing, of course, need be expected from such
a meeting in the way of concessions, but men of the world like Mr.
Leuppold and Mr. Gallatin knew that co-operation was, after all, the
soul of business, and that one caught many more flies with treacle than
with vinegar.

He continued for half an hour in this vein, platitudinizing and begging
the question at issue while Gallatin listened and assented politely,
without giving any further intimation of a course of action for Kenyon,
Hood and Gallatin. But when the great lawyer had departed, Gallatin
went to the window and surveyed the steel gray waters of the Hudson
with a gleaming eye, and his face wore a smile which would not depart.
Sanborn’s case would never go to court.

The vestiges of this good humor still remained upon his face and in
his demeanor all the morning, which had been spent in a run with the
Warrenton pack. It was so long since he had ridden to hounds that
he had almost forgotten the joy of it, but he was well mounted and
finished creditably. Nina Jaffray showed the field her heels for
most of the way and Gallatin pounded after her, his muscles aching,
determined not to be outridden by a woman.

In the first check, she drew her horse alongside of his and smiled at
him.

“Ready to let me announce it yet, Phil?” she asked.

Gallatin just then was wondering whether his leg grip would last out
the day.

“Announce what, Nina?” he asked.

“Our engagement,” she returned with a smile. “It’s almost time, you
know.”

“Oh, go as far as you like.”

“Don’t laugh!”

“I’ve got to--you make me so happy.”

“Oh, you can joke if you like now, but you’ll have to marry me some
day.”

“Oh, will I? Why?”

“Because you like me. Friendship subdues even Time, Phil. I’m willing
to wait.”

And when he looked at her, at loss for a reply, the hounds gave tongue
again and they were off at a full gallop. He couldn’t help admiring her
this morning. The easy unconventionality of her speech, her attitude
of good fellowship, were a part of the setting. This was the scene in
which she always appeared to the best advantage and she took the center
of the stage with an assurance which showed how well she knew her lines.

It was Nina’s brush, of course, for she had brought down her own best
hunter for the occasion and was in at the death with the Huntsman and
Master of the Hounds, while Gallatin trailed in with the Field. And
in the ride homeward Phil found himself jogging along comfortably at
Nina’s side.

“Phil,” she said again, when the others had ridden on ahead. “I hope
you won’t laugh at me any more. It’s indecent. I never laugh at you.”

“Oh, don’t you? You’re never doing anything else.”

“It seems so, doesn’t it? That’s my pose, Phil. I’m really very much
in earnest about things. I don’t suppose I ever could learn to love
anybody--the faculty is lacking, somehow; but I think you know that,
even if I didn’t love you, I’d never love any one else, whatever
happened, and I’d be true as Death.”

“Yes, I know that. But----”

“But--?” she repeated.

“But--I’m not going to marry,” he laughed.

She shrugged.

“Oh, yes, you will--some day.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Because men of your type always do.”

“My type?”

“Yes, they usually marry late and beneath them. I’m trying to save you
from that mistake.”

He smiled at her saucy profile.

“Marrying one’s equal doesn’t always mean equality.”

“You were always a dreamer, Phil.”

“I think I’ll always dream then, Nina,” he broke in abruptly.
“Don’t make the mistake of thinking that you’ve got to marry
somebody--anybody--just because you’ve reached the marriageable age.
That’s the trap that catches most of us. Marry for love, Nina. You’ve
got that much capital to begin on. Love doesn’t die a sudden death.”

“Not unless it’s killed. That happens, you know.”

“You can’t kill it easily. You may scoff at it, deny it, wound it, but
it doesn’t die, Nina.”

She turned and examined him narrowly, then shifted her bridle to the
other hand and ran her crop along her horse’s neck.

“You know, Jane Loring is going to marry Coley.”

“What has that to do with what we’re talking about?” he said quickly.

“Oh, nothing. Only I thought you’d like to know it. You’ll have a
chance to congratulate them to-night.”

“To-night? Where?”

“They’re at the Ledyards’, but they’re dining at ‘Clovelly.’”

“Oh!”

“So, if you’re going to put them asunder, you’d better do it to-night
or forever hold your peace.”

He smiled around at her calmly.

“Nothing doing, Nina. You missed it that time. The only things I’m
putting asunder are a railroad and an omnivorous coal company. That
takes about all my energy.”

“Phil,” she put in thoughtfully after a moment.

“What?”

“What’s the use of waiting? You’re going to marry me in the end, you
know.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yes. You can’t afford to refuse. I’ve got the money, position, and
father has influence. That means power for a man of your ability.
You’re getting ambitious. I can tell that by the way you’re sticking at
things. There’s no telling what you mightn’t accomplish with the help
I can bring you. Oh, you could get along alone, of course. But you’d
waste a lot of time. You’d better think about it seriously.”

“I have thought about it. I’m really beginning to believe you mean it.”

“Yes, I do mean it. I’ve decided to marry you. And you know I’ve never
yet failed at anything I’ve undertaken.”

She was quite in earnest and he looked at her amusedly.

“Then I suppose I’d better surrender at discretion.”

“Yes, I’m sure you had.”

“Isn’t there a loophole?”

“None, whatever. I’m your super-man, Phil. You might just as well go
at once and order your wedding garments and the ring. It will save us
endless discussions--and you know I _hate_ discussions. They’re really
very wearing. Besides, O Phil!”--She laid the end of her crop on his
arm--“just think what a lot of fun you’ll get out of letting Jane know
how little you care!”

Gallatin didn’t reply and in a moment they had reached the stables of
“Clovelly” where the others were dismounting.

In his room, to which he had gone in search of his pipe, Gallatin
paused at the window, looking out over the winter landscape, thinking.
Why not? Why shouldn’t he marry her? It would be a cold-blooded
business, of course, but he called to mind a dozen marriages of reason
that had turned out satisfactorily, and as many marriages for love
which had ended in the ditch. This life was a pleasant kind of poison,
the luxury and ease, the careless gayety of these pleasant people who
moved along the line of least resistance, taking from life only what
suited their moods, living only for the moment, sure that the future
was amply provided for. He had turned his back on this world for a
while, and had lived in another, a sterner world, with which this one
had little in common. A place like this might be his, with its broad
acres and stables, horses and motor cars, a life like this for the
asking. A marriage of reason! With Nina Jaffray at the helm of his
destiny and hers. God forbid!

He had laid his own course now, but he had weathered the rocks and
shoals and the rough water in sight did not dismay him. Marriage!
He wanted none of it with Nina or any other. This kind of life was
not for him unless he won it for himself, for only then would he be
fit to live it. And while he found it good to be away from his rooms
in the house in ---- Street, good to be away from the office for a
while, the atmosphere of “Clovelly” was redolent of his early days of
indolence and undesire and he suddenly found himself less tolerant of
the failings of these people than he had ever been before. He hadn’t
realized what his work had meant until he had this idleness to compare
it with.

Jane! He had been able to think less of Jane Loring in the fever of
work, but here at “Clovelly,” among the people they both knew, where
her name was frequently mentioned, he found it less easy to forget her,
and the imminence of the hour when he must see her again gave him a
qualm.

He lighted his pipe and started downstairs toward the gunroom, where
the guests were recounting the adventures of the morning over tobacco
and high-balls. Nellie Pennington, who had an instinct for the
psychological moment, met him and led him to a lounge at the end of the
hall.

“Well,” she said, “are you prepared to give a full account of yourself?”

“An empty account, dear Mother Confessor. I’m neither sinful nor
virtuous.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“About which?”

“About either. You’re unpleasantly self-righteous and criminally
unamiable.”

“Oh, Nellie, to whom?”

“To me. Also, you’re stupid!”

“Thanks. That’s my misfortune. What else?”

“That’s enough to begin on. I could pull your ears in chagrin. You’ve
treated my advice with the scantest ceremony, made ducks and drakes of
the opportunities I’ve provided, and lastly you’ve gone and gotten Nina
Jaffray talked about----”

“Nellie! Please! I can’t permit----”

“Oh, fudge, Phil. Nina is well able to look after herself. It isn’t of
Nina I’m thinking.”

“Who then?”

“You! You silly goose. There isn’t any spectacle in the world half
so ludicrous as a chivalrous man defending the fame of a woman who
doesn’t care whether she’s defended or not.”

“I don’t see----”

“I know you don’t. That’s why I’m telling you.”

“But Nina, does care.”

“Yes, but not precisely in the way that you suppose. Fortune gave her
some excellent cards--and she played them.”

“Please be more explicit.”

“Very well, then. Girls of Nina’s type would rather have their name
coupled unpleasantly with that of the man they care for than not
coupled with it at all.”

“Nonsense, Nina doesn’t care----”

“Oh, yes, she does. She wants to marry you. She has told you so, hasn’t
she?”

Phil Gallatin looked at her quickly with eyes agog. Such powers of
divination were uncanny.

“She has proposed to you once--twice--how many times, Phil?”

“None--not at all,” he stammered, while she smiled and shrugged her
incredulity.

“If I didn’t know already, I need only a glance at your face to be
convinced of it.”

“How did you know?”

“How does a woman know anything? By virtue, my friend, of those
invisible spiritual fibers which she thrusts in all directions and upon
which she receives impressions. That’s how she knows.”

“You guessed?”

“Call it that, if you like. I guessed. I guessed this, also: that Nina
wanted Jane to believe this story to be true. It didn’t need much to
convince her. That little Nina was willing to provide.”

“What?”

“Nina admitted that the story was true,” she repeated.

Gallatin rose to his feet and stared at his companion like one
possessed.

“Nina admitted it! You’re dreaming.”

“No. I’m very wide awake. I wish you were.”

“It’s preposterous. Whatever put such an idea into your head?”

“My antennæ.”

“Nonsense!”

“Listen. Nina called on Jane a while ago. They had a long talk.
Something happened--something that has interrupted friendly relations.
They don’t speak now. What do you suppose that talk was about? The
weather? Or a plan for the amelioration of the condition of homeless
cats? Oh, you know a lot about women, Phil Gallatin!” she finished
scornfully.

“I know enough,” he muttered.

“You think you do,” she put in quickly. “The Lord give me patience to
talk to you! For unbiased ignorance, next to the callous youth who
thinks he knows it all, commend me to the modern Galahad! The one only
_thinks_ he knows, but the other doesn’t want to know. He’s content to
believe every woman irreproachable by the mere virtue of being a woman.
Nina Jaffray has played her cards with remarkable cleverness, but she
has been quite unscrupulous. It’s time you knew it, and it’s time that
Jane did. I would tell her if I thought she would believe me, but I
fancy I’ve meddled enough.”

Gallatin took two or three paces up and down and then sat down beside
her.

“It isn’t meddling, Nellie,” he said quietly. “You’ve done your best
and I’m grateful to you. Unfortunately, you can’t help me any longer.
It’s too late. I did what I could. No girl who had ever loved a man
could let him go so easily, could doubt him so willingly. It was all a
mistake. It’s better to find it out now than too late.”

Nellie Pennington didn’t reply. She only looked down at her muddy boots
with the cryptic smile that women wear when they wish to conceal either
their ignorance or their wisdom.

“Did you know that Jane was dining here to-night?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “Nina told me. I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter in the least. The world is big enough for everybody.
Jane evidently thinks so, too. Otherwise she wouldn’t be coming.”

“Does she know I’m here?”

“Oh, yes, she knows that Nina is, too.”

Gallatin looked out of the window.

“You don’t understand women, do you, Phil? Admit that and I’ll tell you
why she’s coming.”

He smiled. “I do admit it. You’re all in league with the devil.”

“She’s coming here because she wants to show you how little she cares,
because she has a morbid curiosity to see you and Nina together, and
lastly,” at this she leaned toward him with her lips very close to his
ear, “and lastly--because she loves you more madly than ever!”

He had hardly recovered from the shock of surprise at this announcement
when he realized that Nellie Pennington had suddenly risen and fled.

This preliminary step taken, Nellie Pennington retreated upstairs in
the most amiable of moods, to dress for luncheon. If Nina was going
to play the game with marked cards, it was quite proper that Phil be
permitted the use of the code. She had at least provided him with food
for reflection, which, while not quite pleasant to take, would serve as
nutrition for his failing optimism. And somewhere in the back of her
head a plan was being born, unpalpable as yet and formless, but which
persisted in growing in spite of her.




XXV

DEEP WATER


The afternoon was passed in leisurely fashion. The modern way of
entertaining guests is to let them entertain themselves. They loafed,
smoked, played bottle-pool and later on there was a court tennis match
between young Dorsey-Martin and the marker, which drew a gallery and
applause. Nina Jaffray tried it next with Bibby Worthington and though
she had played but once, got the knack of the “railroad” service and
succeeded in beating him handily, amid derisive remarks for Bibby from
the nets. A plunge in the pool followed; after which the ladies went up
for a rest before dressing for dinner. Gallatin saw little of Nellie
Pennington during the afternoon, and though he wanted to question her
to satisfy the alarming curiosity which she had aroused, she avoided
speaking to him alone, and when he insisted on following her about,
fled to her room. She knew the effect of her revelations upon his mind
and she didn’t propose that it should be spoiled by an anti-climax.

The dinner hour arrived and with it the Ledyards and their
house-guests, Angela Wetherill, Millicent Reeves, the Perrines, Jane
Loring, Percy Endicott, Coleman Van Duyn and some of the Warrenton
folk. Dinner tables, each with six chairs, had been laid in the
dining-room and hall, but so perfect was the machinery of the great
establishment that the influx of guests made no apparent difference
in its orderly procedure. There were good-natured comments on Bibby
Worthington’s defeat in the afternoon, congratulations for Nina Jaffray
on her dual achievement, uncomplimentary remarks about Virginia clay,
flattering ones about Virginia hospitality and the usual discussion
about breeds of hounds and horses, back of which was to be discovered
the ancient rivalry between the Cedarcroft and Apawomeck hunt clubs.

Nellie Pennington directed the destinies of the table at which Gallatin
sat. Nina Jaffray was on his right, Larry Kane beyond her, Coleman Van
Duyn on Mrs. Pennington’s left and Jane Loring opposite. Nothing could
possibly have been arranged which could conspire more thoroughly to
lacerate the feelings of those assembled. Gallatin saw Jane halt when
she was directed to her seat, he heard Nina’s titter of delight beside
him, caught Larry Kane’s glare and Coley Van Duyn’s flush, but the stab
of Jane’s eyes hardened him into an immediate gayety in which Nina
was not slow to follow. Mrs. Pennington having devised the situation,
calmly sat and proceeded to enjoy it. Good breeding, she knew, made
a fair amalgam of the most heterogeneous elements, but she gave a
short sigh when they were all seated and each began talking rapidly to
his neighbor, Jane to Larry Kane, Nina to Phil and herself to Coley.
Pangs in every heart except her own! It was the perfection of social
cruelty, and she enjoyed it hugely, aware that two, perhaps three,
of the persons at the table might never care to speak to her again,
but stimulated by the reflection, whether for bad or good, something
must come out of her crucible. The first shock of dismay over, it was
apparent that her dinner partners had decided to make the best of the
situation. The table was small, and general conversation inevitable,
but she chose for the present to let matters take their course,
trusting to Nina to provide that element of uncertainty which was to
make the plot of her comedy fruitful.

