CHAPTER ONE

There is no sight more uninspiring than a ferry-boat crowded with human

beings at a quarter of six o’clock in the evening, when the great

homeward rush from the offices and commercial houses sets in. At that

time, although there are some returning shoppers and women type-writers

and clerks, the larger number of the passengers are men, sitting in

slanting rows to catch the light on the evening paper, or wedged in an

upright mass at the forward end of the boat. It is noticeable that, with

a few exceptions, those who have gone forth in the morning distinct

individuals, well dressed, freshly shaven, with clean linen, an animated

manner, a brisk step, and an eager-eyed disposition toward the labors of

the day, seem, as they return at night, to be only component parts of a

shabby crowd in indistinguishable apparel, and worn to a uniform

dullness not only of appearance but of attitude and expression. The hard

day’s work is over, but the rest is not yet attained. We all know that

between the darkness and the dawn comes the period when vitality is at

its lowest ebb, and in all transition periods there is a subtle

withdrawing of the old force before the new fills its place. In that

temporary collapse in the daily adjustment between two lives, the

business and the domestic, many a man with overwrought brain and tired

body feels that what he has been looking forward to as a happy rest

appears to him now momentarily as an unavoidable and wearying need for

further effort. The demand upon him varies in kind, but it is still

there.

Men in a mass are neither beautiful nor impressive to look at in the

modern black or sad-colored raiment of every-day custom, and it is

difficult, as the eyes rest on the faces in these commonplace rows, to

realize the space which love inevitably fills in these lives, so far

apart from romance do they seem, forgetful as we are of the worn truth

that romance is a flowering weed which grows in any soil. For three

fourths of these men some woman waits. Those dull eyes can gleam, those

set lips can kiss; these be heroes, handsome men, arbiters of destiny!

There is positive grotesqueness in the idea, seen in this obliterating

haze of fatigue that so maliciously dwarfs and slurs. That man over

there with the long upper lip and closed lids has an episode in his

middle-aged existence to match any in the annals of fiction. That other

beside him, short, fat, with kind eyes and a stubby brown beard, is the

sum of all that is good and beautiful to the wife for whom his

homecoming continues to be the poignant event of the day. This man with

the long, thin face is a modern martyr working himself to death for his

family; this one was in the newspapers last week in a connection best

not remembered. This one—you would pick him out at once from among the

rest—is to be married to-morrow. This man, and this, and this, while

presently unconscious of the great law, are still living under it. Not

only to youth is the promise given; it becomes a larger and more vital

thing as the opportunities of life increase, further spreading in its

fostering of good or evil—a thread so deeply interwoven on the under

side of the fabric that we forget to look for it.

In every case is a character to be made or marred, not only by the large

molding, but by the infinitesimal touches of that love whose influence

we conventionally limit to young and unmarried persons—while knowing,

whether we acknowledge it or not, that it is the one eternally powerful

element in life.

Even in a far-off reflex action, this is shown on the ferry-boat in the

fact that when one of this blended concourse of men meets a woman he

instantly regains an individuality; he pulls himself together, his eyes

become bright, his manner concentrated, his clothes set well on him. He

is no longer one of the crowd, but himself.

Tireless youth may achieve the same individual effect, or unusual

personal beauty, or great happiness, or the possession of a dominant

idea. A number of people, as they came forward on the boat, turned to

look back at two men sitting by the narrow passageway, who in the midst

of the general indifference were talking in a low tone, with obviously

intense earnestness. Those who looked once usually turned a second time

to gaze on the face of one.

Many a man who has an upright nature and a good disposition fails to

show these facts patently to the casual observer. To Justin Alexander

had been given the grace of a singularly attractive countenance. He was

of a fair complexion, with light hair, a good nose slightly aquiline,

and a well-shaped mouth and chin; but his charm was irrespective of

feature. No one could look at him and not know him to be a man of sweet

and fine honor. The gaze of his keen blue eyes—clear, though not very

large—carried conviction to whomsoever it rested on that a clean and

honest soul dwelt therein. Although he did not in the least realize it,

this had been one of the greatest factors in any success that he had

ever had, joined as it was to good judgment and great physical energy.

Everyone liked him, not for what he said or did, but for what he was,

and for the encouragement of his bright glance, which had a convincing

and magnetic quality in it. He talked intelligently and well, although

not a great deal, and among the many people who were drawn toward him a

corresponding liking on his part was easily inferred. Yet he was, in

fact, innately although dumbly critical; a reticent man as to his own

thoughts and opinions, he took an inward measurement of persons and

circumstances often the very reverse of what was supposed. This attitude

of his was in no sense of the word hypocritical, it came instead from a

constitutional dislike of voicing his innermost feelings. It somehow

hurt him to acknowledge defects in others, and he had also an impersonal

sense of justice which allowed for good qualities in those who were

uncongenial to him; he did not really like the man who sat beside him,

and with whom he had the prospect of being intimately associated, but

even his wife had hardly divined this; certainly Joseph Leverich

himself, large, jovial, and shrewd-eyed, would have been the last to

suspect it.

