PART II

Produced by Al Haines

THE COMMON LOT

BY

ROBERT HERRICK

AUTHOR OF "THE WEB OF LIFE," "THIS REAL WORLD," ETC.

New York

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.

1904

_All rights reserved_

COPYRIGHT, 1904,

BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1904. Reprinted

October, 1904.

Norwood Press

J. B. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.

Norwood, Mass, U.S.A.

TO

E. H. A.

AND

M. T. A.

PART I

THE WILL

THE COMMON LOT

CHAPTER I

From time to time the door opened to admit some tardy person. Then the

May sunlight without flooded the dim, long hall with a sudden radiance,

even to the arched recess in the rear, where the coffin was placed.

The late-comers sank into the crowd of black-coated men, who filled the

hall to the broad stairs. Most of these were plainly dressed, with

thick, grizzled beards and lined faces: they were old hands from the

Bridge Works on the West Side, where they had worked many years for

Powers Jackson. In the parlors at the left of the hall there were more

women than men, and more fashionable clothes than in the hall. But the

faces were scarcely less rugged and lined; for these friends of the old

man who lay in the coffin were mostly life-worn and gnarled, like

himself. Their luxuries had not sufficed to hide the scars of the

battles they had waged with fortune.

When the minister ceased praying, the men and the women in the warm,

flower-scented rooms moved gratefully, trying to get easier positions

for their cramped bodies. Some members of a church choir, stationed at

the landing on the stairs, began to sing. Once more the door opened

silently in the stealthy hands of the undertaker, and this time it

remained open for several seconds. A woman entered, dressed in

fashionable widow's mourning. She moved deliberately, as if she

realized exactly the full effect of her entrance at that moment among

all these heated, tired people. The men crowded in the hall made way

for her instinctively, so that she might enter the dining-room, to the

right of the coffin, where the family and a few intimate friends of the

dead man were seated. Here, a young man, the nephew of Powers Jackson,

rose and surrendered his chair to the pretty widow, whispering:--

"Take this, Mrs. Phillips! I am afraid there is nothing inside."

She took his place by the door with a little deprecatory smile, which

said many things at the same time: "I am very late, I know; but I

really couldn't help it! You will forgive me, won't you?"

And also: "You have come to be a handsome young man! When I saw you

last you were only a raw boy, just out of college! Now we must reckon

with you, as the old man's heir,--the heir of so much money!"

Then again: "It is a long time since we met over there across the sea.

And I have had my sorrows, too!"

All this her face seemed to speak swiftly, especially to the young man,

whose attention she had quite distracted, as indeed she had disturbed

every one in the other rooms by her progress through the hall. By the

time she had settled herself, and made a first survey of the scene, the

hymn had come to an end, and the minister's deep voice broke forth in

the words of ancient promise, "I am the Resurrection and the Life"...

At this note of triumph the pretty widow's interruption was forgotten.

Something new stirred in the weary faces of those standing in the hall,

touching each one according to his soul, vibrating in his heart with a

meaning personal to him, to her, quite apart from any feeling that they

might have for their old friend, in the hope for whose immortality it

had been spoken....

"I am the Resurrection and the Life" ... "yet in my flesh shall I see

God"...

The words fell fatefully into the close rooms. The young man who had

given his chair to Mrs. Phillips unconsciously threw back his head and

raised his eyes from the floor, as though he were following some point

of light which had burst into sight above his head. His gaze swept

over his mother's large, inexpressive countenance, his cousin Everett's

sharp features, the solemn, blank faces of the other mourners in the

room. It rested on the face of a young woman, who was seated on the

other side of the little room, almost hidden by the roses and the

lilies that were banked on the table between them. She, too, had

raised her face at the triumphant prophecy, and was seeing something

beyond the walls of the room, beyond the reach of the man's eyes. Her

lips had parted in a little sigh of wonder; her blue eyes were filled

with unwept tears. The young man's attention was arrested by those

eyes and trembling lips, and he forgot the feeling that the minister's

words had roused, in sudden apprehension of the girl's beauty and

tenderness. He had discovered the face in a moment of its finest

illumination, excited by a vague yet pure emotion, so that it became

all at once more than it had ever promised.

The tears trembled at the eyelids, then dropped unnoticed to the face.

The young man looked away hastily, with an uncomfortable feeling in

beholding all this emotion. He could not see why Helen Spellman should

take his uncle's death so much to heart, although the old man had

always been kind to her and to her mother. She had come to the house a

great deal, for her mother and his uncle had been life-long friends,

and the old man loved to have the girl about his home. Yet he did not

feel his uncle's death that way; he wondered whether he ought to be

affected by it as Helen was. He was certainly much nearer to the dead

man than she,--his nephew, the son of his sister Amelia, who had kept

his house all the many years of her widowhood. And--he was aware that

people were in the habit of saying it--he was his favorite relative,

the one who would inherit the better part of the property. This last

reflection set his mind to speculating on the impending change in his

own world,--that new future which he pleasantly dreamed might bring him

nearer to her. For the last few days, ever since the doctors had given

up all hope of the old man's recovery, he had not been able to keep his

imagination from wandering in the fields of this strange, delightful

change in his affairs, which was so near at hand....

"There is a natural body," so the minister was saying solemnly, "and

there is a spiritual body.... For this corruptible must put on

incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality.".....

The young man tried to curb his imagination, to feel the significance

of the fact before him in some other way than as it might affect his

own material fate. His eyes rested on the great coffin with its load

of cut flowers, and he thought of the silent face that lay therein, and

wondered. But the state of death was inexplicable to him.