Indeed, Nina seemed in her element, and, when a sudden silence fell,
broke the ice with a carelessness which showed her quite oblivious of
its existence.

“So nice of you, Nellie, to have us all together! I was just saying to
Phil that dinners at small tables can be _such_ a bore, if the people
are not all congenial.”

“Jolly, isn’t it?” laughed Nellie. “Jane, why weren’t you hunting this
morning?”

“Oh, Coley didn’t want to,” she said quickly, her rapier flashing in
two directions.

Nellie Pennington understood.

“You _are_ getting heavy, aren’t you, Coley?” she asked sweetly.
“Didn’t Honora have anything up to your weight?”

“I didn’t ask,” returned Van Duyn peevishly. “Dreadful bore,
huntin’----”

“Hear the man!” exclaimed Nellie. “You’re spoiling him, Jane.”

“There’s no hope for any creature who doesn’t like hunting,” put in
Nina in disgust.

“Except the fox,” said Gallatin.

“And there’s not much for him when Nina rides,” laughed Larry Kane.
“Lord, Nina, but you did take some chances to-day.”

“I believe in taking chances,” put in Miss Jaffray calmly. “The element
of uncertainty is all that makes life worth while. Nothing in the world
is so deadly as the obvious.”

“You’ll be kept busy avoiding it,” sighed Nellie. “I’ve been.”

“Oh, I simply ignore it,” she returned, with a quick gesture.
“Jane won’t approve, of course; but the unusual, the daring, the
unconventional are the only things that interest me at all.”

“They interest others when you do them, Nina,” Jane replied smiling
calmly.

“Of course, they do. And you ought to be grateful.”

“We are. I’m sure we’d be very dull without you. Personally I’m a
bromide.”

“Heaven forbid! The things that are easiest are not worth trying for.
Whether your game is fish, fowl or beast (and that includes man), try
the most difficult. The thrill of delight when you bag your game is
worth all the pains of the effort. Isn’t it, Nellie?”

“I don’t know,” the other replied, between oysters. “I bagged Dick, but
then I didn’t have to try very hard. I suppose I would have bagged him
just the same. A woman can have any man she wants, you know.”

“The trouble is,” laughed Larry Kane, “that she doesn’t know what she
wants.”

“And, if she does, Larry,” said Gallatin slowly, “he’s usually the
wrong one.”

Nina laughed.

“His sex must be blamed for that. The right men are all wrong and
the wrong men are all right. That’s my experience. ‘Young saint, old
devil; young devil, old saint.’ You couldn’t provide me with a better
recommendation for a good husband than a bad reputation as a bachelor.
And think of the calm delights of regeneration!”

“You’ll have no difficulty in finding him, Nina,” said Jane.

“I’m afraid there’s no hope for me,” laughed Kane. “I, for one, am too
good for any use.”

“Too good to be true,” sniffed Nina.

“Or too true to be interesting,” he added, below his breath.

Nellie Pennington, having led her companions into deep water, now
turned and guided them into the shoals of the commonplace. Jane
Loring’s eyes and Phil Gallatin’s had met across the table. The act
was unavoidable for they sat directly opposite each other and, though
each looked away at once, the current established, brief as it was,
was burdened with meaning. Gallatin read a hundred things, but love
was not one of them. Jane read a hundred things any one of which might
have been love, but, as far as she knew, was not. Gallatin caught the
end of a gaze she had given him while he was talking to Nina, and he
fancied it to be a kind of indignant curiosity, not in the slightest
degree related to the scorn of her surprise at being detected in the
midst of her inspection. Gallatin found her face thinner, which made
her eyes seem larger and the shadows under them deeper. He had seen
fresh young beauty such as hers break and fade during one season in
New York, but it shocked him a little to find these marks so evident
in so short a time. It was as though a year, two years even, had been
crowded into the few weeks since he had seen her last, as though she
had lived at high tension, letting nothing escape her that could add to
the sum of experience. Her eyes sparkled, and on her cheeks was a patch
of red clearly defined, like rouge, but not rouge, for it came and went
with her humor. She had grown older, more intense, more fragile, her
features more clearly carved, more refined and--except for the hard
little shadows at the corners of her lips--more spiritual.

He glanced at the heavy, bovine face of Coley Van Duyn beside her and
wondered. Coley had been drinking freely and his face was flushed, his
laugh open-mouthed and louder than Nellie Pennington’s humor seemed to
warrant. How could she? God! How could she do it?

A blind rage came upon Gallatin, a sudden wave of intolerance and
rebellion, and he clenched his fists beneath the table. This man drank
as much as he liked and when he pleased. He was the club glutton.
He ate immoderately and drank immoderately, because he liked to do
it, and because that was his notion of comfort. Not, as had been the
case with Gallatin, because he had not been able to live without
it. Van Duyn could stop drinking when he liked, when he had had
enough, when he didn’t want any more. He drank for the mere pleasure
of drinking. Gallatin bit his lip and stared at his untouched wine
glasses. Pleasure? With Gallatin it had been no pleasure. It had been a
medicine, a desperate remedy for a desperate pain, a poisonous medicine
which cured and killed at the same time.

“Phil!” Nina’s voice sounded suddenly at his ear. “Are you ill?”

“Not in the least.”

“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve been saying, and it was so
interesting.”

He laughed.

“What were you thinking of?”

“My sins.”

“Then I don’t wonder that you looked so badly.”

But it was clear that she understood him, for after a short silence she
spoke of other things.

The dinner having progressed to the salad course, visiting was in
order, and the guests sauntered from table to table, exchanging chairs
and partners. Jane Loring was one of the first to take advantage of
this opportunity to escape, and found a seat at Honora Ledyard’s table
between Bibby Worthington and Percy Endicott.

Nellie Pennington watched her departure calmly, for she had learned
what she had set out to learn. All women, no matter how youthful,
are clever at dissimulation, but the art being common to all women,
deceives none. And Jane, skillful though she had been in hiding her
thoughts from Gallatin, deceived neither Nellie Pennington nor Nina
Jaffray.

Dinner over, Nellie Pennington followed the crowd to the gunroom. The
married set were already at their auction and somebody beckoned to her
to make a four, but she refused. On this night she had a mission. She
wandered from group to group, keeping one eye on Jane and the other on
Phil, until the music began, when with one accord, all but the most
devoted of the bridge-players returned to the hall, from which the
furniture had been cleared, and where the polished wax surface shone
invitingly. Mrs. Pennington waited until the waltz was well under way
and saw Jane Loring circling the room safely with Larry Kane, when
she went into the library alone. Her thought had crystallized into a
definite plan.

It was at the end of the third dance when Jane, on the arm of Percy
Endicott was on her way to the terrace for a breath of air, that Bibby
Worthington slipped a note into her fingers. She excused herself and
took it to the nearest electric bulb. She knew the handwriting at once.
It was in Nina Jaffray’s picturesque scrawl.

    “Jane, dear,” it ran. “I _must_ see you for a moment about
    something which concerns you intimately. Meet me at twelve by
    the fountain in the loggia of the tennis court.

    “NINA.”

Jane turned the note over and re-read it; then with quick scorn, tore
it into tiny pieces and scattered them into the bushes. The impudence
of her! She had given Nina credit for better taste. What right had she
to intrude again in Jane’s private affairs when she must know how
little her offices were appreciated? And yet, what was this she had
to say? Something that concerned Jane intimately? What could that be
unless----

Coleman Van Duyn appeared and claimed the next dance, which he begged
that she would sit out. Jane agreed because it would give her a chance
to think. There was little real exertion required in talking to Coley.

What could Nina want to tell her? And where--did she say? In the loggia
of the tennis court--at twelve. It must be almost that now.

At five minutes of twelve Nellie Pennington handed Gallatin a note.

“From Nina,” she whispered. “It’s really outrageous, Phil, the way
you’re flirting with that trusting child. I’m sure you ought to be
ashamed of yourself.”

The tennis court was at the far end of the long house. It was reached
by passing first a succession of rooms which made up the main building,
into the conservatory, by the swimming-pool and loggia. The loggia was
a red-tiled portico, enclosed in glass during the winter, in the center
of which was a fountain surrounded by a circular marble bench, all
filched from an old Etruscan villa. To-night it was unlighted except by
the glow from the bronze Japanese lamps in the conservatory; an ideal
spot for a tryst, so far removed from the main body of the house and so
cool in winter that it was seldom used except as a promenade or as a
haven by those purposely belated. Gallatin, the scrap of paper in his
fingers, strolled through the deserted halls, smoking thoughtfully.
Nina Jaffray was beginning to grate just a little on his nerves. He had
no idea what she wanted of him and he didn’t much care.

He only knew that it was almost time for him to make his meaning clear
to her in terms which might not be misunderstood. As he entered the
obscurity of the loggia, he saw the head and shoulders of a figure in
white above the back of the stone bench.

“You wanted to see me?” he said.

At the sound of his voice, the figure rose, stood poised breathless,
and he saw that it was not Nina.

“I?” Jane’s voice answered.

He stopped and the cigarette slipped from his fingers.

“I--I beg pardon. I was told that----”

“That _I_ wanted to see you?” she broke in scornfully.

“No. Not you--” he replied, still puzzled.

“There has been a mistake, Mr. Gallatin. I do not want to see you. If
you’ll excuse me----”

She made a movement to go, but Gallatin stood in the aperture, the only
avenue of escape, and did not move. His hands were at his sides, his
head bent forward, his eyes gazing into the pool.

“Wait--” he muttered, as though to himself. “Don’t go yet. I’ve
something to say--just a word--it will not take a moment. Will you
listen?”

“I suppose I--I must,” she stammered.

“I hear--” he began painfully, “that it’s true that you’re going to
marry Mr. Van Duyn.”

“And what if it is?” she flashed at him.

“Nothing--except that I hope you’ll be happy. I wish you----”

“Thanks,” dryly. “When I’m ready for the good wishes--of--of anybody,
I’ll ask for them. At present--will you let me pass, please?”

“Yes--in a moment. I thought perhaps you might be willing to tell me
whether it’s true, the report of your engagement?”

“I can’t see how that can be any interest of yours.”

“Only the interest of one you once cared for and who----”

“Mr. Gallatin, I forbid it,” she said hurriedly. “Would you be so
unmanly as to take advantage of your position here? Isn’t it enough
that I no longer care to know you, that I prefer to choose my own
friends?”

“Will you answer my question?” he repeated doggedly.

“No. You have no right to question me.”

“I’m assuming the right. Your memory of the past----”

“There is no past. It was the dream of a silly child in another world
where men were honest and women clean. I’ve grown older, Mr. Gallatin.”

“Yes, but not in mercy, not in compassion, not in charity.”

“Speak of virtue before you speak of mercy, of pride before compassion,
of decency before charity--if you can,” she added contemptuously.

“You’re cruel,” he muttered, “horribly so.”

“I’m wiser than I was. The world has done me that service. And if
cruelty is the price of wisdom, I’ll pay it. Baseness, meanness,
improbity in business or in morals no longer surprise me. They’re woven
into the tissue of life. I can abominate the conditions that cause
them, but they are the world. And, until I choose to live alone, I must
accept them even if I despise the men and women who practice them, Mr.
Gallatin.”

“And you call this wisdom? This disbelief in everything--in everybody,
this threadbare creed of the jaded women of the world?”

“Call it what you like. Neither your opinions nor your principles (or
the lack of them) mean anything to me. If I had known you were here I
should not have come to-night. I pray that we may never meet again.”

He stood silent a long moment, searching her face with his eyes. She
was so cold, so white and wraithlike, and her voice was so strange,
so impersonal, that he was almost ready to believe that she was some
one else. It was the voice of a woman without a soul--a calm, ruthless
voice which sought to wound, to injure or destroy. It had been on his
lips to speak of the past, to translate into the words the pain at his
heart. He had been ready to take one step forward, to seize her in his
arms and compel her by the might of his tenderness to return the love
that he bore her. If he had done so then, perhaps fortune would have
favored him--have favored them both; for in the hour of their greatest
intolerance women are sometimes most vulnerable. But he could not. Her
words chilled him to insensibility, scourged his pride and made him
dumb and unyielding.

“If that is your wish,” he said quietly, “I will do my best to respect
it. I’d like you to remember one thing, though, and that is that this
meeting was not of my seeking. If I’ve detained you, it was with the
hope that perhaps you might be willing to listen to the truth, to learn
what a dreadful mistake you have made, of the horrible wrong you have
done----”

“To you?”

“No,” sternly. “To Nina Jaffray. Think what you like of me,” he went
on with sudden passion. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t make a new pain
sharper than the old one. But you’ve got to do justice to her.”

“What is the use, Mr. Gallatin?”

“It’s a lie that they’ve told, a cruel lie, as you’ll learn some day
when it will be too late to repair the wrong you’ve done.”

“I don’t believe that it was a lie, Mr. Gallatin. A lie will not
persist against odds. This does. You’ve done your duty. Now please let
me go.”

“Not yet. You needn’t be afraid of me.”

“Let me pass.”

“In a moment--when you listen. You must. Nina Jaffray is blameless.
She would not deny such a story. It would demean her to deny it as it
demeans me.”

“It does demean you,” she broke in pitilessly, “as other things have
demeaned you. Shame, Mr. Gallatin! Do you think I could believe the
word of a man who seeks revenge for a woman’s indifference? Who finding
her invulnerable goes to the ends of his resources to attack the
members of her family? Trying by methods known only to himself and
those of his kind to hinder the success of those more diligent than
himself, to smirch the good name of an honest man, to obtain money----”

“Stop,” cried Gallatin hoarsely, and in spite of herself she obeyed.
For he was leaning forward toward her, the long fingers of one hand
trembling before him.

“You’ve gone almost too far, Miss Loring,” he whispered. “You are
talking about things of which you know nothing. I will not speak of
that, nor shall you, for whatever our relations have been or are now,
nothing in them justifies that insult. Time will prove the right or
the wrong of the matter between Henry K. Loring and me as time will
prove the right and the wrong to his daughter. I ask nothing of her
now, nor ever shall, not even a thought. The girl I am thinking of was
gentle, kind, sincere. She looked with the eyes of compassion, the
far-seeing gaze of innocence unclouded by bitterness or doubt. I gave
her all that was best in me, all that was honest, all that was true,
and in return she gave me courage, purpose, resolution. I loved her
for herself, because she _was_ herself, but more for the things she
represented--purity, nobility, strength which I drew from her like an
inspiration. It was to her that I owed the will to conquer myself, the
purpose to win back my self-respect. I thanked God for her then and I’m
thankful now, but I’m more thankful that I’m no longer dependent on
her.”

