romance when you dropped it at the first sign of trouble. Please don’t
misunderstand me. That letter you wrote me during your honeymoon from
this very house was in a sense the declaration of a faith. You meant
to live by it always; and if no troubles had ever come it would have
been perfectly satisfactory--no doubts, no questions! You were like
a mariner who doesn’t question his charts when the sea is calm; but
who begins to doubt them when he hears the breakers roaring on hidden
reefs. Ideals are no good if we haven’t a tolerably strong faith in
them. I’m going to tell you something that may surprise you. You and
Miles have been an ideal of mine. Not only was your house with its
pretty garden and the hollyhocks a refuge, but it was one of my chief
inspirations. A good many of the best things I’ve written came out of
that little establishment. I was astonished the other day, in looking
over my work of the past half-dozen years, to find how much of you
and Miles there is in it. And now I feel that I ought to modify those
things--stick in footnotes to say that the ideal home--the ideal of
happiness I had derived from you--was all a fraud. Just think how that
would look: an asterisk tacked to the end of every stanza, leading the
eye down to an admission that my statements were not true, only poetry,
romance, a flimsy invention which no one need be deceived by!”
“I hope,” she said despairingly, “that I haven’t lost everything! I’ve
got to hold on to something for Marjorie’s sake!”
“But Miles,” he persisted, “what about him!”
“That isn’t kind or fair,” she replied, at the point of tears again.
“If I’ve lost my ideals he’s responsible! He’s thrown away all of his
own!”
“No, not quite! If he had he wouldn’t have been angry at me when I went
to him to discuss these matters!”
“So you’ve talked to him! Then, of course, you came to me prejudiced in
his favor! I don’t call that being fair. And if he asked you to talk to
me--”
Her eyes flashed indignantly.
“It’s rather funny that both of you should be so afraid of that.
Nothing is further from the truth!”
“I know you mean to be kind, and I know it wasn’t easy for you to
come to me. But you can see that matters have gone too far--after the
heartache and the gossip--”
“The heartache is deplorable, and the gossip isn’t agreeable,” he
assented readily. “We mustn’t let the chatter of the neighbors worry
us. Think how a reconciliation would dull the knives of the expectant
cynics and hearten the good people--and they are the majority, after
all--who want to see the gospel of happiness and love rule this good
old world. As for things having gone too far, nothing’s been done, no
irrevocable step taken--”
“You don’t understand, then,--” and there was a note of triumph in
this,--“I’ve brought a suit; it will be determined in October.”
“October,” replied the Poet, with his provoking irrelevance, “is a
month of delight, ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.’ The warmth
of summer still hovering; the last flowers challenging the frost to do
its worst; plans for the indoor life of winter--the fire, cozy talks
that aren’t possible anywhere but at the hearthside; the friendly lamp
and the neglected book calling us back. I don’t think you and Miles
are going to have a very happy winter of it under different roofs. I’m
sure I’ll miss the thought of you, running upstairs on tiptoe when you
thought you heard Marjorie. Miles was always reading Kipling aloud and
we’d forget ourselves and laugh till you’d hush us and run away in a
panic. You know,” he continued, “your cottage wasn’t only a place
for you to live in; it was my house of dreams--a house of realities
that were dreams come true. I’ve sat by the table many a time when
you didn’t know I was there--an intruder stealing in, a cheerful sort
of ghost, sensible of an unspoken welcome. Odd, isn’t it, about the
spirit of place? Not a great many places really take hold of most of
us; but they have a way of haunting us; or maybe it’s the other way
round and we haunt _them_, and without knowing how we get into them. We
explore strange frontiers into undiscovered countries; we cross from
our own existences into other people’s lives,--lose identity, feel,
see as other people do,--and then lift our heads, rub our eyes, and
become our old selves again--but not quite. We are likely to be wiser
and more just and tolerant. And it’s discouraging,” he went on, “to
go to your house of dreams and find it plastered with ‘for rent’ and
‘for sale’ signs--or worse yet, to let yourself in with your old key to
find only ghosts there! That’s what I’ve been doing. Your bungalow is
empty--doubly empty--for the last tenant didn’t stay long; the ghosts
were probably too much for him! But I’m there--in spirit, you might
say. If the owner knew how much I loaf there, in a disembodied sort of
fashion, he’d begin to charge me rent! But it’s mighty lonesome--nobody
around to dig out old songs and play the airs for me, as you used to,
while I limped along with Miles’s old banjo.”