When the minister began his remarks about the dead man's personality,

the tired people roused themselves and their wandering thoughts came

back to their common earth. What could he say on this delicate theme?

The subject was full of thorns! Powers Jackson had not been a bad man,

take his life all in all, but he had been accused, justly, of some

ruthless, selfish acts. He had forced his way, and he had not been

nice about it. His private morality, also, had never quite satisfied

the ideals of his neighbors, and he could not be called, in any sense

of the word known to the officiating minister, a religious man.

Yet there was scarcely a person present to whom Powers Jackson had not

done in the course of his life some kind and generous act. Each one in

his heart knew the dead man to have been good and human, and forgave

him his sins, public and private. What did it matter to old Jim Ryan,

the office porter, who was standing in the corner with his son and

grandson, whether Powers Jackson had or had not conspired with certain

other men to secure illegally a large grant of Texas land! He and his

family had lived in the sun of the dead man's kindness. So it went

with the others.

While the minister was saying what every one agreed to in his

heart,--that their dead friend was a man of large stature, big in heart

as in deed, strong for good as for evil,--his nephew's thoughts kept

returning to that glowing, personal matter,--what did it all mean to

him? Of course, his uncle had been good to him, had given him the best

kind of an education and training in his profession; his mother's

comfort and his own nurture were due to this uncle. But now the old

man was about to give him the largest gift of all,--freedom for his

whole lifetime, freedom to do with himself what he pleased, freedom

first of all to leave this dull, dirty city, to flee to those other

more sympathetic parts of the earth which he knew so well how to

enjoy!...

The pretty widow in the chair beside him fidgeted. She was exceedingly

uncomfortable in the close, stuffy room, and the minister's skilful

words roused merely a wicked sense of irony in her. She could have

told the reverend doctor a thing or two about old Powers! There were

current in her set stories about the man which would not have tallied

altogether with his appreciative remarks. She had seen him at close

range, and he was a man, like the others. She threw back her jacket,

revealing an attractive neck and bust. During the service she had

already scanned the faces of most of those in the rooms, and, with

great rapidity, had cast up mentally their score with the dead. This

handsome young nephew was the only one of them all that counted in her

own estimation. What would he do with the old fellow's money? She

threw a speculative, appreciative look at him.

Across the room the girl's face had settled into sober thought, the

tears drying on her cheeks where they had fallen. With that glorious

promise of Life Everlasting still reverberating in her soul, she felt

that the only real Life which poor human beings might know was that

life of the "spiritual body," the life of the good, which is all one

and alike! To her, Powers Jackson was simply a good man, the best of

men. For she had known him all her life, and had seen nothing but good

in him. She loved him, and she knew that he could not be evil!

Finally, the minister rounded out his thought and came to the end of

his remarks. The singers on the stairs began to chant softly, "Now, O

Lord, let thy servant depart in peace!" And the tired faces of the

mourners relaxed from their tense seriousness. Somehow, the crisis of

their emotion had been reached and passed. Comforted and reassured,

they were about to leave this house of mourning. An old man,

childless, a widower of many years, who had done his work successfully

in this world, and reaped the rewards of it,--what can any one feel for

his death but a solemn sense of mystery and peace! Perhaps to one

only, the girl hidden behind the lilies and the roses in the

dining-room, was it a matter of keen, personal grief. He had left her

world,--he who had stroked her head and kissed her, who had loved her

as a father might love her, who had always smiled when she had touched

him.

On the sidewalk outside the people gathered in little knots, speaking

in subdued tones to one another, yet luxuriating in the riotous spring

air. Then they moved away slowly. After the house was nearly emptied,

those mourners who had been in the dining-room appeared, to take

carriages for the cemetery. Mrs. Phillips came first, talking to young

Jackson Hart. She was saying:--

"The service was beautiful. It was all quite what the dear old

gentleman would have liked, and such good taste,--that was your part, I

know!"

He murmured a protest to her compliment as he handed her into her

carriage. She leaned toward him, with a very personal air:--

"It is so different from the last time we met! Do you remember? You

must come and see me, soon. Don't forget!"

As the young man turned away from her, he met Helen Spellman descending

the long flight of steps. The girl was carrying in her arms a great

mass of loose flowers, and his cousin Everett who followed her was

similarly burdened.

"Are you going on ahead of us?" Jackson asked anxiously.

"Yes. I want to put these flowers there first; so that it won't seem

so bare and lonely when he comes. See! I have taken those he liked to

have in his library, and yours and your mother's, too!"

She smiled over the flowers, but her eyes were still dull with tears.

Again she brought his thoughts back from self, from his futile, worldly

preoccupations, back to her love for the dead man, which seemed so much

greater, so much purer than his.

"That will be very nice," he said, taking the flowers from her hands

and placing them in a carriage that had driven up to the curb. "I am

sure he would have liked your thought for him. He was always so fond

of what you did, of you!"

"Dear uncle," she murmured to herself.

Although the dead man was not connected with her by any ties of blood,

she had grown into the habit of calling him uncle, first as a joke,

then in affection.

"He always had me select the flowers when he wanted to give a really

truly dinner!" she added, a smile coming to her face. "I know he will

like to have me take these out to him there now."

She spoke of the dead in the present tense, with a strong feeling for

the still living part of the one gone.

"I should like to drive out with you!" the young man exclaimed

impulsively. "May I?"

"Oh, no! You mustn't," she replied quickly. "There's your mother, who

is expecting you to go with her, and then,"--she blushed and stepped

away from him a little space,--"I had rather be alone, please!"