Jane had sunk on the bench again, her head bent and a sound came from
her lips. But he did not hear it.

“I do not need her now,” he went on quietly. “What she was is only a
memory; what she is, only a regret. I shall live without her. I shall
live without any woman, for no woman could ever be to me what that
memory is. I love it passionately, reverently, madly, tenderly, and
will be true to it, as I have always been. And, if ever the moment
comes when the woman that girl has grown to be looks into the past, let
her remember that love knows not doubt or bitterness, that it lives
upon itself, is sufficient unto itself and that, whatever happens, is
faithful until death.”

He stopped and stepped aside.

“I have finished, Miss Loring. Now go!”

The peremptory note startled her and she straightened and slowly rose.
His head was bowed but his finger pointed toward the door of the
conservatory. As she passed him she hesitated as though about to speak,
and then slowly raising her head walked past him and disappeared.




XXVI

BIG BUSINESS


Tooker fidgeted uneasily with the papers on the junior partner’s desk,
moving to the safe in the main office and back again, bringing bundles
of documents which he disposed in an orderly row where Mr. Gallatin
could put his hands on them. Eleven o’clock was the hour set for the
conference between Henry K. Loring and Philip Gallatin. Mr. Leuppold
had written last week that Mr. Loring had agreed to a conference and
asked Mr. Gallatin to come to his, Mr. Leuppold’s, private office at a
given time. Gallatin had agreed to the day and hour named, but politely
insisted that Mr. Leuppold and Mr. Loring come to _his_ office. It
would have made no difference in the result, of course, but Gallatin
had reasons of his own.

At ten o’clock Philip Gallatin came in and read his mail. He had
returned yesterday from his southern visit, and in the afternoon had
gone over, with Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Hood, the details of the case. The
matter had been discussed freely, but it was clear to Tooker, who had
been present, that the other partners had been able to add nothing but
their approval to the work which Gallatin had done.

His mail finished, Gallatin took up the other papers on his desk and
scrutinized them carefully, after which he glanced at his watch and
pressed the button for the chief clerk.

“There has been no message from Mr. Leuppold, Tooker?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

Gallatin smiled. “That’s good. I was figuring on a slight chance that
they might want more time, and ask a postponement.”

“I had thought of that.”

“It wouldn’t help them. I guess they’ve found that out.”

“I hope so. But I shouldn’t take any chances.”

“No, I won’t,” he returned grimly. And then, “Mr. Markham is here,
isn’t he?”

“Yes. He came early. I’ve shown him into Mr. Kenyon’s office as you
directed.”

“Very good, Tooker. And I will want you, so please don’t go out.”

“I’m not going out this morning, Mr. Gallatin,” said Tooker, with a
grin.

After the chief clerk had disappeared Gallatin walked to the window
where he stood for a long while with his hands behind his back, looking
out toward the Jersey shore. His thoughts were not pleasant ones. The
words of Jane’s recrimination were still ringing in his ears. It was
Henry Loring, of course, who had put all that into her head, but he
blamed her for the readiness with which she had been willing to condemn
him from the first, the facility with which she had been able to turn
from him to another.

His idyl had passed.

He turned into the room, brows lowering and jaws set, and went to his
desk again. There, at a few moments past eleven, Tooker brought in word
that Mr. Leuppold and Mr. Loring were waiting to see him.

“Tell them to wait in the outer office, Tooker,” he said with a gleam
in his eye, “that I will be at liberty in a few moments. I’ll ring for
you.”

When Tooker had gone, Gallatin sat down again, glanced at his watch,
then took up the morning paper, which he had not yet opened, and read,
smiling. It amused him to think of Henry K. Loring sitting in the outer
office, wasting time worth a hundred dollars a minute. It amused him
so much that he dropped the paper, put his feet up on his desk, and
lit a cigarette, to enjoy the situation more thoroughly. Leuppold,
too, his suavity slowly yielding to his impatience, would be twisting
his watch-fob by now or tapping his fat fingers on his legs, while he
waited, his ease of mind little improved by the delay.

Gallatin’s smile diminished with his cigarette, and at last he looked
at his watch and put his feet on the floor and rang for the chief clerk.

“You may show those gentlemen in, Tooker,” he said quietly.

Tooker glanced at the ashes of the cigarette, picked up the newspaper
and put it on a chair in the corner, then laid one or two documents
obtrusively open, on Mr. Gallatin’s desk. Phil watched him with a
smile. Tooker was a thoughtful and cautious soul.

But he was reading the nearest document intently when Loring and
Leuppold entered. He turned in his chair--rose and bowed.

“You’ve met Mr. Loring, Mr. Gallatin?” said Leuppold.

Loring dropped his chin abruptly the fraction of an inch, peering
keenly about, his lips drawn in a thin and unpleasant smile. Phil
Gallatin indicated a chair at one end of the table, into which Loring
stiffly sat, with one arm on the table, his bull-neck thrust forward,
peering steadily at the younger man, watching every movement, studying
his face as though trying by the intentness of his gaze to solve the
question as to whether this curiously inconsistent young man was a
menace or merely a nuisance.

Gallatin laid some papers upon the table, took some others from Tooker
and moved his desk chair to the table. If he felt Loring’s scrutiny,
his calm demeanor gave no sign of it, for after a few commonplaces he
began addressing his remarks directly to Mr. Leuppold’s client.

“I don’t propose to take up a great deal of your time, gentlemen,” he
began, “and I think I can state my position in a very few moments.” He
took out his watch and looked at it. “About twenty minutes, I think.
The facts, as you both know, are these: John Sanborn, representing
the minority stockholders of the Sanborn Mining Company, filed an
injunction against the President and Board of Directors of the Sanborn
Mining Company to prevent the sale of its properties and interests to
the Pequot Coal Company. This injunction was lost in the Supreme Court
and was appealed to the Appellate Court, when the case came into my
hands. That appeal is pending. That is a correct statement, is it not?”

“It is,” said Leuppold blandly, while Loring nodded his head.

“The sale has, therefore, not been consummated and cannot be
consummated until the higher court has affirmed the decision of the
lower one or reversed it.”

“That is also true, Mr. Gallatin,” said Leuppold. “Proceed, sir.”

Gallatin hesitated, his brows drew together and his voice took a deeper
note.

“This case, Mr. Leuppold, is one which involves not only large issues
but large principles. The Sanborn Mining Company owns the most
valuable coal properties, with the possible exception of those owned
by the Pequot Coal Company, in the State of Pennsylvania, and until
1909 was doing an enormous business with the trade centers of the
East, working at full capacity and employing an army of men in getting
its coal to market. Its only rival in production was the Pequot Coal
Company, of which Mr. Loring, as he has admitted, controls the majority
of the stock.

“In the summer of 1909, conditions changed. The Lehigh and Pottsville
Railroad Company found it impossible to furnish cars to the Sanborn
mines. I have copies of the correspondence, relating to the matter:
repeated letters of request on the part of the Sanborn Company and
excuses on the part of the railroad company, as well as frequent
promises which were never fulfilled.”

“What has that to do with the pending suit?” asked Leuppold carelessly,
with an effective shrug of his shoulder.

“I’m coming to that, Mr. Leuppold. And I ask for your patience,” said
Gallatin. “This failure of the railroad company to provide facilities
for the shipment of the coal of the Sanborn Mines,” he continued,
“is all the more remarkable when it is known that while this very
correspondence was going on, its sidings between Phillipsville and
Williamstown were full of empty cars, and when it is also known that
the Pequot Coal Company was working on full time and shipping to New
York City, alone, one hundred and fifty cars of coal a day.”

“We had contracts with the railroad,” snapped Loring. “We forced them
to provide for us.”

“So had the Sanborn Company contracts, Mr. Loring,” said Gallatin.

“Really!” sneered Loring.

Tooker quickly abstracted a paper from a sheaf and handed it to
Gallatin.

“Read for yourself.”

The sneer on Loring’s lips faded, and his eyes opened wider as he read.
It was not a copy, but the contract itself.

“I have also a volume of evidence about the empty cars which verifies
my statement. Would you care to look over it?”

“No. Go on,” growled Loring.

“Gentlemen,” Gallatin went on, enunciating his words with great
distinctness. “This was discrimination--of a kind which at this time is
not popular with the Government of the United States.”

“But if you’ll permit me, Mr. Gallatin,” Leuppold’s suave voice broke
in, “what has this to do with the Sanborn injunction suit? And how
can my client be held in any way responsible for the action of the
Lehigh and Pottsville Railroad Company for its failure to fulfill its
contracts to the Sanborn Company?”

Gallatin raised a protesting hand.

“I’m coming to that, Mr. Leuppold. In a moment, sir. The conditions
I have already mentioned have forced the Sanborn Company practically
to shut down. Coal is being mined and a few cars a day are shipped,
but, as you gentlemen are well aware, dividends have been passed for
two years and the value of the stock has depreciated. This much for
the conditions which have caused that depreciation. The Pequot Coal
Company, taking advantage of the low market value of the shares, has
made an offer for the property--an offer, gentlemen, which as you both
know, represents not one-twentieth of the Sanborn Company’s holdings.”

“I can’t agree with that,” put in Leuppold quickly. “It was a fair
offer, accepted by the Board of Directors of the Sanborn Company, Mr.
Sanborn alone dissenting.”

Gallatin arose and picked up a package wrapped in rubber bands.

“I’m ready to talk about that Board of Directors now, Mr. Leuppold,” he
said quietly, with his eyes on Loring’s face, “and I’m also ready to
talk about the Board of Directors of the Lehigh and Pottsville Railroad
Company.”

Henry K. Loring’s expression was immovable, but Mr. Leuppold’s fingers
were already at his watch-fob.

“I’m going to lay my hand on the table, gentlemen,” Gallatin went on
with a quiet laugh. “I’m going to show you all my cards and let them
play themselves. I’m going to prove to you so clearly that you can’t
doubt the accuracy of my information or the character of my evidence
that I am aware that Henry K. Loring has at the present time not only
the control of the stock of the Sanborn Mining Company, but that
he also controls a voting majority of the stock of the Lehigh and
Pottsville Railroad Company.”

Leuppold laughed outright.

“Absurd, sir. Your statement is flattering to my client, but I beg that
you will confine your remarks to the bounds of reason.”

“I will to the bounds of reason, to the bounds of fact. It’s no
laughing matter, Mr. Leuppold, as you’ll discover presently. I will
not speak of Mr. Loring’s connection with the railroad for a moment.
Perhaps, since this conference has been called with especial reference
to the injunction suit, the proof of Mr. Loring’s majority stock
ownership in the Sanborn Company will be sufficient.”

“You can’t prove it without manufactured evidence.”

Gallatin flushed. “Call it what you like, it’s here--in my possession.
The majority stock of the Sanborn Mining Company is now owned by Henry
K. Loring, and has been voted under cover for the benefit of the Pequot
Coal Company.”

“That’s a grave charge, Mr. Gallatin.”

“So grave that I thought it fairer to Mr. Loring to have him learn what
I know, before bringing the matter into court.”

“You have proved nothing yet.”

Gallatin opened some papers and laid them on the table.

“I have here an affidavit of a former employee of Mr. Loring which I
propose to offer in evidence.”

“Who?” growled Loring.

“One moment, please. I have also an abstract from the books of the
company with entries showing the purchase of stock, the amounts, the
price and the dates of payment.”

Leuppold leaned forward in his chair.

“_Even you_ must know, Mr. Gallatin, that that’s not evidence.”

“I’m well aware of that, but when the time comes, Mr. Leuppold, I
intend to call for the production of the original books.”

Leuppold raised a protesting hand and then said craftily:

“Those books are lost, Mr. Gallatin.”

Gallatin only smiled at him.

“Thanks for that information, Mr. Leuppold. For that being the case,
_even you_ will admit that my copy is admissible in secondary evidence.”

Loring’s quick glance caught Leuppold’s. The point was well taken.
Leuppold covered his confusion with a magnificent gesture and a
resumption of his blandest manner.

“How are you going to prove that these are copies from the books?” he
asked easily.

“I will produce that evidence at the proper time.”

“Produce it now----”

“I will, if necessary.”

“That is the weakness of your case, Mr. Gallatin; you can’t produce
it,” he sneered.

Gallatin turned to the chief clerk and said: “The checks, Tooker.”

Gallatin removed some slips of paper from the envelope Tooker handed
him, and held them carelessly in his fingers, so that the two men,
who were eying them eagerly, could see the name of the bank and the
signature at the lower right hand corner.

“Perhaps Mr. Loring will deny his own signature?” he asked quietly.
“These checks I hold are signed with Mr. Loring’s name, a signature
with which we are all familiar, and were given to Mr. Loring’s brokers
for the purchase of Sanborn stock. I may add that the date of entry on
the books of the company in each case corresponds with the date on the
checks, as does the amount.”

He stepped to Loring’s side and held several of the checks up just
beyond his reach.

“That’s not my signature,” said Loring.

Gallatin handed the checks to Tooker.

“You’re not convinced?”

“No. It’s a forgery.”

“Then I’ll find other means of convincing you. Perhaps, if I produced a
man who saw you sign those checks----”

Loring had risen to his feet and spoke but one word. It was the popular
one for the infernal regions.

Gallatin smiled. And then to the chief clerk, “Tooker, show Mr. Markham
in, please.”

The situation had gotten beyond the control of Mr. Leuppold, who was
completely nonplused by Mr. Gallatin’s rapidity, succinctness and
damnable accuracy; but he made one desperate effort to regain his lost
ground.

“Markham, a broken man, a drunkard, a gambler----”

“But once Mr. Loring’s secretary,” Gallatin broke in significantly.
“Wait, Mr. Leuppold.”

In a moment Mr. Markham entered. He was a tall man, with keen eyes,
hawklike nose and a weak mouth. As he entered Loring turned toward the
door and the eyes of the two men met, Loring’s curious, the newcomer’s
eager and unflinching.

“Mr. Markham,” asked Gallatin, “do you know this gentleman?”

“Yes. He is Henry K. Loring.”

“Have you ever seen these checks?”

“Yes. I drew them and saw Mr. Loring sign them.”

“And this affidavit?”

“I wrote it.”

“And this abstract of the books of the Sanborn Company?”

“I have seen it.”

“Is it correct?”

“In every particular.”

“All right. That will be all for the present. Will you remain outside?”

“Wait, sir!” Leuppold’s voice rang out. “I haven’t finished with Mr.
Markham yet.”

“You’ll have the opportunity of questioning him at the proper time and
place,” said Gallatin smoothly. “That will be all, Mr. Markham.”