He spoke with a certain air of injury, as though after all he were the
chief sufferer from the passing of the old familiar faces from his
house of dreams. He complained as a guest might who suddenly finds
that his hosts have taken their departure without warning, leaving him
sitting at their fireside all unconscious of their flight.
Elizabeth was surprised to find that his interposition in this fashion
impressed her more than the counsels of other friends who, supporting
her cause loyally, urged her to maintain her “stand” and recommended
sharp reprisals. She had not recovered from her amazement that this
shyest and most unobtrusive of men should have come to her in any
guise; and when he spoke of his house of dreams--_her_ house with its
old-fashioned garden that contained the flowers he scattered oftenest
through his poems--she was half-persuaded that he was really a sad,
wistful visitor of this house of dreams--_her_ house--that symbolized
for him contentment and peace.
His way of stating the case touched her deeply, and seeing this he rose
and walked to the veranda rail and scanned the limpid water.
“That looks like the boy I sent to do my fishing for me,” he remarked.
“He’s bringing Marian and Marjorie home. A pretty capable boy, that!
What do you think of a youngster who pops up out of nowhere and chucks
bunches of verses into mail-boxes on crowded corners where any one with
any sort of ear, passing along, would hear them singing inside! Let’s
go down and meet them.”
On their way to the dock the Poet continued to talk of the young man in
the canoe as though he were a great personage. His extravagant praise
of Frederick Fulton justified any one in believing that either Shelley
or Keats had stolen away from Paradise and was engaged just now in
paddling a canoe upon Lake Waupegan. The Poet had risen from the long
interview with apparent satisfaction and was now his more familiar
amusing self.
“How on earth did Marian get acquainted with this young man?” asked
Mrs. Redfield in perplexity, as Fulton skillfully maneuvered the canoe
inshore.
“Why assume that I know anything about it? Marian doubtless knows
scores of people that I never heard of; she’s not an old friend like
you. I dare say he saw her wandering alone on the shore and at once
landed and handed her a poem as though it were the advertisement of a
ventriloquist billed for one night at Waupegan Town Hall! Very likely,
being a girl of discriminating literary taste, she liked his verses and
bade him welcome. And what could be more natural than that he should
offer to bring her home! The longer I live the more I wonder that
people meet who were always destined to meet. We think we’re yielding
to chance when we’re really doing things we’ve been rehearsing in our
subconsciousness for a thousand years!”
When the party landed he parleyed with Marjorie to make it necessary
for Marian to introduce Fulton to Elizabeth. He avoided Marian’s eyes,
and warily eluded the combined efforts of the sisters to detain him.
The obvious result of his artfulness, so far as Marian and Fulton were
concerned, was eminently satisfactory. The most delightful comradeship
seemed to have been established between the young people. The Poet was
highly pleased with his morning’s work, but having dared so much he
was anxious to retire while the spell of mystification was still upon
them. Luncheon was offered; Mrs. Waring would soon be home and would be
inconsolable if she found they had come in her absence.
“We are very busy--fishing,” said the Poet as he entrusted himself with
exaggerated apprehensions to the canoe. “When you have a boy fishing
for you you have to watch him. He’ll hide half the fish if you’re not
careful.”
“You absurd man!” cried Marian, with an accession of boldness, as
Fulton swung the canoe round with sophisticated strokes.
“Ims a cwazy man,” piped Marjorie; “but ims nice!”
VII
The Poet was amusing himself the next afternoon with a book of Scotch
ballads when Fulton found him, with his back against a big beech,
apparently established for all time. The young man didn’t know that
the Poet was rather expecting him--not anxiously or nervously, in
the way of people unconsoled by a sound philosophy; but the Poet had
nevertheless found in the ballads some hint that possibly Frederick
Fulton would appear.
Fulton carried a tennis racket and an old geography with the leaves
torn out which served him as a portfolio. These encumbrances seemed in
nowise related to each other, a fact which called for a gibe.
“I telephoned down to the office last night and arranged to take my
vacation now,” Fulton explained. “In two weeks I can do some new poems
to relieve the prose of my story and round it out. The lake’s my scene,
you know; I planned it all last September--and a lot of things will
occur to me here that I’d never get hold of in town.”