When the heavy gates of the vault in Rose Hill had closed upon Powers

Jackson forever, the little group of intimate friends, who had come

with him to his grave, descended silently the granite steps to their

carriages. Insensibly a wave of relief stole over the spirit of the

young nephew, as he turned his back upon the ugly tomb, in the

American-Greek style, with heavy capitals and squat pillars. It was

not a selfish or heartless desire to get away from the dead man, to

forget him now that he no longer counted in this world; it was merely

the reaction from a day of gloom and sober thoughts. He felt stifled

in his tall silk hat, long frock coat, patent-leather shoes, and black

gloves. His spirit shrank from the chill of the tomb, to which the day

had brought him near.

"Let's send all the women back together, Everett," he suggested to his

cousin, "and then we can smoke. I am pretty nearly dead!"

As the three men of the party got into their carriage, Jackson took out

his cigarette-case and offered it to his cousin; but Everett shook his

head rather contemptuously and drew a cigar from his breast pocket.

"I never got in the habit of smoking those things," he remarked slowly.

There was an implication in his cool tone that no grown man indulged

himself in that boyish habit.

"_He_ never liked cigarettes either,--wouldn't have one in the house,"

Jackson commented lightly.

The other man, Hollister, had taken one of Everett's cigars, and the

three smoked in silence while the carriage bumped at a rapid pace over

the uneven streets that led through the suburbs of Chicago. Hart

wondered what the two men opposite him were thinking about. Hollister,

so he reflected, must know what was in the will. He had been the old

man's confidential business agent for a good many years, and was one of

the executors. Everett Wheeler, who was a lawyer with a large and very

highly paid practice, was another.

Perhaps this second cousin of his was to get a good slice of the

property after all, though his uncle had never displayed any great

fondness for Everett. Yet the lawyer had always done the best that was

expected of him. He had entered a Chicago law office from the high

school in Michigan, preferring to skip the intermediate years of

college training which Powers Jackson had offered him, and he never

ceased referring to his success in his profession as partly due to the

fact he had "fooled no time away at college." So far as his business

went, which was to patch together crazy corporations, he had no

immediate use for a liberal education. He had no tastes whatsoever

outside of this business and a certain quiet interest in politics. His

dull white features, sharpened to a vulpine point at the nose and chin,

betrayed his temperament. He was a silent, cool-blooded, unpassionate

American man of affairs, and it would be safe to say that he would die

rich. Thus far he had not had enough emotion, apparently, to get

married. No! his cousin reflected, Everett was not a man after Powers

Jackson's heart! The old man was not cold, passionless....

Those two men opposite him knew what was the fact in this matter so

momentous to him. They smoked, wrapped in their own thoughts.

"I wonder who was the joker who put up that monstrous Greek temple out

there in the cemetery?" Jackson finally observed, in a nervous desire

to say something.

"You mean the family mausoleum?" Everett asked severely, removing his

cigar from his lips and spitting carefully out of the half-opened

window. "That was done by a fellow named Roly, and it was considered a

very fine piece of work. It was built the time aunt Frankie died."

"It's a spooky sort of place to put a man into!"

"I think the funeral was what your uncle would have liked," Hollister

remarked, as if to correct this irrelevant talk. "He hated to be

eccentric, and yet he despised pretentious ceremonies. Everything was

simple and dignified. The parson was good, too, in what he said. And

the old men turned out in great numbers. I was glad of that! But I

was surprised. It's nearly two years since he gave up the Works, and

memories are short between master and man."

"That's a fact. But he knew every man Jack about the place in the old

days," Everett observed, removing his silk hat as if it were an

ornamental incumbrance.

"Yes," said Hollister, taking up the theme. "I remember how he would

come into the front office on pay days, and stand behind the grating

while the men were signing off. He could call every one by a first

name. It was Pete and Dave and Jerry and Steve,--there wasn't so much

of that European garbage, then,--these Hungarians and Slavs."

"But he was stiff with 'em in the strike, though," the lawyer put in, a

smile wrinkling his thin, pallid lips. "He fired every one who went

out with the union,--never'd let 'em back, no matter what they said or

did. Those there to-day were mostly the old ones that didn't strike."

The two older men began to exchange stories about the dead man, of

things they had seen while they were working for him,--his tricks of

temper, whims of mind. Hollister spoke gently, almost tenderly, of the

one he had worked with, as of one whose faults were flaws in a great

stone. The lawyer spoke literally, impassively, as of some phenomenon

of nature which he had seen often and had thoroughly observed.

Young Hart lit another cigarette, and as he listened to the stories he

thought of the girl's face just as he had seen it that day, utterly

moved and transfixed with a strange emotion of tender sorrow that was

half happiness. The expression puzzled him, and he ended by saying to

himself that she was religious, meaning by that word that she was moved

by certain feelings other than those which affected him or Everett or

his mother even. And this new thought of her made her more precious in

his eyes. He looked for her when they reached the sombre old house on

Ohio Street, but she had already gone home.

As Hollister was leaving the house, he said to the young man:--

"Can you come over to Wheeler's office to-morrow about four? Judge

Phillips will be there, the other executor. We are to open the will.

They have suggested that I ask you to join us," he added hastily, with

an effort to be matter of fact.

"All right, Hollister," the young man answered, with an equal effort to

appear unconcerned. "I'll be over!"

But his heart thumped strangely.

CHAPTER II

"Get all ready before you start," Powers Jackson had said, when his

nephew, after four years at Cornell and three years at a famous

technical school in the East, had suggested the propriety of finishing

his professional training in architecture by additional study in Paris.

"Get all ready,--then let us have results."