“I protest, Mr. Gallatin, against your methods of conducting this
meeting,” said Leuppold, rising and extending a quavery arm. “You
bring as your chief evidence a man once in the employ of my client, a
discredited clerk, a man discharged for drunkenness, for incompetence,
for dishonesty.”

“No--for _honesty_, Mr. Leuppold,” Gallatin broke in hotly. “That was
why he was discharged. He was too honest to understand the ethics of
big business and his utility was at an end. So Mr. Loring let him go.
That was a mistake. He knew too much, Mr. Leuppold.”

“You’ll have a chance to prove what he knows, sir. There won’t be much
difficulty in discrediting his testimony----”

“You’re making a mistake, Mr. Leuppold,” broke in Gallatin, his voice
now thundering. “The question here isn’t so much one of law as it
is one of morals. That injunction may be dissolved by the Court of
Appeals; but I give you my word that, if you insist on carrying through
that sale of the Sanborn Mines to the Pequot Coal Company, I propose
to charge your client and the directors of the Sanborn Company with
_conspiracy_, and I’ll convict them--just as sure as the Lord made
little apples!”

He dominated the situation and felt it in the short hush that followed
his concluding remarks, and in the rapid revolution of Leuppold’s watch
charm. Loring had sunk back in his chair, both of his great hands
clasping its arms, his gaze on Gallatin’s face, critical but smiling.
What he saw there evidently brought a realization that Mr. Gallatin
held the whip hand; for as Leuppold began speaking again, he moved one
of his hands through the air and rose.

“Wait!” he said. He took two or three paces across the room, between
window and door and then stood, his hands in his trousers pockets,
fumbling at his keys. It was at least five minutes before he spoke
again. But at last he stopped in front of Gallatin and looked at him
from head to toe, and suddenly to every one’s surprise, broke out into
a loud laugh.

“Mr. Gallatin, you’ve beaten me.”

Success had come so quickly and the end of the case so suddenly that
Gallatin looked at his adversary, not certain whether to believe his
own ears, and half suspecting some kind of a ruse or trick, the art of
which Henry K. Loring, as he knew, was past grand master, when he went
on again.

“I don’t propose to ask you how you found Mr. Markham out in Illinois,
or to try and learn what your methods were in getting together all this
evidence. I know it’s there and that’s enough. I did write those checks
and the abstracts from the books are doubtless correct. I suppose,”
he laughed again, “your evidence of my connection with the Lehigh and
Pottsville is quite tangible?”

“Quite tangible,” repeated Gallatin, scarcely concealing a smile.

“Then all I have to say, sir, is that you are a very extraordinary young
man, a very useful young man to your clients, a very disappointing one
to your adversaries.” And then turning to Leuppold: “_You_ may contest,
if you like, Mr. Leuppold. _I won’t._ This case is one for settlement.”

Then he turned to Gallatin again, and offered his huge hand, while the
younger man, still doubtful, eyed him keenly.

“You and I had words some time ago. I’m sorry for them. Will you
forgive me?”

There was no doubt about the genuineness of his contrition.

“Willingly, Mr. Loring,” he said.

Their fingers clasped and their eyes met.

“I underestimated you, Mr. Gallatin,” he went on again slowly. “I don’t
often make a mistake in my judgment of men, but I did of you. I’m a
self-made man and people will tell you I’m a little proud of the job.
But I’m not too proud to tell you that you’ve been a little too clever
for me. I know when I’m beaten and I’m not afraid to say so. We’ll fix
this thing up. I don’t want all the coal in Pennsylvania. I own sixty
per cent. of the Sanborn stock. Sanborn’s crowd owns the rest. I’ll
sell out twenty per cent. to some man agreed on and we’ll make him
president.”

“At the present market figure, Mr. Loring?” asked Gallatin shrewdly.

Loring rubbed his head and smiled.

“We’ll see about that,” he muttered at last. But there was a twinkle in
his eyes as he asked. “How would you like that job, Mr. Gallatin?”

Gallatin grinned.

“I’d take it, if I could get enough cars to make it profitable.”

“I reckon you can make it profitable enough, for everybody,” he growled
jovially. “We’ve got to have you in with us, and that’s all there is
about it. Will you accept?”

“With Sanborn’s consent, yes.”

“We’ll fix Sanborn, all right,” he finished. “Come to my office some
time, Mr. Gallatin, I want to talk to you.”

Gallatin followed the two men to the elevator, while Tooker, after the
door was closed, moved from one leg to the other in what he fondly
believed to be a dance of joy.




XXVII

MR. LORING REFLECTS


Henry K. Loring sat back in his machine, homeward bound, his head
deep in the collar of his overcoat, his eyes under their shaggy brows
peering out of the windows of the limousine. His heavy hands, one over
the other, grasped the handle of his cane, which stood upright between
his firmly planted feet. He looked out of the windows at the quickly
changing scene, but his eyes saw nothing. There was a frown at his
brow, his lips were drawn firmly together and a casual glance might
have lent to the belief that the great operator was weighted with a
more than usually heavy financial burden. But a closer inspection would
have shown a slight upward twist of his lips and scarcely perceptible
puckering of the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. For a man whose
business affairs had on that day been subjected to the searching
inquisition that Mr. Gallatin had put them to, he seemed to be taking
life rather good-naturedly.

To tell the truth he was thinking of the futile efforts of the elder
Leuppold in trying to stem the tide which had set so strongly against
him. He had gone over Mr. Gallatin’s evidence at the conference point
by point, and the hours had only confirmed him in the realization that
this young man, whom he had scorned, had given the oily and ingenious
Leuppold a very unpleasant morning; for wriggle as Leuppold might,
there had been no escaping the young man’s clear-headed statements,
and the dangerous nature of his evidence. Henry K. Loring was a good
fighter, a shrewd judge of men, and the thing that most bothered him at
the present moment was, not that he had been obliged to compromise the
Sanborn case, but that he should have been so mistaken in the character
and abilities of Philip Gallatin. He couldn’t understand it at all, and
it hurt his pride in his own judgment. Was this sharp young man with
the lean face, the keen eye and the quick incisive tones of confidence
in himself, was this brilliant hard-working young lawyer who had been
clever enough to outwit Henry Loring at his own game, was _this_ Phil
Gallatin, the club loafer, at whose name men had wagged their heads or
shrugged their shoulders in pity or contempt? It didn’t seem possible.
There was a mistake somewhere. Was this the young man who----?

He sat straight up suddenly as the thought came to him. By George! This
was Jane’s young man! The fellow who had found Jane up in the woods!
Who had followed her around and made love to her! The fellow Jane had
been in love with until he, Loring, had opened her eyes and packed
him out of the house about his business. That was too bad. Loring
was sorry about that now. He had done Gallatin an injustice. Curious
that he should have made such a mistake. He would have to rectify it
somehow--with Jane.

What was the trouble? Oh, yes, a woman--that was what had turned Jane
against him. A woman--well? It wasn’t the first time a man had been
led off by a woman. What of it? The Gallatin with whom he had recently
become acquainted wasn’t the kind of a fellow who would let any woman
get the best of him. That was his own affair, anyway. He, Loring, would
have to talk to Jane. Gallatin was all right. He had quit drinking,
too, the younger Leuppold had said. Any young fellow who could work up
a case like that under cover and drive a man like Henry K. Loring to
the wall was good enough for him! That was the kind of a man he wanted
for Jane, just the kind of man to take up the game where he would leave
it and hold the great Loring interests together. What did Jane want
anyhow? She had loved Phil Gallatin once. Her mother had told him so.
And now she had settled on Coleman Van Duyn! Hell!

He got down at his own door with a sudden resolve to find out just how
things stood with Jane and Coley Van Duyn. Mrs. Loring had wanted that
match. It wasn’t any of Loring’s choosing. She had wanted an old Dutch
ancestry. She’d be getting it with Coley and that was about all she
would get. Jane had been expected back with the Ledyards from Virginia
this morning. Perhaps it wasn’t too late for her father to step into
the breach and repair the damage he had done.

In reply to his question of the man in the hall, he learned that Miss
Loring had returned from the South during the morning, but that she had
been in her room all day. Henry K. Loring climbed the marble stairs and
went along the landing to Mrs. Loring’s room. He found her lying on
the divan, a handkerchief crumpled in her hands, her face stained with
tears. A look of resignation that was half a frown came into Loring’s
face. Like many another man, big in his walks abroad, he lost some
stature in the presence of a tearful wife.

At his entrance she straightened and said irritably, “I thought you
were never coming.”

“I was detained.” He looked at his watch. “Aren’t you going to dress?”

“No. I’m going to have my dinner brought up.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh, what _isn’t_ the matter? Jane, of course!”

“Jane!”

“I can’t make her out at all. She came back from Warrenton this morning
and went immediately to her room. I went in this afternoon again. She
was looking miserably unhappy, and when I began talking to her she
burst into tears----”

“Nerves?” he queried.

“Oh, I don’t know. She hasn’t been herself for some time. She’s looking
very badly.”

“Yes, I noticed that. What do you think the trouble is?”

Mrs. Loring sank back with a sigh.

“Oh, I don’t know. I never did understand Jane, and I don’t suppose I
ever shall. She says she isn’t going to anything this spring--that she
wants to go abroad, away from everybody. And, finally, when I pressed
her--she told me that she had given Coleman Van Duyn his congé. Think
of it!”

The poor lady rattled on while Loring turned his back and walked the
length of the room to hide a smile which grew suddenly at his lips.
When she had finished speaking, he returned and questioned again.

“Why did she change her mind? Do you know?”

“I don’t think she _has_ changed her mind. I don’t believe that she
has ever cared for Mr. Van Duyn. It was all a mask to hide her real
feelings. I’m sure she still loves that worthless Gallatin!”

Loring’s eyebrows lifted, his gaze roved and his lips were quickly
compressed. Then his brows tangled.

“What makes you think that?” he asked.

“Everything makes me think it--everything--from the manner in which
she first confessed her love for him to me to the curious way she has
been treating Mr. Van Duyn. He spoke about the matter only last week.
Poor fellow! He’s beginning to look very badly. Jane hasn’t treated him
fairly.”

“That depends. They were never engaged.”

Mrs. Loring raised herself on one elbow, her eyes searching her
husband’s face in surprise.

“There was an understanding.”

“Between you and Van Duyn. Jane never consented.”

“Henry, I don’t understand you. You’ve let this thing go on without
speaking. You approved----”

“No, I didn’t approve,” he said quickly. “I merely acquiesced.”

Mrs. Loring showed signs of inward agitation.

“Oh, I give her up. I’ve done the best I could. She has behaved very
badly and I--I don’t know what to think of her.” She began sobbing into
her handkerchief and renewed her familiar plaint. “I do the best I can
for her--for you, but you’re always going against me--both of you. I’ve
tried so hard this winter--kept going when my nerves were on the ragged
edge of collapse, just because I thought it was my duty----”

“There, there, Mother, don’t be foolish,” said Loring soothingly. “Jane
is young, too young to marry anyway. She’ll decide some day.”

“No. I know her. She makes up her mind to a thing and she’ll cling
to it until death. She’s like you in that way. She would rather die
than change. I ought to have realized that. If she can’t marry Phil
Gallatin, she won’t marry any one. Phil Gallatin,” she cried, “the
least desirable young man in New York, a man without a character,
without friends, the last of a tainted stock, a fortune hunter,
dissolute----”

He let her go on until she had exhausted both her adjectives and her
nerves while he listened thoughtfully, and then asked,

“You’re sure she still loves Mr. Gallatin?”

“I’ve tried to believe that she would forget him--that she would learn
to care for Mr. Van Duyn. But she hasn’t. She has never been the same
girl since you told her about that dreadful Jaffray woman. I’m afraid
she’ll be sick--really sick. But I can’t do anything. What _can_ I do?”
The poor lady looked up plaintively, but her husband had walked to the
window and was looking out into the Avenue.

“Humph!” he grunted. “Lovesick, eh? There ought to be a cure for that.”

“What?”

“Let her marry him.”

“Henry!” Mrs. Loring sat bolt upright on her couch, her eyes wide with
incomprehension. “What do you mean?”

“What I say,” he returned calmly.

“That--Jane--should--marry Phil Gallatin?”

He nodded.

“You’re mad!” she said, getting up and facing him. “Stark mad! When you
learned about them, you told me you’d rather see her dead than married
to him.”

“Now I’d rather see her married to him than dead. It’s simple enough.
I’ve changed my mind.”

“Am I taking leave of my senses--or are you?”

“Neither, Mother,” he went over to her, his huge frame towering above
her small body as his mind towered over hers, and took her gently by
the elbows. “I’ve made a mistake. So have you. But it’s not too late to
mend it. I say that if Jane wants Phil Gallatin, she shall have him.”

“No, no. What has happened, Henry?”

“I’ve opened my eyes, that’s all, or rather Gallatin has opened them
for me. I’m glad he did. And now I’m going to open yours. Phil Gallatin
is a full-sized _man_. I found that out to-day--a man, every inch of
one. I don’t care about his past. _I_ wasn’t anything to brag about
when I was a kid, and you know that, too. I didn’t amount to a hill of
beans until my father died and I went up against it good and hard. I
was down to bedrock, as Phil Gallatin was, until I got kicked once too
often, and then I learned to kick back, and I’ve been kicking back ever
since. I don’t care about Phil Gallatin’s past. That belongs to him.
The only thing that matters about the man Jane marries is his future.
That’s hers.”

Loring put his hands in his pockets and walked up and down the rug, his
bulk, physical and mental, dominating Mrs. Loring’s tears.

“Listen to me. I’ve let you go on with your plans for Jane and I
haven’t said anything, because I knew that when the time came for Jane
to marry, your plans wouldn’t amount to much and mine wouldn’t either.
Oh, I’ve been looking on. I’ve been watching this Van Duyn affair. I’ve
never thought Jane would ever marry a nonentity like Van Duyn. If I had
thought so, I guess I might have worried. But I didn’t worry because I
never thought she _did_ want to marry him. It seems I was right,” he
chuckled.

He waited a moment as though expecting an interruption from his wife,
but she made none, and only sat in hopeless uncertainty listening
dumbly.

“For all her inexperience, Jane has an old head, Mother. This splendor
we’re living in, her success in society, the flattery and compliments
haven’t changed her any. And she’s not going to let anybody make a fool
of her. She sees through people better than you do and she doesn’t
make many mistakes. I ought to have known she wouldn’t have fallen in
love with Phil Gallatin if there hadn’t been something to him. I’ll
give her credit for that----”

“What makes you think he’s worthy of her?” Mrs. Loring broke in. “You
talk of his future. What future can there be for a man with a habit----”

“Wait!” he commanded. “As to that--he’s quit, do you understand? Quit
it altogether. I’m just as sure of that as I am that Jane’s judgment
was better than mine, so sure that I’m willing to stake Jane’s future
on it. You needn’t ask me why I know it, but I do. He’s made good--with
me and he’s made good with himself.”