“There’s something in that,” the Poet agreed; “and by putting aside
the pen for the racket occasionally you can observe Marian in her
golden sandals at short range. And then,” he deliberated, “if she
doesn’t prove to be quite up to the mark; if you find that she isn’t as
enchanting as you imagined when you admired her at a distance, you can
substitute another girl. There are always plenty of girls.”
Fulton met the Poet’s eyes squarely and grinned.
“So far my only trouble is my own general incompetence. The scenery and
the girl are all right. By the way, you got me into a nice box showing
her my verses! I suffered, I can tell you, when I followed your advice
and paddled up in my little canoe and found her with those things!”
The Poet discounted his indignation heavily, as Fulton clearly meant
that he should.
“Formal introductions bore me, and in your case I thought we’d do
something a little different. From the fact that you’re going off now
with your scribble-book and racket to find her I judge that my way of
bringing you to each other’s attention has been highly successful. Pray
don’t let me detain you!” he ended with faint irony.
“I wanted to tell you,” said Fulton, “that I’ve decided not to accept
Redfield’s offer; I’ve just written to him.”
The Poet expressed no surprise. He merely nodded and began searching
for a knot in the cord attached to his eye-glasses.
“We can usually trust June with our confidences and rely on her
judgments,” he remarked pensively. “January is first-rate, too;
February and March are tricky and unreliable. April, on the other hand,
is much safer than she gets credit for being. But it was lucky that
we thought of June as an arbiter in your case. If we would all get
out under a June sky like this with our troubles we’d be a good deal
happier. It was a bad day for the human race when it moved indoors.”
The Poet, absorbed in the passage of a launch across the lake, had not
applauded Fulton’s determination not to ally himself with Redfield,
as the young man had expected. Fulton felt that the subject required
something more.
“I mean to stick to the newspaper and use every minute I have outside
for study and writing,” he persisted earnestly. “I’ve decided to keep
trying for five years, whether I ever make a killing or not.”
“That’s good,” said the Poet heartily. “I’m glad you’ve concluded to do
that. Your determination carries you halfway to the goal; and I’m glad
you see it that way. I didn’t want to influence you about Redfield; but
I wanted you to take time to think.”
“Well, I’m sure I should always have regretted it, if I’d gone with
him. And now that I’ve met Mrs. Redfield, I’m fully convinced that I’m
making no mistake. It doesn’t seem possible--”
He checked himself, and waited for a sign from the Poet before
concluding. The Poet drew out and replaced in the ballads the slim
ivory paper-cutter he used as a bookmark.
“No, it doesn’t seem possible,” he replied quietly. “It was just as
well for you to see her before making up your mind about going in with
Redfield.” (His own part in making it possible for Fulton to meet
Mrs. Redfield at this juncture was not, he satisfied his conscience,
a matter for confession!) “Of course their affairs will straighten
out--not because you or I may want them to, but because they really
need each other; or if they don’t know it now they will. I’m inclined
to think Marian will help a little. Even you and I may be inconspicuous
figures in the drama--just walking on and off, saying a word here and
there! None of us lives all to himself. All of us who write must keep
that in mind;--our responsibility. When I was a schoolboy I found a
misspelled word in a book I was reading and I kept misspelling that
word for twenty years. We must be careful what we put into print; we
never can tell who’s going to be influenced by what we write. Don’t let
anybody fool you into thinking that the virile book has to be a nasty
one. There’s too much of that sort of thing. They talk about warning
the innocent; but there’s not much sense in handing a child the hot end
of a poker just to make it dread the fire. There are writers who seem
to find a great joy in making mankind out as bad as possible, and that
doesn’t help particularly, does it? It doesn’t help you or me any to
find that some man we have known and admired has landed with a bump at
the bottom of the toboggan. But,” he ended, “when we hear the bump it’s
our job to get the arnica bottle and see what we can do for him. By the
way, I’m leaving this afternoon.”
“Not going--not to-day!” cried Fulton with unfeigned surprise and
disappointment.
“As I never had the slightest intention of coming, it’s time I was
moving along. And besides, I’ve accomplished all the objects of my
visit. If I remained any longer I might make a muddle of them. I’m a
believer in the inevitable hour and the inevitable word. ‘Skip’ was
the first word that popped into my head when I woke up this morning.