He had taken his time to get ready. He had chosen to go to Cornell in

the first place rather than to a larger university, because some of the

boys of his high school class were going there. With us in America

such matters are often settled in this childish way. The reason why he

chose the profession of architecture was, apparently, scarcely less

frivolous. A "fraternity brother" at Cornell, just home from Paris,

fired the college boy's imagination for "the Quarter." But, once

started in the course of architecture at the technical school, he found

that he had stumbled into something which really interested him. For

the first time in his life he worked seriously.

At the Beaux Arts he worked, also, though he did not forget the

amenities of life. The two years first talked of expanded into two and

a half, then rounded to a full three. Meanwhile the generous checks

from the office of the Bridge Works came with pleasant regularity. His

mother wrote, "Powers hopes that you are deriving benefit from your

studies in Paris." What the old man had said was, "How's Jackie doing

these days, Amelia?" And young Hart was "doing" well. There were many

benefits, not always orthodox, which the young American, established

cosily on the Rue de l'Université, was deriving from Paris.

The day of preparation came to an end, however. During those last

weeks of his stay in Europe he was joined by his mother and Helen

Spellman. Powers Jackson had taken this occasion to send them both

abroad; Mrs. Spellman being too much of an invalid to take the journey,

Mrs. Amelia Hart had been very glad to have the girl's companionship.

Jackson met them in Naples. After he had kissed his mother and taken

her handbag, to which she was clinging in miserable suspicion of the

entire foreign world, he turned to the girl, whose presence he had been

conscious of all the time. Helen was not noticeably pretty or well

dressed; but she had an air of race, a fineness of feature, a certain

personal delicacy, to which the young man had long been unaccustomed.

Perhaps three years of student life in Paris had prepared him to think

very well of a young American woman.

They had spent most of their time in Rome, where Mrs. Hart could be

made happy with many American comforts. She was much given to writing

letters to her friends; they formed a kind of journal wherein she

recorded her impressions of the places she visited and the facts she

culled from the guide-books and the _valets de place_ whom they

employed. She wrote a round, firm hand, and this was her style of

entry:--

"This morning with Helen and Jackson to the Palatine Hill. The

Palatine was one of the Seven Hills of Rome. It was anciently the home

of the Cæsars. That is, they had their palaces there, some remains of

which exist to this day.... It is a pretty sort of place now, where

there are stone benches, from which may be obtained a good view of the

Forum and the best ruins of Ancient Rome."

Jackson liked to tease his mother about her literal method of

sight-seeing. In her way, also, Helen was laborious and conscientious,

trying to solve the complex impressions of the foreign world. The

young architect was content to wave his hand toward a mass of

picturesque ruins as they flitted past in a cab. "Somebody or other

Metellus put up that arch," he would remark gayly. "Good color, isn't

it?" The women would insist upon stopping the cab, and would get out.

Then, guide-book in hand, they would peer up at the gray remnant of an

ancient order of things. So with the Palatine,--Helen insisted upon

studying out on the plan the House of Livia, and puzzled much over the

exact situation of the Golden House of Nero, although Jackson assured

her that no remains of the huge palace could be identified. She had a

conscience about seeing as much as she could, and seeing it honestly,

justifying to herself the careless architect's flippancy on the ground

that he had been so long in Europe he knew what to avoid.

While Mrs. Hart was laboriously filling her letters with incontestable

facts, the two young people went about alone, in that perfectly normal

and healthy manner which remains an everlasting puzzle to the European

eye. The architect took keen pleasure in teaching the girl to

recognize the beauty in a Palladian façade and the majestic grandiosity

of a Santa Maria degli Angeli. In matters of color and line the girl

was as sensitive as he, but he found that she lacked the masculine

sense of construction, the builder's instinct for proportion and plan.

Their friendship was quite simple, untouched by any hectic excitement,

or even sentiment. The architect was twenty-seven years old, and he

had seen enough of Parisian manners to remove any superficial virtue

which might have survived his four years at Cornell. But this American

girl, the old friend of his family, his mother's companion--she seemed

to him merely the pleasantest being he had seen in months.

So their six weeks in Italy had been very happy ones for all

three,--six golden weeks of May and early June, when the beautiful land

smiled at them from every field and wall. Each fresh scene in the

panorama of their little journeys was another joy, a new excitement

that brought a flush of heightened color to the girl's face. One of

their last days they spent at the little village of Ravello, on the

hilltop above Amalfi, and there in the clear twilight of a warm June

day, with gold-tipped clouds brooding over the Bay of Salerno, they

came for the first time upon the personal note. They were leaning over

the railing of the terrace in the Palumbo, listening to the bells in

the churches of Vetri below them.

"Wouldn't this be good for always!" he murmured.

He was touched with sentimental self-pity at the thought of leaving all

this,--the beauty, the wonder, the joy of Europe! In another short

month instead of these golden hours of full sensation there would be

Chicago, whose harsh picture a three years' absence had not softened.

"I don't know," the girl replied, with a long sigh for remembered joy.

"One could not be as happy as this for months and years."

"I'd like to try!" he said lightly.

"No! Not you!" she retorted with sudden warmth. "What could a man do

here?"

"There are a lot of fellows in Europe who manage to answer that

question somehow. Most of the men I knew in Paris don't expect to go

back yet, and not to Chicago anyway."

Her lips compressed quickly. Evidently they were not the kind of men

she thought well of.

"Why!" she stammered, words crowding tempestuously to her tongue. "How

could you stay, and not work out your own life, not make your own place

in the world like uncle Powers? How it would trouble him to hear you

say that!"

She made him a trifle ashamed of his desire to keep out of the fight

any longer. Hers, he judged, was a militant, ambitious nature, and he

was quick to feel what she expected of him.