“The gist of the matter is this, Alexander,” he was saying, as he hit

one hand heavily with the large forefinger of the other, “we want a man

capable not only of overseeing the works,—Harker understands that

pretty well,—but of managing the real business of the factory and

representing it with business men; neither Foster nor I can attend to

it—Great Scott, I wish we could! We haven’t the time. We bought the

whole outfit a couple of years ago; it’s only one of twenty other irons

we have in the fire.”

“I know that your interests are large,” said Alexander, as Leverich

paused.

“The great drawback to having large interests is that you have to

delegate so much of the management to others. When we took up this, it

ran itself, after a fashion; but since that a dozen other people are

making the same thing—of course, with slight variations, but

practically the same thing. Patents don’t really protect you much. Now

we want our machine pushed; but neither Foster nor I, for different

reasons, can do this. The fact is, we don’t want to appear at all. And

we’ve had our eye on you for some time.”

“This is news to me,” said Alexander.

“Now the control of the factory has to be settled suddenly, out of hand;

somebody has got to take hold. So we make you the offer. We will deposit

fifty thousand to your credit, to be used as working capital—you can’t

branch out with less; you’ve got to be able to work to advantage. The

days have gone when a business could be set going on a couple of

thousand and worked up with industry and frugality, as the copy-books

say, into the millions. Small concerns nowadays go to the wall—and

serve ’em right, I say; only fools believe in success without money.

We’ll see to your backing! Of course, the interest will be paid out of

the business, you don’t undertake it individually. At the end of two

years more we ought to have a big thing.”

“And if we don’t?” said Alexander.

The other’s dim gooseberry eyes suddenly flashed. “If you think we will

not, you are not the man we want—he’s got to have the courage of his

convictions to be worth his salt. But you can’t put me off this way—I

know you. Take up the project or leave it—I say this, but in reality

you can’t leave it, and you know it. A man doesn’t get a chance like

this twice. Hamilton came to us the other day for the position, and we

refused him, although he had capital and we wouldn’t have had to advance

a cent of the money we’re willing to put up for you.”

“But why are you willing to?” Justin looked with his bright eyes at the

other.

“Because you are the man we want!” Leverich leaned forward eagerly, and

shifted his large frame so as to put each muscle into an easier

position. “Don’t let’s go over that old ground again. You’ve had just

the experience in the old company that we need; but it’s your wide

acquaintance that tells, and it’s that that we’re willing to buy. We

believe you can make a market for our goods.”

“It is an important step,” said the other thoughtfully, “to leave a

certainty for an uncertainty—not that I should regard it as an

uncertainty if I took it,” he added, with a smile.

“I know it’s hard to break away and start out for yourself when you have

a family; lots of men go all their lives in a rut because they haven’t

the courage to take the plunge. But you don’t want to work for somebody

else all your life; you don’t want to feel that you’re wasting all your

best years. By and by it will be too late. And a growing family takes

more money each year, instead of less—you’ve got to think of that, too.

It’s a terrible thing to be always cramped, and know there’s no way out

of it in this world.”

“You don’t need to tell me all this, Leverich,” said Justin coolly.

“No, I know I don’t; but I want you to realize that you have your chance

now—one in a million. I’m sorry to hurry you, but you see the way we’re

fixed. Say the word now! Get it off your mind and you’ll sleep easier. I

know what your word is—as good as your bond. _I’d_ take it! You can

give any formal decision later.”

Justin still smiled, but he shook his head; though capable of quick

decision when necessary, it was yet impossible to hurry him; his actions

in every case depended on his own thought, and gained no volition from

outside influences, which might indeed retard but could never compel.

Virtually he had concluded to accept Leverich’s offer, but he would take

his own time about saying so; he felt the haste of the other man to be

somewhat of an offense against decency.

“Well!” Leverich shrugged his heavy shoulders at the bright

impenetrableness that was like a shining armor. “We said we’d give you

until Wednesday, so of course we will. We will bring the books around

to-night anyway, and go over them, as we planned; you can’t afford to

lose any time. And talk to your wife about it, she’s a sensible

woman—and one who longs, like all the rest of ’em, for more than she’s

got,” he added to himself, with cynical satisfaction.

“Martin is watching us now,” he continued, waving his hand over toward

the other side of the boat, where a slight, insignificant-looking man

with small features and a large, bulging forehead lifted his hand in an

answering gesture. “You’d never think, to look at him, that he was what

he is; he has more brains in his little finger than I have in my whole

head.” Leverich spoke with evident sincerity. “I’m just a plain man of

business, but Foster’s a genius. He fixed on you from the start. Hello,

we’re ’most in already.”

The crowd from the rear cabin had begun to push through the passageway

and surge to the front of the boat, which was still some distance from

the dock. The man next them folded up his paper, and Justin and Leverich

rose mechanically and stood amid the throng, which became more and more

compact every moment.

Suddenly both men started as they looked back at the fresh accessions to

the crowd, and pushed sideways, falling behind a little to get in line

with a tall and slender young woman with pink roses in a black hat, and

a dotted veil that emphasized her rich coloring. She raised her head as

a voice beside her said:

“Good evening, Mrs. Alexander!”