And while she listened he told her of the events of the morning which
had resulted in the failure of his financial project and of Gallatin’s
share in it.

“And is this a reason? You’re willing to forgive him his sins, his evil
reputation, and take him into your house as the husband of your only
child, because he stands in the way of your making a lot of money? I
don’t understand.”

“There’s a lot you don’t understand. You and I don’t use the same kind
of mental machinery. But I want you to know that any boy of his age
who’s got the nerve to tackle a big game the way he did that one and
win out against a man of _my_ caliber is the kind of a young man I want
on my side. He’s the kind of a young man I’ve been looking for ever
since I went into the coal business, and I’m not going to let him go if
I can help it.”

“But his morals! You must know what people say about him, that he’s----”

“I don’t care what they say about him,” growled Loring. “Half of the
world is lying, and the other half listening. I’m glad he isn’t a
willy-boy. It’s the fellow who has to fight temptations that learns
the meaning of victory. There are no airholes in the steel that’s been
through the blast, and that boy has been through the blast. I can read
it in his face. He couldn’t square up to me the way he did if there
was any weakness in him. He’s suffered, but it hasn’t hurt him any.
He’s found himself. I’m going to help him. See here, Janet, I’m getting
older, and so are you. I’ve been thinking about it some lately. I’m a
pretty rich man and I’m going to be richer. But do you think I want to
turn the money I leave over to a man like Coley Van Duyn or Dirwell De
Lancey to make ducks and drakes of? Have it turned into an amusement
fund for the further debauching of debauched gentility? Make a Trust
Fund of it to perpetuate the Pink Tea? I reckon not. I haven’t worked
all these years for nothing, and I’m going to see that Jane doesn’t
make the mistakes of other rich men’s children. I don’t think she wants
to anyway. I’ve always told her that she wouldn’t find the man she’s
going to marry walking up and down Fifth Avenue. The man to keep my
estate together has got to be made of different stuff. I’ve found him.
He’s an ace that I dropped into the discard by mistake, but I’m going
to play him just the same. I want him, and if Jane wants him, too, I’m
going to get him for her.”

“I don’t know what to think of you. I can’t see yet----” Mrs. Loring
wailed.

Loring stopped beside her and patted her on the shoulder.

“Don’t you worry, Janet. I know what I’m about. You leave this to me.
Is Jane in her room? I want to see her.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Loring in tones of resignation. “She’s there, but I
don’t think she’d see you, even if she knew what you wanted to talk
about. To-morrow, perhaps.”

Loring shrugged his massive shoulders. “Oh, all right,” he growled,
and made his way to his own dressing-room. He held the keys to the
situation in his hand, and manlike wanted to use them without delay, to
unlock the door that barred the way to happiness for Jane, to act at
once upon the inspiration that had come to him and settle for all time
the problem of the future. But he took his wife’s advice and postponed
the talk with his daughter, wondering at the ways of women. He dined
alone and went to his study early, sat at his desk and wrote the
following note to Philip Gallatin.

    DEAR MR. GALLATIN:

    Our meeting this morning was so brief and so public that I
    was prevented from speaking to you as freely as I would have
    liked. I’ve done you a wrong--an injustice, and I want to do
    what I can to set the matter right, with respect to your future
    relations with me and with my family. I have already done what
    I can and I am sure that both Mrs. Loring and my daughter will
    gladly welcome you as a guest to our house whenever you may
    call.

    I hope this will be soon, Mr. Gallatin. I only wanted to put
    myself on record with you that you may be assured that there
    will be no further misunderstandings on your part of our
    intentions toward you.

    Very sincerely yours,

    HENRY K. LORING.

The note written, he sealed it and rang for Hastings.

“Have this note delivered at once. Try the Cosmos Club and, if Mr.
Gallatin is not there, find him.”

This burden off his broad shoulders, Loring smiled, turned on his
reading lamp, took some newly acquired snuff boxes out of a cabinet
and under his magnifying glass, proceeded to enjoy them. It was in
the midst of this pleasant occupation that some time later, he was
interrupted by the entrance of his daughter. She was dressed in a pale
blue lounging robe, and her bedroom slippers made no sound on the heavy
floor covering, but the rustle of her draperies caused him to look up.

“Hello, Jane!” he said, kissing her. “Glad to see you, child. You
slipped in like a ghost. Feeling any better?”

“Oh, I’m all right,” she said wearily. “Mother said you wanted to see
me.”

Loring put down his magnifying glass and turned toward her.

“Yes, I did. Natural, isn’t it? I haven’t had a chance to for a month.”
He made her turn so that he could look into her face. “You’re not
looking right. Your eyes are big as saucers. What’s the matter? Too
much gayety?”

“Yes, I think so, Daddy. I’m a little tired, that’s all. I need a rest.”

Her father examined her in silence for a moment, and then drew her down
on a chair near him.

“Jane, I’ve been thinking about you lately. We’ve all been so busy this
winter, you and mother, with your dances and the opera, and I with
business, that I’m afraid we’ve been drifting apart. I don’t like it.
You don’t ever come in here to see me the way you used to.”

“I haven’t had time,” she evaded.

“That isn’t it, daughter. I know. It’s something else. Something has
come between us. I’ve felt it and I feel it still.”

She opened her eyes wide and looked at him and then looked away.

“That’s the truth and you know it, daughter. Something has come
between us. I’ve missed those talks with you. They used to keep me in
touch with the gentler side of life, sort of humanized me somehow,
made me a little softer, a little gentler the next day. I’ve wanted
you often, Jane, but I didn’t know how to say so. And so I got along
without you. You’ve never quite forgiven me, Jane?”

Jane was pulling at the laces of her tea-gown with thumb and
forefinger, but she didn’t look up as she asked,

“Forgiven you for what, Daddy?”

“For coming between you and Phil Gallatin,” he said gently.

She started a trifle and then went on picking at the lace on her frock.

“Oh, that,” she said quietly. “You _had_ to do that. I’m glad you did.”

“No,” he interrupted. “You’re not glad, Jane. Neither am I. I did what
I thought was my duty, but it has made a difference with us both. I’m
sorry.”

“Sorry? Why?”

“Because it has made you unhappy--and resentful.”

“I’m not resentful.”

“Yes. I’ve felt it. Even if I’d been justified, you would still resent
it.”

“But you _were_ justified, Daddy, weren’t you?” she asked.

She turned her gaze full on his face and the pain in her eyes hurt him.
He got up and walked the length of the room before he replied.

“I did what I thought was right. I’d probably do the same thing again
under similar circumstances. I--I didn’t think Mr. Gallatin the kind of
man I wanted for you.”

She lay back in her chair and looked into the fire, but said nothing.
Loring came close to her and laid his hand on her shoulder.

“You loved him, Jane?”

She didn’t reply.

“You still love him, daughter?”

Her head moved slowly from side to side.

“No,” she muttered, stiflingly, “no, no.”

Loring smiled down at the top of her head.

“Why should you deny it, Jane? What would you say if I acknowledged
that I had made a mistake in judgment, that you were right after all,
that Phil Gallatin is not the man I thought him, that he’s worthy in
every way of your regard, that of all the young men I’ve met in New
York in business or out of it, he is the one man I would rather have
marry my daughter?”

She had risen and was leaning toward him, pale and trembling.

“What--do--you--mean?” she whispered fearfully.

He told her.

“That case you spoke of----?”

“He beat me--fairly--and he beat me badly, so badly that I can’t afford
to have him against me. I’ve taken him into the business. I can’t
afford to be without him.”

“Then--what you said about him----”

“I was fooled, child, completely fooled. We thought he was a joke. We
laughed at him and all the while he was out West working, quietly,
skillfully, diligently piling up his evidence. He’s made good, Jane,
and I’ve told him so. I’ve written him a note to-night, a note of
apology for my share in his unhappiness, telling him that I was sorry
for what had happened and telling him that he would be a welcome
visitor to my house----”

“Daddy!” Jane had straightened and now glanced fearfully toward the
door as though she expected to see Phil Gallatin at any moment coming
through the curtains. “You had no right to do that! I will not see him.
Whatever his business relations with you, you have no right to force
him on me. I have known for a long time that he was clever, that he
could make his way in the world if he wanted to, but your acceptance of
him changes nothing with me.”

“But you love him,” he persisted.

“No, no,” she protested. “I could never love a man who had once been
faithless--never forgive him--never even in death. That a man is
successful in the world is all you men care about. Oh, I know you.
Because he’s matched his brain against yours and beaten you, you think
he’s a demigod; but that doesn’t change the heart in him, the lips that
swear love eternal while they’re kissing another----”

“Lies!” broke in Loring with a wave of his hand. “I don’t believe that
story.”

Jane paused and examined him calmly, struggling for her control. When
she spoke her voice had sunk to a trembling note scarcely above a
whisper.

“Can you prove that story was a lie?”

“Prove it? No. But I believe it was.”

“You didn’t believe so once. Have you heard anything to make you change
your opinion?” she insisted.

He was tempted to lie but thought better of it, and his hesitation cost
him victory.

Jane turned toward the door. “I’m going away somewhere--abroad, if
you’ll let me, away from here. I will not see Mr. Gallatin--ever. I
despise him--utterly.”

She left her father standing in the middle of the room, his mouth
agape, and eyes staring at the door through which she had disappeared.
Keen as he was, there were still some things in the world, he
discovered, about which he needed information.

The next day Mr. Loring received a polite note from Mr. Gallatin
which still further mystified him. Mr. Gallatin thanked him for his
kind expressions of good will and expressed the intention of studying
further to deserve them; but hoped that Mr. Loring would comprehend
that reasons which it were better not to mention, would make it
impossible for him to take advantage of Mr. Loring’s personal kindness
in his cordial invitation.

Henry Loring was on the point of tearing up the note in disgust but
thought better of it. Instead, with a subtlety which showed that he had
not yet lost the knack of taking advantage of the lesser lessons of
life, he left it obtrusively upon the dressing table in Mrs. Loring’s
boudoir, where later, in her mother’s absence, Jane found it.




XXVIII

THE LODESTAR


April dissolved in mist and rain and the flowers of May were
blossoming. Nellie Pennington, who had not yet despaired, and Nina
Jaffray, who had, were driving in the Park in Mrs. Pennington’s
victoria. For two months Mrs. Pennington had been paying Nina more
than usual attention. To begin with she liked her immensely as she had
always done. Nina’s faults she believed to be the inevitable result of
her education and environment, for Nina was the daughter of a Trust,
and was its only indulgence. The habit of getting what she wanted
was in her blood and she simply couldn’t understand being balked in
anything. But Nina was beginning slowly and with some difficulty to
grasp the essentials of Philip Gallatin’s character and the permanence
of his reconstruction; and with the passage of time and event Nina had
a glimmering of the true caliber of his mind, all of which brought out
with unflattering definiteness her own frivolity and gave a touch of
farce-comedy, with which she had in her heart been far from investing
it, to her unconventional wooing.

Nellie Pennington understood her, and noted with no little satisfaction
the evidence of the chastening of her spirit. She knew now beyond all
doubt that had it not been for Nina, the reconciliation of Jane and
Phil Gallatin would have been effected.

She knew, too, that Nina had not played fair, and guessed by what
means Jane had been victimized. Indeed, Jane’s indifference to Nina
bore all tokens of intolerance, the intolerance of the pure for the
contaminated, the contemptuous pity of the innocent for the guilty.
But Mrs. Pennington had not lived in vain, and a talent for living her
own life according to an accepted code, had given her a kindly insight
into the lives of others. Whatever Nina’s faults, she had never merited
Jane’s pity or contempt. Jane was a fool, of course, but so was Nina,
each in her own way--a fool; but of the two it now seemed that Nina was
the lesser. Nellie Pennington had already noticed signs that Nina was
tired of the game and knew that if Larry Kane played his own trumps
with care, he might still win the odd trick, which was Nina. But as
far as Jane was concerned, Nellie also knew that Nina was ready to die
at her guns, for a dislike once born in Nina’s breast was not speedily
dispelled.

Mrs. Pennington looked up at the obelisk as though in the hope that
some of the wisdom of its centuries might suddenly be imparted to her.
Then she asked, “Nina, why don’t you marry Larry Kane?”

Nina Jaffray smiled.

“And confess defeat? Why?”

“Better confess it now than later.”

“Why confess it at all?”

“You’ll have to some day. You’re not going to marry Phil, you know.”

“No, I’m not going to marry Phil. I know that now. I haven’t proposed
to him for at least a month--and then he was quite impolite--rude, in
fact.” She sighed. “Oh, I don’t care, but I don’t want Jane Loring to
marry him.”

“She’s not likely to. She’s as hopelessly stubborn as you are.”

Nellie Pennington waited a moment, and then with a laugh, “Nina, you’ve
enjoyed yourself immensely, haven’t you? Jane is _such_ an innocent.
I’d give worlds to know what you said to her!”

Nina laughed. “Would you?”

“Yes, _do_ tell me.”

“I will. It’s very amusing. She expected me to lie, of course. So I
simply told her the truth.”

“And she believed----”

“The opposite.”

“Of course.”

Nellie Pennington laughed up at the passing tree tops.

“How clever of you, Nina! You’re wasting your time single. A girl of
your talents needs an atmosphere in which to display them.”

“And you suggest matrimony,” said Nina scornfully.

“There’s always your husband, you know.”

“But Larry isn’t an atmosphere. He’s too tangible.”

“All men are. It’s their chief charm.”

“H-m. I’ve never thought so. I shouldn’t have wanted to marry Phil if
he had been tangible.”

“Then suppose he had--er--accepted you?”

Nina shrugged and crossed her knees.

“I should probably have hated him cordially.”

The conversation changed, then lagged, and by the time Nina’s home was
reached both women were silent, Nina because she was bored, Nellie
because she was thinking.

“Good-by, dear,” laughed Nina, as she got down at her door. “Don’t be
surprised at anything you hear. I’m quite desperate, so desperate that
I may even take your advice. You’ll see me off at the pier, won’t you?”

Nellie Pennington nodded. She was quite sure that it was better for
everybody that Miss Jaffray should be upon the other side of the water.

The week following, quite by chance she met Henry K. Loring one
afternoon in the gallery at the Metropolitan where the ceramics were.
An emissary from the office was opening the cases for him and with
rare delight he was examining their contents with a pocket glass. She
watched him for a while and when the great man relinquished the last
piece of Lang-Yao _sang de bœuf_ and the case was closed and locked,
she intercepted him and led him off to a bench in a quiet corner where
she laid before him the result of a week of deliberation. He had begun
by being bored, for there was a case of the tea-dust glazes which he
had still planned to look over, but in a moment he had warmed to her
proposals and was discussing them with animation.