After they had sat there a long time without speaking, she said gently,

as if she wished to be just to him:--

"It might be different, if one were an artist; but even then I should

think a man would want to carry back what he had received here to the

place he was born in,--shouldn't you?"

"Well, perhaps," he admitted, "if the place weren't just--Chicago! It

wouldn't seem much use to carry this back there. The best thing for a

man would be to forget it," he concluded rather bitterly.

They never came back to this topic. Nevertheless those simple words

which the girl had spoken in that garden of Ravello became a tonic for

him at other moments of shrinking or regret. He felt what was in her

eyes a man's part.

They made the long voyage homewards through the Mediterranean, touching

at Gibraltar for a last, faint glimpse of romance. It was a placid

journey in a slow steamer, with a small company of dull, middle-aged

Americans, and the two young people were left much to themselves. In

the isolation of the sunny, windless sea, their acquaintance took on

imperceptibly a personal character. After the fashion of the egotistic

male, he told her, bit by bit, all that he knew about himself,--his

college days, his friends, and his work at the Beaux Arts. From the

past,--his past,--they slid to the future that lay before him on the

other shore of the Atlantic. He sketched for her in colored words the

ideals of his majestic art. Tucked up on deck those long, cloudless

nights, they reached the higher themes,--what a man could do, as

Richardson and Atwood had shown the glorious way, toward expressing the

character and spirit of a fresh race in brick and stone and steel!

Such thoughts as these touched the girl's imagination, just as the

sweet fragments of a civilization finer than ours had stirred her heart

in Italy. All these ideas which the young man poured forth, she took

to be the architect's original possessions, not being familiar with the

froth of Paris studios, the wisdom of long _déjeuners_. And she was

doubly eager whenever he mentioned his plans for the future. For

something earnest and large was the first craving of her soul,

something that had in it service and beauty in life.

At the time of the great exposition in Chicago she had had such matters

first brought to her attention. Powers Jackson, as one of the

directors of the enterprise, had entertained many of the artists and

distinguished men who came to the city, and at his dinner-table she had

heard men talk whose vital ideals were being worked into the beautiful

buildings beside the lake. Their words she had hoarded in her

schoolgirl's memory, and now in her sympathy for the young architect

she began to see what could be done with an awakened feeling for art,

for social life, to make our strong young cities memorable. This, she

imagined shyly, would be the work of the man beside her!

He was handsome and strong, vigorously built, though inclined to

heaviness of body. His brown hair waved under his straw hat, and a

thick mustache turned stiffly upwards in the style of the German

Emperor, which was then just coming into fashion. This method of

wearing the mustache, and also a habit of dressing rather too well,

troubled the girl; for she knew that uncle Powers would at once note

such trivial aspects of his nephew. The keen old man might say

nothing, but he would think contemptuous thoughts. The young

architect's complexion was ruddy, healthily bronzed; his features were

regular and large, as a man's should be. Altogether he was a handsome,

alert, modern American. Too handsome, perhaps! She thought

apprehensively of the rough-looking, rude old man at home, his face

tanned and beaten, knobby and hard, like the gnarled stump of an oak!

She was very anxious that the architect should make a good impression

on his uncle, not simply for his own sake, but for the lonely old man's

comfort. She felt that she knew Powers Jackson better than his nephew

did; knew what he liked and what he despised. She wanted him to love

this nephew, and several times she talked to Jackson about his uncle.

The young man listened with an amused smile, as if he had already a

good formula for the old man.

"Mother can't get him out of that brick Mansard roost on Ohio Street,

where he has lived since the fire. All his friends have moved away

from the neighborhood. But he thinks the black-walnut rooms, the

stamped leather on the walls, and the rest of it, is the best going

yet. That buffet, as he calls it! It's early Victorian, a regular

_chef-d'oeuvre_ of ugliness. That house!"

"It's always been his home," she protested, finding something trivial

in this comic emphasis on sideboards and bookcases. "He cares about

good things too. Lately he's taken to buying engravings. Mr.

Pemberton interested him in them. And I think he would like to buy

pictures, if he wasn't afraid of being cheated, of making a fool of

himself."

"You'll make him out a patron of the fine arts!"

Jackson laughed merrily at the picture of Powers Jackson as a

connoisseur in art.

"Perhaps he will be yet!" she retorted stoutly. "At any rate, he is a

very dear old man."

He would not have described his uncle Powers in the same simple words.

Still he had the kindest feelings toward him, mixed with a latent

anxiety as to what the old man might do about his allowance, now that

his school days had come definitely to a close....

Thus in the long hours of that voyage, with the sound of the gurgling,

dripping water all about them, soothed by the rhythm of pounding

engines, the man and the woman came to a sort of knowledge of each

other. At least there was created in the heart of each a vision of the

other. The girl's vision was glorified by the warmth of her

imagination, which transformed all her simple experiences. In her

heart, if she had looked there, she would have seen an image of youth

and power, very handsome, with great masculine hopes, and aspirations

after unwrought deeds. Unconsciously she had given to that image

something which she could never take back all the years of her life,

let her marry whom she might!

And he could remember her, if hereafter he should come to love her, as

she was these last days. The shadow of the end of the romance was upon

her, and it left her subdued, pensive, but more lovely than ever

before. To the artist's eye in the architect her head was too large,

the brow not smooth enough, the hair two shades too dark, the full face

too broad. The blue eyes and the trembling, small mouth gave a certain

childishness to her expression that the young man could not understand.

It was only when she spoke that he was much moved; for her voice was

very sweet, uncertain in its accents, tremulous. She seemed to breathe

into commonplace words some revelation of herself....

On the morning of their arrival the lofty buildings of the great city

loomed through the mist. The architect said:--

"There are the hills of the New World! Here endeth the first chapter."