“Oh, is that you, Mr. Leverich? How do you do? I haven’t met a soul I

knew on the boat until this moment, and now I see six people. Oh,

Justin!” She had faced around as a hand was laid on her arm, and stood

looking up at him with happily surprised eyes, while he smiled back at

her with a slight flush on his own cheek. “I was looking for you all the

time,” she said.

The sudden and unexpected meeting of husband and wife has a singular

element in it—it is somewhat like unconsciously approaching a mirror in

which one views a stranger who turns out to be one’s self. That swift

and impersonal view gives an impression as a whole that can be reached

in no other way. Lois Alexander noticed at once that her husband’s

clothes needed brushing, and that the velvet collar of his overcoat was

worn at the edges—she had hardly seen the coat this year except as he

was putting it on or taking it off. It gave her a slight shock to see

that the tired lines around his eyes made his face look older than she

was accustomed to think of it. He, for his part, experienced the same

slight shock in looking at her; he saw the little imperfections in her

face, and the roses in her hat appeared to him perhaps too pink and

girlish. Yet through all this there was an indescribable thrill of happy

possession and loving admiration of each other, touchingly sweet, and

all the tenderer for the hint of passing years. Among all the men

around, Justin was the king; among all women, she was the most

desirable.

After the expected sensations of the usual home greeting and the

accustomed kiss, it gave a spice to intimacy to meet perforce as

strangers. She leaned partly against him as she talked to Mr. Leverich,

and he pressed her arm with his strong fingers under cover of her cloak

and made the color come and go in her cheek; her eyes mutely implored

him to stop, and he enjoyed her confusion. Husband and wife looked well

together, in a certain vitality of movement and expression common to

both which made others instinctively turn to observe them.

“I have been trying to discover my husband all the way across,” she

complained to Leverich. “I was sure that he was on this boat. Why didn’t

you look out for me, Justin?”

“You didn’t say you were going in town to-day,” he expostulated.

“How often have I told you to look out for me? I am likely to go in at

any time. I had to get some things for the children. Have you—have you

seen anyone to-day?” She spoke disconnectedly, as conscious as a girl of

the disconcerting pressure on her arm.

“No—oh, yes; I saw Eugene Larue this morning, he’s back from the other

side.”

“Did he say when he would be out?”

“No.”

“Did you ask him?”

“No. The fact is, Lois, I only saw him for a moment and I never thought

about it.”

“Oh, it doesn’t make any difference. I wanted to speak to you about

Theodosia; I’ve had a letter, and she’s coming. We are going to have a

young lady as a visitor this winter,” she added formally in explanation

to Mr. Leverich, who still stood at her elbow. “She’s coming up North to

study music; she’s very pretty, I believe, and clever.”

“A relation?” hazarded Mr. Leverich.

“Yes; she’s a young cousin of mine—I haven’t seen her since she was a

child. It will be so pleasant to have a girl in the house.”

“You like company,” he returned approvingly, “my wife does, too; we

always have a houseful. She says I show off better when we have

visitors—can’t let my angry passions rise. By the way, Alexander, what

time shall I bring the books over to-night?”

Lois Alexander’s startled, questioning glance sought her husband’s, and

his gave a gravely confidential assent before he answered:

“Any time you say.”

“Will eight o’clock be too early?”

“No, that will suit me very well.”

“Well, good-by!” He took off his hat in farewell to Lois, and

disappeared in the crowd, as his broad shoulders forced a sinuous

passage through the throng.

“How are the children?” Justin asked his wife.

“They’re all right.” She paused, and then said: “If you are to look over

those books, I suppose we can’t go to the Calenders’ to-night.”

“No.” The dark line of the pier struck athwart the dusky light and

divided the windows in two. “At least, I cannot, but there’s no reason

why you shouldn’t go.”

“You know that I will not go without you.”

“Other women do.”

“Well, _I_ will not.”

“What a foolish girl!” His tone was fond. “Then—_take_ care!” The boat

had bumped into the dock; in the struggling press of the stampeding

crowd, Lois clung to her husband’s arm and he strove to ward off the

crush from her. When they were at last over the gang-plank, joining in

the hurrying, straggling procession toward the train, he looked at her

with tender solicitude.

“You shouldn’t come out on the boat so late as this. Was it too much for

you?”

“Oh, no, no! I do this alone lots of times.” She felt so vividly happy

that her breathlessness was hardly an annoyance as they dodged in front

of the incoming drays of another boat and waved aside the impeding

newsboys crying the evening papers.

She foresaw that they would be separated in the train, and found voice

enough to whisper to him:

“Are you to decide to-night?”

“I have virtually decided now.”

“To accept?”

“Yes.”

Her breath came suddenly; with the monosyllable an electric wave had set

the pulses of both tingling. The spoken word had not failed of its

wonted power; it had at this moment opened a gate hitherto closed. Both

husband and wife felt their feet at last set on the great highroad of

modern romance, the road to wealth, along which ride daily, as of old,

knights in armor, duly caparisoned, with shield and spear, bent, not on

deeds of chivalry, but on one glittering quest—a grim pathway, veiled

by a golden haze.