At first I thought Providence was kindly indicating the passing of a
prancing buccaneer who began pounding carpets under my window at 5
A.M.; but that was too good to be true. I decided that it was in the
stars that I should be the skipper. Unless the innkeeper is an exalted
liar my train leaves at four, and I shall be occupied with balladry
until the hour arrives. We must cultivate repose and guard against
fretfulness. There’s no use in trying to hasten the inevitable hour by
moving the dial closer to the sun. If you’re not too busy you might
bring Marjorie and Marian over to see me off. It would be a pleasant
attention; and besides, I should be much less likely to miss the train.”
VIII
Mrs. Redfield, Marian, and Marjorie were back in town by the first of
July. The sisters had taken a small house on a convenient side street
and were facing their to-morrows confidently. Mrs. Redfield was to open
a kindergarten in October and Marian was to teach Latin in a private
school. Fulton still clung to the manuscript of his romance for the
revision it constantly invited. Since returning to town he had seen the
Poet frequently, and had kept that gentleman informed of the movements
and plans of Mrs. Redfield and Marian.
The Poet wandered into the “Chronicle” office one humid afternoon and
found the reporter writing an interview with a visiting statesman. On
days when every one else complained bitterly of the heat, the Poet was
apparently the coolest person in town.
“I hope you have enough raisins in your pudding to spare a few,” he
remarked. And then, as Fulton groped for his meaning, he drew an
envelope from his pocket. “I took the liberty of purloining a few of
those things you gave me a month ago before I passed them on to Marian
and here’s the ‘Manhattan Magazine’ kindly inclosing a check for fifty
dollars for four of them. I suggested to the editor that they ought
to be kept together and printed on one page. If you don’t like the
arrangement, you can send back the check. I’d suggest, though, that you
exchange it for gold and carry the coins in your pocket for a day or
two. The thrill of the first real money you get for poetry comes only
once. Of course, if you’re not satisfied and want to send it back--”
He feigned to ignore the surprise and delight with which the young man
stared at the slip of paper in his hand while he tried to grasp this
astonishing news.
“Send it back!” he blurted, breaking in upon the Poet’s further
comments on the joy of a first acceptance. “Send it back! Why, they’ve
sent me back dozens of better pieces! And if it hadn’t been for
you--Why,” he cried, with mounting elation, “this is the grandest
thing that ever happened to me! If I wasn’t afraid of getting arrested
I’d yell!”
“Of course,” continued the Poet calmly, “I had to tell the magazine
people that you made your sketches from life--and that they might
get into a libel suit by printing them. I suppose you’re hardly in a
position to ask Miss Agnew’s leave to print! You haven’t been seeing
much of her, of course!”
An imaginary speck of mud on his umbrella engaged the Poet’s attention
at the moment so that he missed the color that deepened in Fulton’s
face.
“Oh, I’ve seen a good deal of Miss Agnew,” he confessed, “both at
the lake and since I’ve come home. We do some tennis together every
afternoon I can get off. I suppose there might be some question as to
using the poems without asking her about it. Very likely no one would
ever guess that she inspired them--and yet I have a guilty feeling--”
“You know, of course; and she, being, we will say, a person of average
intelligence, knows, too, perfectly well. There you have it--a very
delicate question! And the fact that she doesn’t care for such
foolishness as poetry and romance makes a difference. You’ve got to
consider that.”
His insinuations had been of the mildest, but his keen scrutiny marked
the flash of resentment in Fulton’s eyes.
“Well, she was very nice about my putting her into the story. It did
rather stagger her at first--to know that I had been worshiping from
afar, and grinding rhymes about her for a year without ever knowing
her.”
“The enchantment wasn’t all a matter of distance, I hope,” the Poet
persisted. “I wasn’t quite sure about her. She struck me as being a
little bitter; seemed to think life a string of wrong numbers and the
girl at the exchange stupid and cross. I should be sorry if you got any
such notions from her; it couldn’t fail to make your ideal totter on
its pedestal. It would be rough to find that your Pomona, in shaking
the boughs in the orchard, was looking for an apple with a worm-mark in
its damask cheek. It would argue for an unhappy nature. We must insist
that our goddesses have a cheerful outlook; no grumbling when it rains
on the picnic!”
“Well,” Fulton admitted, “she did seem a little disdainful and rather
generally skeptical about things at first; but I met that by rather
overemphasizing the general good that’s lying around everywhere, most
of which I got from your books. Her father had lost his money, and her
sister’s troubles couldn’t fail to spoil some of her illusions; but
she’s going into her school-teaching with the right spirit. She’s been
reading the manuscript of my story and has made some bully suggestions.