Yes, he had already planned to go to the Canadian woods again this
summer. Mrs. Loring wanted to go abroad this year. Mrs. Loring didn’t
like the woods unless he rented a permanent camp, the kind of place
that he and Jane despised. The plan had been discussed and Jane had
expressed a willingness to go. But at Mrs. Loring’s opposition the
matter had been dropped. But Loring had not given up the idea. It would
do Jane a lot of good, he admitted. Mrs. Pennington’s was a great plan,
a brave plan, a beautiful plan, one that did credit to her sympathies
and one that must in the end be successful. He would manage it. He
would take the matter up at once and arrange for the same guides and
outfit he had had last year. Would Mr. and Mrs. Pennington come as his
guests? Of course. Who else--Mr. Worthington and Colonel Broadhurst?
But could Mr. Kenyon be relied upon to do his share? Very well. He
would leave that to Mrs. Pennington.

The next afternoon, at Mrs. Pennington’s request, John Kenyon called at
her house in Stuyvesant Square, and his share in the arrangement was
explained to him. He was willing to do anything for Phil Gallatin’s
happiness that he could, of course, but it amused him to learn how
the agreeable lady had taken that willingness for granted, and how
she waved aside the difficulties which, as Kenyon suggested, might be
encountered. Phil might have other plans. He could be obstinate at
times. It might not be easy, either, to get Phil’s old guide for the
pilgrimage. He needed a rest himself, and would go with Phil himself,
if by doing so he could be of any assistance. It was now the first week
in May. He would see Phil and report in a few days.

It was the next morning at the office when Kenyon broached the matter
to his young partner. He was surprised that Phil fell in with the plan
at once.

“Funny,” said Phil. “I was thinking of that yesterday. I _am_ tired.
The woods will do me a lot of good, but do you think that Hood can get
along without us until August?”

“We’ll manage in some way. You deserve a rest, and I’m going to take
one whether I deserve it or not. Could you get that guide you had last
year, what’s his name--Joe----?”

“Keegón. I could try. We’d need two, but Joe can get another man. I
have the address. I’ll write to-day.”

Gallatin got up and walked across the room to the door, where he
stopped.

“I suppose I can fix matters with Mr. Loring----”

“Yes, I think so,” replied Kenyon guardedly. “But you’d better be sure
of it. He’s coming here to-morrow, isn’t he?”

Gallatin nodded gravely, and then thoughtfully went out.

That night John Kenyon dutifully reported in Stuyvesant Square. Mr.
Loring also dutifully reported there, and the three persons completed
the details of the conspiracy.

So it happened that toward the middle of June, Phil Gallatin and John
Kenyon reached the “jumping-off place” in the Canadian wilds. No two
“jumping-off places” are alike, but this one consisted of three or four
frame dwellings and a store, all squatted on the high bank of a small
river, which came crystal-clear from the mystery of the deep woods
above. John Kenyon got down from the stage that had driven them the ten
miles from the nearest railroad station and stood on the plank walk in
front of the store, a touch of color in his yellow cheeks, sniffing
eagerly at the smell of the pine balsam. Gallatin glanced around at
the familiar scene. Nothing was changed--the canoes drawn up along the
bank, the black setter dog, the Indian packers lounging in the shade,
the smell of their black tobacco, and the cool welcome of the trader
who came out of the store to greet them.

Joe Keegón and another Indian, whose name turned out to be Charlie
Knapp, got the valises out of the wagon. Gallatin offered Joe his
hand, and the Indian took it with the steady-eyed taciturnity of the
wilderness people. Joe was no waster of words or of emotion. He led
the way into the store of the trader, and they went over the outfit
together--blankets, ammunition, tea, pork, flour, tents, and all the
rest of it, while John Kenyon sat on a flour barrel, swinging his legs,
smoking a corncob pipe and listening.

That night, after Phil had turned in, he sent a letter and a telegram
to a Canadian address and gave them to the teamster with some money.
Then he, too, went to bed--dreaming of Arcadia.

       *       *       *       *       *

They had been in the woods for three weeks now. They weren’t traveling
as light as Phil had done the year before and the outfit included two
canoes, well loaded. So they went slowly northward by easy stages,
fishing the small streams and camping early. Gallatin had at first
been in some doubt as to his partner’s physical fitness for severe
work, but he soon found that he need have given himself no concern,
for with every day a year seemed to be slipping away from John Kenyon,
who insisted on taking his share of the burdens with a will that
set Phil Gallatin’s mind at rest. And as they went farther into the
wilderness, they made almost camp for camp the ones that Phil had made
the year before. John Kenyon had hoped that Phil would take him into
the Kawagama country. He wanted very much to see that waterfall on the
south fork of the Birch River that Phil had spoken of. Kenyon had an
eye for the beautiful.

For some time he had been wondering what course of action he would
take if Phil refused to fall in with his plans, and had already begun
to think that it was time to take Joe into his confidence; but he soon
found that subterfuge was unnecessary, for Gallatin was directing their
course with an unerring definiteness to his own farthest camp among the
hills. John Kenyon guessed something of what was passing in the mind
of the younger man, and over the camp-fire watched him furtively. The
sun and wind had tanned him and the vigorous exercise had brought an
appetite that had filled the hollows of his cheeks; but in spite of
the glow of health and youth and the delight of their old friendship,
a shadow still hung in Phil Gallatin’s eyes, which even the joy of
the present could not dispel. Kenyon smoked quietly and asked subtle
questions about their further pilgrimage.

“To-morrow we’ll reach the permanent camp, eh, Joe?” said Gallatin.

Keegón nodded.

“We’ll stay there for a while--fish and explore.”

As the time approached for his dénouement, Kenyon had a guilty sense
of intrusion which tempered his delight in the possible success of the
venture. But he remembered that he had had little to do in shaping the
course of events or the direction of their voyage, except to modify the
speed of their journeys so that Phil might reach the spot intended at
the appointed time. Phil seemed drawn forward as though by a lodestar
to his destination, as though some force greater than his own will was
impelling him.

Kenyon had taken pains to keep a record by the calendar. It was the
twenty-eighth of June. The next day Kenyon changed places with Phil and
went in Joe’s canoe, when he took the old Indian into his confidence.

“We will camp to-night. To-morrow Phil will want to go fishing alone.
You must keep him in camp until the next day. Then you must go with him
in the morning, and lead him to the camp in the hills where the deer
was killed. _Comprenez?_”

Joe had learned to understand this grave, quiet man from the city, who
did his share of the work and who never complained, and he recognized,
by its contrast to this docility and willingness, the sudden voice of
authority. He nodded.

“A’right,” he said, with a nod. “I take heem.”

Joe’s loquacity was flattering. It was the first time on their
pilgrimage that Kenyon had heard Joe utter more than one word at a time.

The woods had seemed so vast, so interminable that Kenyon had often
wondered whether it would be possible to find a spot so lacking
in identity as the one they were seeking. But Joe’s nod and smile
completely reassured him. In his unfamiliarity with the wilderness he
had forgotten that here was Joe Keegón’s city, its trails, portages and
streams as clearly mapped in his mind as the streets of John Kenyon’s
New York. The Indian would find the place where the deer was killed.
Kenyon breathed a sigh of relief. The wheel of Destiny was spinning now
and Kenyon had nothing to do but sit and watch. He had done his share.

That night there was much to do, but Keegón seemed in no hurry. When
Gallatin, who seemed tireless was for making a permanent camp at once,
Joe shook his head and went on cleaning fish.

“To-morrow,” he said.

When the morrow came, Gallatin was off in the underbrush hunting
firewood before the others were awake. From his place by the fire Joe
watched him lazily.

“Aren’t you going to get to work, Joe?”

“Soon,” the Indian grunted, but made no movement to get up.

“I want to fish.”

“To-morrow.”

“Why not to-day?”

“Make camp.”

“It won’t take all day to make camp.”

“Rest,” said Joe. And that was all that Gallatin could get out of him,
so he said no more, for he knew by experience that when Joe’s mind had
decided a question of policy, mere words made no impression on him.

John Kenyon listened from the flap of the tent, with a sleepy eye on
the rising sun.

“Don’t try to combat the forces of nature, my son,” he laughed. “Joe’s
right! I for one am going to take things easy.” And he rolled himself
in his blanket, sank back on his balsam couch and closed his eyes
again.

There was nothing for Phil but to bow to the inevitable. That day he
worked harder even than the guides and it seemed to John Kenyon that
some inward force was driving him at the top of his bent. He spoke
little, laughed not at all and late in the afternoon went off upstream
alone with his rod and creel, returning later gloomy and morose.

“No fish,” said Joe, looking at the empty creel. “Fish to-morrow!”

Joe actually smiled and Gallatin laughed in spite of himself.

“Beeg fish--to-morrow,” repeated Joe. “I show--um.”

The next day Kenyon stayed in camp with Charlie Knapp, and watched
Phil’s departure upstream. Joe had full instructions and as he followed
Gallatin’s broad shoulders into the brush he turned toward the fire and
nodded to Kenyon. There was a pact between them and Kenyon understood.

The sun was high before Joe left the stream and cut into the
underbrush. His employer hadn’t even taken his rod from its case,
and his creel was empty. Early in the morning he had asked his guide
to take him to the little stream where the deer was killed, and he
followed the swift noiseless steps of the old Indian, his shoulders
bent, his eyes peering through the thicket in search of landmarks.
It was midday before the two men reached the familiar water and Phil
identified the two bowlders above his old camping-place. Here Keegón
halted, eying the pool below.

“Fish,” said he.

Gallatin fingered at the fastenings of his rod case, looking
downstream, while Joe sat on a rock and munched a biscuit.

“I’m going downstream, Joe. You follow.”

The Indian nodded and Gallatin moved down among the rocks in the bed
of the stream. Pools invited him, but he did not fish. He had not even
jointed his rod. He was moving rapidly now, like a man with a mission,
a mission with which fishing had nothing in common, splashing through
the shallow water, jumping from rock to rock, or where the going was
good along the shore, through the underbrush. There was a trail to
follow now, a faint trail scarcely defined, but in which he saw the
faint marks of last year’s footprints. His own they must be, heavy from
the weight of the deer he had carried through the mud and wet. They
were the symbols of his regeneration. Since then he had brought other
burdens to camp and had thrown them at her feet, for what?

Later on, in a moist spot, he stopped and peered at the ground
curiously. Other footprints had emerged from somewhere and joined his
own, fresh footprints, one made by the in-turned toe of an Indian, the
other smaller, the heel of which cut deep into the mud and moss. He
bent forward following them eagerly. What could a woman be doing here?

Suddenly Gallatin straightened and sniffed the air. The smoke of a camp
fire! The smell of cooking fish! Some one had preceded him. He moved
forward cautiously, his heart beating with suppressed excitement, his
mind for the first time aware that unusual impulses had dominated him
all the morning. He also knew that the smell of those cooking fish was
delicious.

In a moment he recognized the glade, the two beech trees and the rock,
saw the bulk of the shack that he had built, the glow of the fire and
a small figure sitting on a log before it, cooking fish on a spit.
He stopped and passed a hand before his eyes. Had a year passed? Or
was it--yesterday? Who was the girl that sat familiarly at his fire,
hatless, her brown hair tawny in the sunlight, her slender neck bent
forward?

He rubbed his eyes and peered again. There was no mistake. It was Jane.




XXIX

ARCADIA AGAIN


She did not move at his approach, although his footsteps among the
dried leaves must have been plainly audible, and he was within ten feet
of the fire before she turned.

“We had better be going soon, Challón,” she began and then stopped, as
she raised her head and looked at him. He wore his old fishing hat with
the holes in it, a faded blue flannel shirt, corduroys and laced boots;
and as her eye passed quickly over his figure to his face, she paled,
started backward and stared with a terror in her eyes of something
beyond comprehension. He saw her put her arm before her face to shut
out the sight of him and rise to one knee, stumbling blindly away, when
he caught her in his arms, whispering madly:

“Jane! Jane! Don’t turn away from me. It’s Phil, do you hear?
Myself--no other. You were waiting for me--and I came to you.”

She trembled violently and her hand clutched his arm as though to
assure herself of its reality.

“Jane, look up at me. Look in my eyes and you’ll see your vision
there--where it has always been, and always will be--unchangeable. Look
at me, Jane.”

Slowly she raised her head and saw that what he said was true, the
pallor of dismay retreating before the warm flush that suffused her
from neck to brow.

“It’s--_you_, Phil? I can’t understand----”

“Nor I. I don’t know or care--so long as you are here--close in my
arms. I’ll never let you go again. Kiss me, Jane.”

She obeyed, blindly, passionately, the wonder in her eyes dying in
heavenly content.

“You came to me, Phil,” she whispered. “How? Why?”

“Because you wanted me, because you were waiting for me. Isn’t it so?”

“Yes, I was waiting for you. I came here because I couldn’t stay away.
I--I don’t know why I came--” She paused and her hands tightened on his
shoulders again. “Oh, Phil,” she cried again, “there’s no mistake?”

“No--no.”

“You frightened me so. I thought you were--unreal--a vision--your hat,
your clothes are the same. I thought you were--the ghost of happiness.”

He kissed her tenderly.

“There are no ghosts, Jane, dear. Not even those of unhappiness,” he
murmured. “There is no room for anything in the world but hope and
joy--and love--yours and mine. I love you, dearest. Even when reason
despaired, I loved you most and loved the pain of it.”

“The pain of it--I know.”

She was sobbing now, her slender body quivering under his caress.

“Don’t, Jane,” he whispered. “Don’t cry. Don’t!”

But she smiled up at him through her tears.

“Let me, Phil, I--I’m so happy.”

He soothed her gently and held her close in his arms, her head against
his breast, as he would have held that of a tired child. After a time
she relaxed and lay quiet.

“You’re glad?” he asked.

There was no reply.

“Are you glad?” he repeated.

“Glad! Oh, Phil, I’ve suffered so.”

“Oh, Jane, why? Look at me, dear. It was all a mistake. How could you
have misjudged me?”

She drew away from him and took his head between the palms of her hands
and sought his eyes with her own.

“There was no other?” she asked haltingly.

“No--a thousand times no,” he returned her gaze eagerly. “How could
there be any other?” he asked simply.

She looked long and then closed her eyes and drew his lips down to hers.

“You believe in me--now?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, her eyes still closed. “I believe in you. Even if
I didn’t, I would still--still--adore you.”

“God bless you for that. But you _do_ believe----” he persisted.

“Yes, yes, I do believe in you, Phil. I can’t doubt you when you look
at me like that.”

“Then I’ll never look away from you.”

“Don’t look away. Those eyes! How they’ve haunted me. The shadows in
them! There are no shadows now, Phil. They’re laughing at me, at my
feminine weakness, convinced against itself. I thought you were a
ghost.” She held him away and looked at him. “But you’re not in the
least ghostlike. You’re looking very well. I don’t believe you’ve
worried.”