"I cannot believe it has ended," she replied slowly. "Nothing ends!"

Powers Jackson and Mrs. Spellman met the travellers in New York. It

was just at the time that Jackson was negotiating with the promoters of

a large trust for the sale of his Bridge Works. This fact his nephew

did not learn until some months later, for the old man never talked

about his deeds and intentions. At any rate, he did sell the Works one

morning in the lobby of his hotel and for his own price, which was an

outrageous one, as the stockholders of the new trust came to know in

time to their chagrin.

He shook hands with his sister, kissed Helen on the forehead, and

nodded to his nephew.

"How's the Pope, Amelia?" he asked gravely.

"You needn't ask me! Did you think, Powers, I'd be one to go over to

the Vatican and kiss that old man's hand? I hope I'm too good a

Christian to do that!"

"Oh, don't be too hard on the poor feller," Jackson said, continuing

his joke. "I hoped you'd pay your respects to the Pope. Why, he's the

smartest one in the whole bunch over there, I guess!"

He looked to Helen for sympathy. It should be said that Powers Jackson

regarded his sister Amelia as a fool, but that he never allowed himself

to take advantage of the fact except in such trifling ways as this.

When the two men were alone in the private parlor at the hotel, the

uncle said:--

"So you've finished up now? You're all through over there?"

"Yes, sir," Hart answered, not feeling quite at his ease with this calm

old man. "I guess I am ready to begin building, as soon as any one

will have me!"

"I see there's plenty doing in your line, all over."

"I am glad to hear that."

The architect fidgeted before he could think what to say next. Then he

managed to express his sense of gratitude for the great opportunities

his uncle had given him in Paris. Jackson listened, but said nothing.

The architect was conscious that the old man had taken in with one

sweep of those sharp little eyes his complete appearance. He suspected

that the part in the middle of his brown hair, the pert lift to the

ends of his mustache, the soft stock about his neck, the lavender

colored silk shirt in which he had prepared to meet the pitiless glare

of the June sun in the city,--that all these items had been noted and

disapproved. He reflected somewhat resentfully that he was not obliged

to make a guy of himself to please his uncle. He found his uncle's

clothes very bad. Powers Jackson was a large man, and his clothes,

though made by one of the best tailors in Chicago, usually had a

draggled appearance, as if he had forgotten to take them off when he

went to bed. However, when the old man next spoke, he made no

reference to his nephew's attire.

"I was talking to Wright about you the other day. Ever heard of him?"

"Of Walker, Post, and Wright?" Hart asked, naming one of the best-known

firms of architects in the country.

"Yes. They've been doing something for me lately. If you haven't made

any plans, you might start in their Chicago office. That'll teach you

the ropes over here."

Nothing was said about an allowance or a continuation of those generous

and gratefully acknowledged checks which had made life at Cornell and

at Paris so joyous. And nothing more was ever said about them!

Jackson Hart had taken the position that his uncle had secured for him

in Wright's Chicago office, and within a fortnight of the day he landed

at New York he was making his daily pilgrimage to the twelfth floor of

the Maramanoc Building, where under the bulkheads worked a company of

young gentlemen in their shirt-sleeves.

That was two years ago, and by this time he was eager for almost any

kind of change.

CHAPTER III

The morning after the funeral Francis Jackson Hart resumed his work on

the plans of a large hotel that Walker, Post, and Wright were to build

in Denver. This was in all probability the last piece of work that he

should be called upon to do for that firm, and the thought was pleasant

to him. He had not spent an altogether happy two years in that office.

It was a large firm, with other offices in St. Paul and New York, and

work under construction in a dozen different states. Wright was the

only member of the firm who came often to Chicago; he dropped into the

office nearly every month, arriving from somewhere south or east, and

bound for somewhere north or west, with only a few days to spare.

During these brief visits he was always tremendously rushed--plans

under way in the office had to be looked over and criticised; the

construction in the immediate neighborhood examined; new business to be

discussed with the firm's clients, and much else. He was a tall, thin

man, with harassed, near-sighted eyes,--a gentleman well trained in his

profession and having good taste according to the standards of a

generation ago. But he had fallen upon a commercial age, and had not

been large enough to sway it. He made decent compromises between his

own taste and that of his clients, and took pride in the honest

construction of his buildings.

Wright had hurt Hart's susceptibilities almost at the start, when he

remarked about a sketch that the young architect had made for a new

telephone exchange:--

"All you want, my boy, is the figure of a good fat woman flopping over

that door!"

For the next few months Hart had been kept busy drawing spandrels.

From this he was promoted to designing stables for country houses of

rich clients. He resented the implied criticism of his judgment, and

he put Wright down as a mere Philistine, who had got all his training

in an American office.

Now, he said to himself, as he took down his street coat and adjusted

his cuffs before going over to his cousin's office to hear the will, he

should leave Wright's "department store," and "show the old man" what

he thought of the kind of buildings the firm was putting up for rich

and common people. He, at least, would not be obliged to be mercenary.

His two years' experience in Chicago had taught him something about the

fierceness of the struggle to exist in one of the professions,

especially in a profession where there is an element of fine art. And

his appetite to succeed, to be some one of note in this hurly-burly of

Chicago, had grown very fast. For he had found himself less of a

person in his native city than he had thought it possible over in

Paris,--even with the help of his rich uncle, with whom he had

continued to live.

So, as the elevator of the Dearborn Building bore him upwards that

afternoon, his heart beat exultantly: he was to hear in a few moments

the full measure of that advantage which he had been given over all the

toiling, sweating humanity here in the elevator, out there on the

street! By the right of fortunate birth he was to be spared the common

lot of man, to be placed high up on the long, long ladder of human

fate....