I’ve rewritten one of the chapters and improved it vastly because she
pointed out a place where I’d changed the key a little--I must have
been tired when I wrote it. I’d rather got off the romantic note I
started with and there were a dozen dead, pallid pages right in the
middle of the thing.”
“She was afraid the romantic element flagged there?” asked the Poet
carelessly.
“Well, I suppose that’s about what it came to. My heroine and the hero
had a tiff; and I was giving the girl the best of it and making _him_
out unreasonable; and she said she thought that wasn’t fair; that the
trouble was all the girl’s fault. She thought the girl shouldn’t have
been so peevish over a small matter when the young orchardist had shown
himself chivalrous and generous. It seemed to be Miss Agnew’s idea that
when you go in for romance you ought to carry through with it.”
The Poet’s attention seemed to wander, and he suppressed a smile with
difficulty. He then began searching his pockets for something, and not
finding it, remarked:--
“People who never change their minds aren’t interesting; they really
are not.”
“Well, I’m glad enough to change mine,” replied Fulton, not knowing
what was in the Poet’s mind; “and I hope I’ll never get to a place
where I can’t take criticism in the right spirit.”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of you,” remarked the Poet.
He rose and moved quickly toward the door, as though to escape from
Fulton’s renewed thanks for his kind offices in disposing of the verses.
“Don’t work yourself to death,” he warned Fulton in the hall. “I’m
glad Marian’s influence is so beneficent. When your proof comes, hold
it a day or two: there’s always the chance of bettering a thing.”
IX
As September waned, Fulton heard disquieting news touching Redfield.
It was whispered in business circles that the broker had, the previous
year, sold stock in a local industrial venture that had already come to
grief. Redfield’s friends were saying that he had been misled by the
enthusiasm of the men who had promoted the company, but this was not
accepted at face value by some of his business rivals. Fortunately the
amount was not large--a mitigating circumstance for which he was not
responsible; he would have sold more, it was said, if investors had
proved less wary. The story was well calculated to injure if it didn’t
at once destroy Redfield’s chances of success as a dealer in securities.
Fulton was a good deal disturbed by these reports, which it became his
duty to sift for the “Chronicle.” Fulton liked Redfield; Redfield was
a likable person, a good fellow. The effect upon his future of this
misfortune, attributable to his new-born zeal for money-making, was
not to be passed lightly. There was nothing for the papers to print,
as the complaining purchasers had been made whole and were anxious to
avoid publicity. Fulton had watched matters carefully with a view to
protecting Redfield if it became necessary, and he was confident that
the sanguine promoters were the real culprits, though it was pretty
clear that any scruples the broker might have had had gone down before
the promise of a generous commission.
When quite satisfied that Redfield was safe so far as prosecution was
concerned, Fulton spoke of Redfield’s difficulties to the Poet on an
evening when he called ostensibly to report the completion of his
romance. The Poet listened attentively, but the reporter accepted his
mild expressions of regret as indicating indifference to Redfield’s
fate. The young man’s remark that if it hadn’t been for the Poet he
would have shared Redfield’s collapse elicited no comment. The Poet,
imaginably preoccupied with less disagreeable speculations, turned at
once to Fulton’s manuscript. After the final draft had been discussed
and publishers had been considered, the young man left in the cheerful
mood he always carried away from his talks with the Poet.
But the Poet spent a restless evening. He listlessly turned over many
books without finding any to arrest his interest. He was troubled,
deeply troubled, by what Fulton had told him of Redfield. And he was
wandering whether there might not be some way of turning his old
friend’s humiliation to good account. A man of Redfield’s character
and training would feel disgrace keenly; and coming at a time when he
believed himself well launched toward success, the shock to his pride
would be all the greater.
Nothing in the Poet’s creed was more brightly rubricated than his
oft-repeated declarations that the unfortunate, the erring, the
humbled, are entitled to mercy and kindness. The Redfields’ plight had
roused him to a defense of his theory of life; but Fulton’s story had
added a new integer that greatly increased the difficulty of solving
this problem. Seemingly Fate was using these old friends to provide
illustrations for many of the dicta that were the foundation of his
teachings. Inspiration did not visit the quiet street that night. The
Poet pondered old poems rather than new ones. “Life is a game the
soul can play,” he found in Sill; but the chessmen, he reflected, are
sometimes bafflingly obstinate and unreasonable.