“Nor you. I’ve never seen you looking handsomer. It’s hardly flattering
to my vanity.”

She sighed.

“I’ve lived in Arcadia for three weeks.”

He led her over to the log beside the shack and sat beside her.

“Tell me,” he said at last, “how you came to be here--alone.”

She straightened quickly and peered around.

“But I’m _not_ alone--my guide--he went into the brush for firewood.”

“Curious!”

“He should be back by now.”

“I hope he doesn’t come back.”

“Oh, Phil, so do I--but he will. And you?”

“My guide, Joe Keegón, is there,” and he pointed upstream.

A shade passed over her face.

“But we’ll send them away, Jane, back where they came from. We need no
guides now, you and I, no guides but our hearts, no servants but our
hands. We’ll begin again--where we left off--yesterday.”

She crouched closer in his arms.

“Yesterday. Yes, it was only yesterday that we were here,” she sighed.
“But the long night between!”

“A dream, Jane, a dream--a phantom unhappiness--only this is real.”

“Are you sure? I’m afraid I’ll awaken.”

“No,” he laughed. “See, the fire is just as we left it last night; the
black log charred, the shack, your bed, the two birch trees and your
ridgepole.”

“Yes,” she smiled.

“The two creels and the cooking fish----”

“Oh, those fish! My fish are all in the fire.”

“Do you care?”

“No--I’ll let them burn. But you’ll be good to me, won’t you, Phil?”

There was another long pause. About them the orchestral stillness of
the deep woods, amid which they lived a moment of immortality, all
thought, all speech inadequate to their sweet communion. A venturesome
sparrow perched itself upon Jane’s ridgepole, and after putting its
head on one side in inquiry uttered a low and joyful chirp, and failing
to attract attention flew away to tell the gossip to its mate. The
breeze crooned, the stream sighed and the sunlight kissed the cardinal
flowers, which lifted their heads for its caress. All Nature breathed
contentment, peace and consummation.

But there was much to be said, much mystery to be revealed, and it was
Jane who first spoke. She drew away from him gently and looked out into
the underbrush.

“Phil! Those guides,” she whispered. “They may have seen.”

“Let them. I don’t care. Do you?”

“Ye-s. Let me think. I can’t understand. Why hasn’t Challón come back?
He was here a minute ago--or was it an hour? I don’t know.” Her fingers
struggled with the disorder of her hair as she smiled at him.

“Challón is a myth. I don’t believe you had a guide.”

“A myth, indeed! I wish he was--now. I wanted to go out alone, but
father wouldn’t let me----”

“Mr. Loring!” Gallatin started up. “Oh, of course!” he sighed. “I had
forgotten that there were such things as fathers.”

“But there are--there is--” she laughed, “a perfectly substantial
father within ten miles from here.”

“You’re in camp again--in the same spot?”

She nodded.

“Any one else?” he frowned. “Not Mr. Van Duyn.”

“Oh, dear, no. Coley has gone to Carlsbad.”

He took her by the hand again. “You sent him away?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“After ‘Clovelly.’ Oh, Phil, you hurt me so. But I couldn’t stand
seeing him after that.”

“Why?”

“Because, cruel as you were, I knew that you were right and that I was
wrong. I hated you that night--hated you because you made me such a
pitiful thing; but-- Oh, I loved you, too, more than ever. If only you
hadn’t been so hard--so bitter. If you had been gentle then, you might
have taken me in your arms and crushed me if you liked. I shouldn’t
have cared.”

“Sh--that was only in the dream, Jane.” And then: “You never cared for
_him_?” he asked quickly.

“Never.”

“Then why----?”

“My pride, Phil. Poor Coley!”

He echoed the words heartlessly.

“Poor Coley!”

A pause. “Who else is in camp?”

“Colonel Broadhurst, Mr. Worthington, Mr. and Mrs. Pennington----”

“Nellie! Here?”

“Yes, she had never been in the woods before. Why, what is the matter,
Phil?”

Gallatin straightened, one hand to his forehead.

“I have it,” he said.

“Have what?”

“It was Nellie. I might have guessed it.”

“Guessed----?”

“It was _her_ plan--coming up here--to the woods. Before we left New
York she and John Kenyon were as thick as thieves--and----”

“Oh!”

“Good old Uncle John! He did it. I remember now--a hundred things.”

It was Jane’s turn to be surprised.

“Yes--yes. It’s true, Phil. Oh, how cleverly they managed! But how
could Nellie have known that I would come here? I only told Johnny
Challón.”

Phil laughed.

“Nellie Pennington is a remarkable woman. She knew. She knows
everything.”

“Yes, I think she does,” said Jane. “We’ve been in camp a week. I
started with Challón four days ago. He said he had lost the trail, and
I gave it up. This morning--I can see it all now. Father--and Nellie
started me off themselves at sunrise. They knew I’d come here and----”

She stopped and took him abruptly by the arm. “Phil! Those wicked
people had even fixed the day and hour of our meeting.”

He nodded.

“Of course! I wanted to come yesterday, but they wouldn’t let me. If I
had--I should have missed you.”

“Oh--how terrible!”

Her accents were so genuine, her face so distressed at this possibility,
that he laughed and caught her in his arms again.

“But I _didn’t_ miss you, Jane. That’s the point. Even if I had, Nellie
would have managed somehow. She’s an extraordinary woman.”

“She is, Phil. She chaperoned me until Coley was at the point of
exasperation.”

“Quite right of her, too.”

“But why has she taken such an interest in you--in us?”

“Because she’s an angel, because she has the wisdom of the centuries,
because she is a born matchmaker, because she always does what she
makes up her mind to do, and, lastly--and most important, Jane, she has
a proper sense of the eternal fitness of things.”

“That’s true. Nothing else was possible, was it, Phil?”

“No. It was written--a thousand years ago.”

She turned in his arms.

“Have you thought that--always?” she asked.

“I never gave up hoping.”

“Nor I.”

She was silent a moment.

“Phil.”

“What, Jane?”

“Would you have come here to Arcadia, alone, even if----”

“Yes. I would have come here--alone. I was planning it all spring.
This place is redolent of you. Your spirit has haunted it for a year.
I wanted to be here to share it with Kee-way-din, if I couldn’t
have--yourself.”

“What would you have done if I had not been here?”

“I don’t know--waited for you, I think.”

“But it was I--who waited----”

“You didn’t wait long. What were you thinking of, there by the fire?”

“Of my dream.”

“You dreamed of me?”

“Yes. The night we came into camp I dreamed of you. I saw you poling
a canoe upstream. I followed you across a portage. There was a heavy
pack upon your back, but you did not mind the weight, for your step was
light and your face happy. There was a shadow in your eyes, the same
shadow, but your lips were smiling. Night fell and still you toiled in
the moonlight, and I knew that you were coming here. There were voices,
too, and you were singing with them; but I wasn’t afraid, because you
seemed so joyful.”

“I _was_ joyful.”

“I saw the shack--and the ashes of the fire and I saw you coming
through the bushes toward it. But when you came to the fire I was not
there. You called me, but I couldn’t answer. I tried to, but I seemed
to be dumb--and then--and that was all.”

“A dream. It was all true--except the last.”

“That’s why I came. I wanted to be here, so that if you _did_ come,
you might not be disappointed. I had failed you before. I did not want
it to happen again. I brought Challón to show me the way. I was coming
here again--and again--until you found me.”

He raised her chin and looked into her eyes.

“Dream again, dear.”

“I’m dreaming now,” she sighed. “It is so sweet. Don’t let me wake,
Phil. It--it mightn’t be true.”

“Yes, it’s true, all true. You’ll marry me, Jane?”

“Whenever you ask me to.”

He looked away from her down the stream where the sunlight danced in
the open.

“I told you once that I would come for you some day--when I had
conquered myself,” he said slowly, “when I had made a place among the
useful men of the world, when I could look my Enemy in the eye--for
a long while and not be defeated--to stare him down until he stole
away--far off where I wouldn’t ever find him.”

“Yes.”

“He has gone, Jane. He does not trouble me and will not, I know. It was
a long battle, a silent battle between us, but I’ve won. And I’m ready
to take you, Jane.”

“Take me, then.”

Her lips were already his.

“You could have had me before, Phil,” she murmured. “I would have
fought the Enemy with you he was my Enemy, too, but you would not have
me.”

He shook his head.

“Not then. It was my own fight--not yours. And yet if it hadn’t been
for you, perhaps I shouldn’t have fought at all.”

She drew away from him a little.

“No--I didn’t help you. I only made it harder. I’ll regret that always.
It was your own victory--against odds.”

He smiled.

“What does it matter now. I _had_ to win--not that battle alone--but
others.”

“Yes, I know,” she smiled. “Father is mad about you.”

Gallatin threw up his chin and laughed to the sky.

“He ought to be. I’d be mad, too, in his place.”

His joy was infectious, and she smiled at him fondly.

“You’re a very wonderful person, aren’t you?”

“How could a demigod be anything else but wonderful? You created me.
Aren’t you pleased with your handiwork?”

“Immensely.”

He paused a moment and then whispered into her ear.

“You’ll marry me--soon?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Whenever you want me, Phil.”

“This summer! They shall leave us here!” he said.

She colored divinely.

“Oh!”

“It can be managed.”

“A wedding in the woods! Oh, Phil!”

“Why not? I’ll see----”

But she put her fingers over his lips and would not listen to him.

“Yes, dear,” he insisted, capturing her hands, “it shall be here.
All this is ours--_our_ forest, _our_ stream, _our_ sunlight, yours
and mine, _our_ kingdom. Would you change a kingdom for a villa or a
fashionable hotel?”

“No, no,” she whispered.

“We will begin life together here--where love began--alone. You shall
cook and I shall kill for you, and build with my own hands another
shack, a larger one with two windows and a door--a wonderful shack with
chairs, a table----”

“And a porcelain bathtub?”

“No--the bath is down the corridor--to the right.”

She had used it.

“It will do,” she smiled. “May I have a mirror?”

“The pool----”

Her lips twisted.

“I tried it once, and fell in. A mirror, _please_,” she insisted.

“Yes--a mirror--then.”

“And a--a small, a very tiny steamer trunk?”

He laughed.

“Oh, yes, and a French maid, smelling salts and a motor----”

“Phil! What shall I cook with?”

“A frying pan and a tin coffeepot.”

“But I can make such beautiful muffins.”

“I’ll build an oven.”

“And cake----”

“We’ll live like gods----”

“Demigods----”

“And goddesses.”

It was sweet nonsense but nobody heard it but themselves.

The shadows lengthened. The patches of light, turned to gold, were
lifting along the tree trunks when from the deeps of the ancient forest
below them there came three flutelike notes of liquid music of such
depth and richness that they sat spellbound. In a moment they heard it
again, the three cadenced notes of unearthly beauty and then the pause,
while all nature held its breath and waited to hear again.

“The hermit thrush,” he whispered.

“Oh, Phil. It’s from the very soul of things.”

“Sh----”

But they did not hear it again. The hermit thrush, sings seldom and
then only to those who belong to the Immortal Brotherhood of the Forest.


THE END




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JOHN FOX, JR.’S STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list.


THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE.

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

[Illustration]

The “lonesome pine” from which the story takes its name was a tall tree
that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pine
lured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when
he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the
_foot-prints of a girl_. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and
the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder
chase than “the trail of the lonesome pine.”


THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME.

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as “Kingdom Come.”
It is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which
often springs the flower of civilization.

“Chad.” the “little shepherd” did not know who he was nor whence he
came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood,
seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and
mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming
waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better than anyone else in
the mountains.


A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND.

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair of
moonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner’s son, and the
heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened “The Blight.” Two
impetuous young Southerners fall under the spell of “The Blight’s”
charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in
the love making of the mountaineers.

Included in this volume is “Hell fer-Sartain” and other stories, some
of Mr. Fox’s most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives.


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STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list.


THE HARVESTER.

Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs.

[Illustration]

“The Harvester,” David Langston, is a man of the woods and fields, who
draws his living from the prodigal hand of Mother Nature herself. If
the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man, with
his sure grip on life, his superb optimism, and his almost miraculous
knowledge of nature secrets, it would be notable. But when the Girl
comes to his “Medicine Woods,” and the Harvester’s whole sound,
healthy, large outdoor being realizes that this is the highest point
of life which has come to him--there begins a romance, troubled and
interrupted, yet of the rarest idyllic quality.


FRECKLES.

Decorations by E. Stetson Crawford.

Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which
he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great
Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs
to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with “The
Angel” are full of real sentiment.


A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST.

Illustrated by Wladyslaw T. Brenda.

The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable type of
the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness
towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty
of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and
unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.

It is an inspiring story of a life worth while and the rich beauties of
the out-of-doors are strewn through all its pages.


AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW.

Illustrations in colors by Oliver Kemp. Design and decorations by Ralph
Fletcher Seymour.

The scene of this charming, idyllic love story is laid in Central
Indiana. The story is one of devoted friendship, and tender
self-sacrificing love; the friendship that gives freely without return,
and the love that seeks first the happiness of the object. The novel is
brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos
and tender sentiment will endear it to all.


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THE NOVELS OF STEWART EDWARD WHITE


THE RULES OF THE GAME.

Illustrated by Lajaren A. Hiller.

The romance of the son of “The Riverman.” The young college hero goes
into the lumber camp, is antagonized by “graft” and comes into the
romance of his life.


ARIZONA NIGHTS.

Illus. and cover inlay by N. C. Wyeth.

A series of spirited tales emphasizing some phases of the life of the
ranch, plains and desert. A masterpiece.


THE BLAZED TRAIL.

With illustrations by Thomas Fogarty.

A wholesome story with gleams of humor, telling of a young man who
blazed his way to fortune through the heart of the Michigan pines.


THE CLAIM JUMPERS. A Romance.

The tenderfoot manager of a mine in a lonesome gulch of the Black Hills
has a hard time of it, but “wins out” in more ways than one.


CONJUROR’S HOUSE.

Illustrated Theatrical Edition.

Dramatized under the title of “The Call of the North.”

“Conjuror’s House” is a Hudson Bay trading post where the head factor
is the absolute lord. A young fellow risked his life and won a bride on
this forbidden land.


THE MAGIC FOREST. A Modern Fairy Tale.

Illustrated.

The sympathetic way in which the children of the wild and their life
is treated could only belong to one who is in love with the forest and
open air. Based on fact.


THE RIVERMAN.

Illus. by N. C. Wyeth and C. Underwood.

The story of a man’s fight against a river and of a struggle between
honesty and grit on the one side, and dishonesty and shrewdness on the
other.


THE SILENT PLACES.

Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin.

The wonders of the northern forests, the heights of feminine devotion,
and masculine power, the intelligence of the Caucasian and the instinct
of the Indian, are all finely drawn in this story.