When he entered Everett Wheeler's private office, Hollister was talking

with Judge Phillips. The latter nodded pleasantly to the young man,

and gave him his hand.

"How do you do, sir?" he asked, with emphatic gravity.

The judge, who had not sat in a court for more than a generation, was a

vigorous, elderly man with a sweeping gray mustache. He was an old

resident of Chicago, and had made much money, some of it in Powers

Jackson's enterprises.

Hollister nodded briskly to the architect, and motioned him to a seat.

Presently Everett came in from the safe where he had gone to get some

papers, and Hollister, who seemed to be spokesman for the executors,

clearing his throat, began:--

"Well, gentlemen, we all know what we are here for, I presume."

The young architect never remembered clearly how all the rest of it

came about. At first he wondered why old Hollister should open the

proceedings with such elaborate eulogies of the dead man. Hollister

kept saying that few men had understood the real man in Powers

Jackson,--the warm man's heart that beat beneath the rude and silent

manner.

"I want to say," Hollister exclaimed in a burst of unwonted emotion,

"that it was more than mutual interest which allied the judge and me to

Mr. Jackson. It was admiration! Admiration for the man!"

The judge punctuated this opinion with a grave nod.

"Especially these latter years, when Mr. Jackson was searching for a

way in which he might most benefit the world with the fortune that he

had earned by his ability and hard work."

The gray-bearded man ceased talking for a moment and looked at the two

younger men. Everett was paring his nails, very neatly, with the air

of detachment he assumed when he was engaged in taking a deposition.

The architect looked blankly mystified.

"He wanted to help men," Hollister resumed less demonstratively.

"Especially workingmen, the kind of men he had come from and had known

all his life. He never forgot that he worked at the forge the first

five years he lived in Chicago. And no matter what the labor unions

say, or the cheap newspaper writers, there wasn't a man in this city

who cared for the best interests of laboring men more than Powers

Jackson."

Across the judge's handsome face flitted the glimmer of a smile, as if

other memories, slightly contradictory, would intrude themselves on

this eulogy. Everett, having finished the cutting of his nails, was

examining his shoes. He might be thinking of the price of steel

billets in Liverpool, or he might be thinking that Hollister was an

ass,--no one could tell.

"He took much advice; he consulted many men, among them the president

of a great Eastern university. And here in this document"--Hollister

took up the will--"he embodied the results,--his purpose!"

At this point in the architect's confused memory of the fateful scene

there was a red spot of consciousness. The man of affairs, looking

straight at him, seemingly, announced:--

"Powers Jackson left the bulk of his large fortune in trust with the

purpose of founding a great school for the children of workingmen!"

There ensued a brief pause. Hart did not comprehend at once the full

significance of what had been said. But as the others made no remark,

he did not venture to ask questions, and so Hollister asked the lawyer

to read the will, clause by clause.

It was a brief document, considering the importance of its contents.

There was an item, Jackson recalled afterward, leaving the old family

farm at Vernon Falls in Vermont to "my dear young friend, Helen Powers

Spellman, because she will love it for my sake as well as for itself."

And to this bequest was added a few thousand dollars as a maintenance

fund.

He might have treated her more generously, it occurred to the architect

vaguely, valuing in his own mind the old place as naught.

"To my nephew, Francis Jackson Hart, ten thousand dollars in the

following securities...."

This he grasped immediately. So, that was his figure! He scarcely

noted the next clause, which gave to his mother the Ohio Street house

with a liberal income from the estate for her life. He waited for the

larger bequests which must come, and for the disposition of the

residue. Suddenly Hollister remarked with a little upward inflection

of satisfaction:--

"Now we are coming to the core of the apple!"

Slowly, deliberately, the lawyer read on:--

"Being desirous that the larger part of whatever wealth I may die

possessed of may be made of immediate and wide benefit to mankind, I do

give and bequeath the residue of my estate to Judge Harrison Phillips,

Everett Wheeler, and Mark Kingsford Hollister, and such others as they

may associate with them, in trust, nevertheless, for the following

described purposes.... Said fund and its accumulations to be devoted

to the founding and maintenance of a school or institution for the

purpose of providing an education, industrial and technical, as said

trustees may deem best, for the children of workingmen, of the city of

Chicago."

"That," exclaimed Hollister triumphantly, "is Powers Jackson's gift to

mankind!"

There were a few more sentences to the will, elaborating slightly the

donor's design, providing for liberal payments to the executors for

their services, and reserving certain portions of the estate for

endowment purposes only. Yet, as a whole, the document was singularly

simple, almost bare in its disposition of a very large amount of money.

It reposed a great trust in the men selected to carry out the design,

in their will and intelligence. Doubtless the old man had taken

Hollister, at least, into his confidence, and had contented himself

with giving him verbal and general directions, knowing full well the

fate of elaborately conceived and legally specified bequests. The wise

old man seemed to have contented himself with outlining broadly, though

plainly enough, his large intention.

"That's a pretty shaky piece of work, that instrument," Everett

observed, narrowing his eyes to a thin slit. "He didn't get me to draw

it up, let me tell you. It's queer the old man was willing to trust

his pile to such a loosely worded document."

"Fortunately," Judge Phillips hastened to add, "in this case we may

hope that will make no difference."

There was an awkward pause, and then the lawyer replied drawlingly:--

"No, I don't suppose there'll be any trouble. I don't see why there

should be any, unless Hart objects."