THE WESTERNERS.

A story of the Black Hills that is justly placed among the best
American novels. It portrays the life of the new West as no other book
has done in recent years.


THE MYSTERY.

In collaboration with Samuel Hopkins Adams.

With illustrations by Will Crawford.

The disappearance of three successive crews from the stout ship
“Laughing Lass” in mid-Pacific, is a mystery weird and inscrutable. In
the solution, there is a story of the most exciting voyage that man
ever undertook.


GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK




B. M. Bower’s Novels

Thrilling Western Romances

Large 12 mos. Handsomely bound in cloth. Illustrated.


CHIP, OF THE FLYING U.

A breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of Chip and Della
Whitman are charmingly and humorously told. Chip’s jealousy of Dr.
Cecil Grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is
very amusing. A clever, realistic story of the American Cow-puncher.


THE HAPPY FAMILY.

A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen
jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. Foremost amongst them, we find
Ananias Green, known as Andy, whose imaginative powers cause many
lively and exciting adventures.


HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT.

A realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of Easterners
who exchange a cottage at Newport for the rough homeliness of a Montana
ranch-house. The merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating Beatrice, and
the effusive Sir Redmond, become living, breathing personalities.


THE RANGE DWELLERS.

Here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. Spirited
action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo and Juliet
courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull
page.


THE LURE OF DIM TRAILS.

A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author, among the
cowboys of the West, in search of “local color” for a new novel. “Bud”
Thurston learns many a lesson while following “the lure of the dim
trails” but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love.


THE LONESOME TRAIL.

“Weary” Davidson leaves the ranch for Portland, where conventional
city life palls on him. A little branch of sage brush, pungent with
the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large
brown eyes soon compel his return. A wholesome love story.


THE LONG SHADOW.

A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life of a
mountain ranch. Its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game
of life fearlessly and like men. It is a fine love story from start to
finish.


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TITLES SELECTED FROM GROSSET & DUNLAP’S LIST

RE-ISSUES OF THE GREAT LITERARY SUCCESSES OF THE TIME

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.


BEN HUR. A Tale of the Christ. By General Lew Wallace.

This famous Religious-Historical Romance with its mighty story,
brilliant pageantry, thrilling action and deep religious reverence,
hardly requires an outline. The whole world has placed “Ben-Hur” on a
height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached.
The clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect
reproduction of brilliant Roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere
of the arena have kept their deep fascination.


THE PRINCE OF INDIA. By General Lew Wallace.

A glowing romance of the Byzantine Empire, showing, with vivid
imagination, the possible forces behind the internal decay of the
Empire that hastened the fall of Constantinople.

The foreground figure is the person known to all as the Wandering Jew,
at this time appearing as the Prince of India, with vast stores of
wealth, and is supposed to have instigated many wars and fomented the
Crusades.

Mohammed’s love for the Princess Irene is beautifully wrought into the
story, and the book as a whole is a marvelous work both historically
and romantically.


THE FAIR GOD. By General Lew Wallace. A Tale of the Conquest of
Mexico. With Eight Illustrations by Eric Pape.

All the annals of conquest have nothing more brilliantly daring and
dramatic than the drama played in Mexico by Cortes. As a dazzling
picture of Mexico and the Montezumas it leaves nothing to be desired.

The artist has caught with rare enthusiasm the spirit of the Spanish
conquerors of Mexico, its beauty and glory and romance.


TARRY THOU TILL I COME or, Salathiel, the Wandering Jew. By
George Croly. With twenty illustrations by T. de Thulstrup.

A historical novel, dealing with the momentous events that occurred,
chiefly in Palestine, from the time of the Crucifixion to the
destruction of Jerusalem.

The book, as a story, is replete with Oriental charm and richness,
and the character drawing is marvelous. No other novel ever written
has portrayed with such vividness the events that convulsed Rome and
destroyed Jerusalem in the early days of Christianity.


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STORIES OF WESTERN LIFE

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.


RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE. By Zane Grey.

Illustrated by Douglas Duer.

In this picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago, we are
permitted to see the unscrupulous methods employed by the invisible
hand of the Mormon Church to break the will of those refusing to
conform to its rule.


FRIAR TUCK. By Robert Alexander Wason.

Illustrated by Stanley L. Wood.

Happy Hawkins tells us, in his humorous way, how Friar Tuck lived among
the Cowboys, how he adjusted their quarrels and love affairs and how he
fought with them and for them when occasion required.


THE SKY PILOT. By Ralph Connor.

Illustrated by Louis Rhead.

There is no novel, dealing with the rough existence of cowboys, so
charming in the telling, abounding as it does with the freshest and the
truest pathos.


THE EMIGRANT TRAIL. By Geraldine Bonner.

Colored frontispiece by John Rae.

The book relates the adventures of a party on its overland pilgrimage,
and the birth and growth of the absorbing love of two strong men for a
charming heroine.


THE BOSS OF WIND RIVER. By A. M. Chisholm.

Illustrated by Frank Tenney Johnson.

This is a strong, virile novel with the lumber industry for its central
theme and a love story full of interest as a sort of subplot.


A PRAIRIE COURTSHIP. By Harold Bindloss.

A story of Canadian prairies in which the hero is stirred, through
the influence of his love for a woman, to settle down to the heroic
business of pioneer farming.


JOYCE OF THE NORTH WOODS. By Harriet T. Comstock.

Illustrated by John Cassel.

A story of the deep woods that shows the power of love at work among
its primitive dwellers. It is a tensely moving study of the human heart
and its aspirations that unfolds itself through thrilling situations
and dramatic developments.


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AMELIA E. BARR’S STORIES

DELIGHTFUL TALES OF OLD NEW YORK

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list.


THE BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON.

With Frontispiece.

This exquisite little romance opens in New York City in “the tender
grace” of a May day long past, when the old Dutch families clustered
around Bowling Green. It is the beginning of the romance of Katherine,
a young Dutch girl who has sent, as a love token, to a young English
officer, the bow of orange ribbon which she has worn for years as a
sacred emblem on the day of St. Nicholas. After the bow of ribbon
Katherine’s heart soon flies. Unlike her sister, whose heart has found
a safe resting place among her own people, Katherine’s heart must rove
from home--must know to the utmost all that life holds of both joy
and sorrow. And so she goes beyond the seas, leaving her parents as
desolate as were Isaac and Rebecca of old.


THE MAID OF MAIDEN LANE; A Love Story.

With Illustrations by S. M. Arthur.

A sequel to “The Bow of Orange Ribbon.” The time is the gracious days
of Seventeen-hundred and ninety-one, when “The Marseillaise” was sung
with the American national airs, and the spirit affected commerce,
politics and conversation. In the midst of this period the romance of
“The Sweetest Maid in Maiden Lane” unfolds. Its chief charm lies in its
historic and local color.


SHEILA VEDDER.

Frontispiece in colors by Harrison Fisher.

A love story set in the Shetland Islands.

Among the simple, homely folk who dwelt there Jan Vedder was raised;
and to this island came lovely Sheila Jarrow. Jan knew, when first he
beheld her, that she was the one woman in all the world for him, and
to the winning of her love he set himself. The long days of summer by
the sea, the nights under the marvelously soft radiance of Shetland
moonlight passed in love-making, while with wonderment the man and
woman, alien in traditions, adjusted themselves to each other. And the
day came when Jan and Sheila wed, and then a sweeter love story is told.


TRINITY BELLS.

With eight Illustrations by C. M. Relyea.

The story centers around the life of little Katryntje Van Clyffe, who,
on her return home from a fashionable boarding school, faces poverty
and heartache. Stout of heart, she does not permit herself to become
discouraged even at the news of the loss of her father and his ship
“The Golden Victory.” The story of Katryntje’s life was interwoven with
the music of the Trinity Bells which eventually heralded her wedding
day.


_Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction._

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CHARMING BOOKS FOR GIRLS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.


WHEN PATTY WENT TO COLLEGE. By Jean Webster.

Illustrated by C. D. Williams.

One of the best stories of life in a girl’s college that has ever been
written. It is bright, whimsical and entertaining, lifelike, laughable
and thoroughly human.


JUST PATTY. By Jean Webster.

Illustrated by C. M. Relyea.

Patty is full of the joy of living, fun-loving, given to ingenious
mischief for its own sake, with a disregard for pretty convention which
is an unfailing source of joy to her fellows.


THE POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL. By Eleanor Gates.

With four full page illustrations.

This story relates the experience of one of those unfortunate children
whose early days are passed in the companionship of a governess, seldom
seeing either parent, and famishing for natural love and tenderness. A
charming play as dramatized by the author.


REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM. By Kate Douglas Wiggin.

One of the most beautiful studies of childhood--Rebecca’s artistic,
unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand out midst a circle of
austere New Englanders. The stage version is making a phenomenal
dramatic record.


NEW CHRONICLES OF REBECCA. By Kate Douglas Wiggin.

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

Additional episodes in the girlhood of this delightful heroine that
carry Rebecca through various stages to her eighteenth birthday.


REBECCA MARY. By Annie Hamilton Donnell.

Illustrated by Elizabeth Shippen Green.

This author possesses the rare gift of portraying all the grotesque
little joys and sorrows and scruples of this very small girl with a
pathos that is peculiarly genuine and appealing.


EMMY LOU: Her Book and Heart. By George Madden Martin.

Illustrated by Charles Louis Hinton.

Emmy Lou is irresistibly lovable, because she is so absolutely real.
She is just a bewitchingly innocent, hugable little maid. The book is
wonderfully human.


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GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK




GROSSET & DUNLAP’S DRAMATIZED NOVELS

Original, sincere and courageous--often amusing--the kind that are
making theatrical history.


MADAME X. By Alexandre Bisson and J. W. McConaughy.

Illustrated with scenes from the play.

A beautiful Parisienne became an outcast because her husband would not
forgive an error of her youth. Her love for her son is the great final
influence in her career. A tremendous dramatic success.


THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. By Robert Hichens.

An unconventional English woman and an inscrutable stranger meet and
love in an oasis of the Sahara. Staged this season with magnificent
cast and gorgeous properties.


THE PRINCE OF INDIA. By Lew. Wallace.

A glowing romance of the Byzantine Empire, presenting with extraordinary
power the siege of Constantinople, and lighting its tragedy with the
warm underglow of an Oriental romance. As a play it is a great dramatic
spectacle.


TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY. By Grace Miller White.

Illust. by Howard Chandler Christy.

A girl from the dregs of society, loves a young Cornell University
student, and it works startling changes in her life and the lives of
those about her. The dramatic version is one of the sensations of the
season.


YOUNG WALLINGFORD. By George Randolph Chester.

Illust. by F. R. Gruger and Henry Raleigh.

A series of clever swindles conducted by a cheerful young man, each
of which is just on the safe side of a State’s prison offence. As
“Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford,” it is probably the most amusing expose of
money manipulation ever seen on the stage.


THE INTRUSION OF JIMMY. By P. G. Wodehouse.

Illustrations by Will Grefe.

Social and club life in London and New York, an amateur burglary
adventure and a love story. Dramatized under the title of “A Gentleman
of Leisure,” it furnishes hours of laughter to the play-goers.


GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK




GROSSET & DUNLAP’S DRAMATIZED NOVELS

THE KIND THAT ARE MAKING THEATRICAL HISTORY

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.


WITHIN THE LAW. By Bayard Veiller & Marvin Dana.

Illustrated by Wm. Charles Cooke.

This is a novelization of the immensely successful play which ran for
two years in New York and Chicago.

The plot of this powerful novel is of a young woman’s revenge directed
against her employer who allowed her to be sent to prison for three
years on a charge of theft, of which she was innocent.


WHAT HAPPENED TO MARY. By Robert Carlton Brown.

Illustrated with scenes from the play.

This is a narrative of a young and innocent country girl who is
suddenly thrown into the very heart of New York, “the land of her
dreams,” where she is exposed to all sorts of temptations and dangers.

The story of Mary is being told in moving pictures and played in
theatres all over the world.


THE RETURN OF PETER GRIMM. By David Belasco.

Illustrated by John Rae.

This is a novelization of the popular play in which David Warfield, as
Old Peter Grimm, scored such a remarkable success.

The story is spectacular and extremely pathetic but withal, powerful,
both as a book and as a play.


THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. By Robert Hichens.

This novel is an intense, glowing epic of the great desert, sunlit
barbaric, with its marvelous atmosphere of vastness and loneliness.

It is a book of rapturous beauty, vivid in word painting. The play has
been staged with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties.


BEN HUR. A Tale of the Christ. By General Lew Wallace.

The whole world has placed this famous Religious-Historical Romance on
a height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached.
The clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect
reproduction of brilliant Roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere
of the arena have kept their deep fascination. A tremendous dramatic
success.


BOUGHT AND PAID FOR. By George Broadhurst and Arthur Hornblow.

Illustrated with scenes from the play.

A stupendous arraignment of modern marriage which has created an
interest on the stage that is almost unparalleled. The scenes are laid
in New York, and deal with conditions among both the rich and poor.

The interest of the story turns on the day-by-day developments which
show the young wife the price she has paid.


_Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction._

GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK




THE NOVELS OF CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list.


JEWEL: A Chapter in Her Life.

Illustrated by Maude and Genevieve Cowles.

A sweet, dainty story, breathing the doctrine of love and patience and
sweet nature and cheerfulness.


JEWEL’S STORY BOOK.

Illustrated by Albert Schmitt.

A sequel to “Jewel” and equally enjoyable.


CLEVER BETSY.

Illustrated by Rose O’Neill.

The “Clever Betsy” was a boat--named for the unyielding spinster whom
the captain hoped to marry. Through the two Betsys a clever group of
people are introduced to the reader.


SWEET CLOVER: A Romance of the White City.

A story of Chicago at the time of the World’s Fair. A sweet human story
that touches the heart.


THE OPENED SHUTTERS.

Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher.

A summer haunt on an island in Casco Bay is the background for this
romance. A beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to
realize, by her new friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul
to the blessed sunlight of joy by casting aside vanity and self love. A
delicately humorous work with a lofty motive underlying it all.


THE RIGHT PRINCESS.

An amusing story, opening at a fashionable Long Island resort, where
a stately Englishwoman employs a forcible New England housekeeper to
serve in her interesting home. How types so widely apart react on each
other’s lives, all to ultimate good, makes a story both humorous and
rich in sentiment.


THE LEAVEN OF LOVE.

Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher.

At a Southern California resort a world-weary woman, young and
beautiful but disillusioned, meets a girl who has learned the art of
living--of tasting life in all its richness, opulence and joy. The
story hinges upon the change wrought in the soul of the blasè woman by
this glimpse into a cheery life.


_Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction._

GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK




 Transcriber’s Notes:

 --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

 --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

 --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

 --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.









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