Jackson felt dimly that here was his chance to protest, to object to

Everett's calm acceptance of the will. But a certain shame, or

diffidence, restrained him at the moment from showing these men that he

felt injured by his uncle's will. He said nothing, and Hollister began

to talk of the projected school. It was to be something new, the

architect gathered, not exactly like any other attempt in education in

our country, and it would take time to perfect the details of the plan.

There was no need for haste.

"We must build for generations when we do start," Hollister said. "And

the other trustees agree with me that this is not the most opportune

time for converting the estate into ready money."

"It will pretty nearly double the next five years," the judge observed

authoritatively.

"At the present, as closely as we can estimate it, there is available

for the purposes of the trust a little over three millions of dollars,"

Hollister stated.

Over three millions! Jackson Hart started in his chair. He had had no

idea that his uncle was worth anything like that amount. And these

shrewd men thought it would probably double during the next five years!

Well, so far as he was concerned it might be three cents. Possibly

Everett would get a few dollars out of it as trustee. He had already

shared in some of the old man's plums, Hart reflected bitterly. When

the trustees began to discuss among themselves some detail of the

management of the real estate involved, the young architect made an

excuse of a business engagement and slipped away. Just as he reached

the door, Everett called out:--

"We'll send the will over for probate to-morrow. If there's no hitch,

the legacies will be paid at once. I'll be over to see your mother

very soon and arrange for the payment of her annuity."

Jackson nodded. He did not like to trust his voice. He knew that it

was very dry. Somehow he found himself in the elevator herded in a

cage of office boys and clerks on their way home, sweating and dirty

from a long day's work. At the street level he bought a newspaper, and

the first thing that caught his eye in its damp folds were the

headlines:--

JACKSON'S MILLIONS GO TO EDUCATION

THE STEEL MAGNATE'S MONEY WILL FOUND INDUSTRIAL SCHOOL

Hart crumpled up the sheet and threw it into the gutter. The first

intelligible feeling that he had over his situation was a sort of shame

that his uncle should have held him so cheap. For so he interpreted

the gift of ten thousand dollars! And he began, unconsciously, to try

in his mind the case between himself and his uncle. He had always been

led to believe that he was the most favored of all the old man's

dependents. Surely he had been treated like a son, and he was not

aware that he had ever been ungrateful or unworthy. Now, without

having committed any piece of public folly, he was made a thing of pity

and contempt before his friends!

He resented the old man's kindness, now that he knew where it ended.

Very swiftly he began to realize what it would mean to him to be

without this fortune on which he had so confidently calculated. He had

made up his mind to move to New York, where some of his friends had

started prosperously and had invited him to join them. And there was

Helen, whom he had come to love in the past year. Marriage was now,

apparently, out of the question for him, unless he could earn more

money than Wright thought he was worth. For Helen no more than he had

been favored by his uncle. Even Helen, whom the old man had made so

much of, had been left with little more than a stony farm! ...

Thus he ploughed his way down the murky street in the direction of the

north side bridge. The gloom of a foggy spring evening was added to

the smoke and grime of the careless city. The architect felt dirty and

uncomfortable, and he knew now that he was condemned to struggle on in

this unlovely metropolis, where even the baked meats of life were flung

at one ungarnished.

Two solid streams of black-dressed humanity were pressing northward

over the narrow footpaths of the State Street bridge. Some unit in the

throng nudged the architect's elbow.

"Hello, Jack Hart!" a man yelped at him, scowling from under his black

pot hat. "Going my way?"

Jackson grumbled a short assent. He did not care to meet Sayre Coburn

at this juncture in his life. Coburn had been a half-starved medical

student at Cornell, working his way as a janitor in the chemical

laboratory. He had been obliged to drop out before the struggle was

quite over, and had gone somewhere else to finish his medical work.

Lately he had landed in Chicago and opened an office without knowing a

soul in the city beyond the architect and a few other Cornell men, whom

he had not sought out.

Hart knew that the doctor walked to save car fare, and subsisted on

meal tickets at indifferent restaurants. When he had met the man

before he had been inclined to patronize him. Now he looked at the

dirty collar, the frayed and baggy trousers, the wolfish hunch to the

shoulders, and he knew instinctively that these marks came from the

fight in its elementary form,--from that beast-tussle to snatch a

dollar that some other man wants to get from you!

That same hard game, to which his uncle had just condemned him, gave

Coburn his bad manners, his hit-you-in-the-face style of address, his

vulgar, yelping speech. He suspected that Coburn had gone without

clothes and tobacco to feed a lot of guinea-pigs and rabbits on which

he was making experiments. But Dr. Coburn told you all that in his

harsh, boring voice, just as he told you that your right shoulder was

dragging, or your left leg was short, or any other disagreeable fact.

"So the old man's money goes to start a school?" Coburn asked, his firm

lips wreathing into a slight grin. "That rather cuts you out, don't

it? Or, maybe, you and he had some kind of a deal so that all the

money don't have to be assessed for inheritance taxes? That's the

usual way nowadays."

"There's no arrangement," Hart answered shortly. "I had no claim on my

uncle's money."

The smiling doctor looked at him sideways for a moment, examining the

man drolly, without malice.

"Well, you wouldn't have turned it down, if it had been passed up to

you on a silver dish? Hey? God, I'd like to get a show at some loose

cash. Then I could build a first-class laboratory and keep all the

animals I want, instead of slopping around here selling pills and guff

to old women! But these philanthropic millionnaires don't seem to

favor medicine much."

He thrust out his heavy under lip at the world in a brutal, defiant

manner, and swung his little black bag as though he would like to brain

some rich passer-by. His was a handsome face, with firm, straight

lines, a thick black mustache, and clear eyes, deep set. But it was a

face torn and macerated by the hunger of unappeased desires,--unselfish

and honorable desires, however; a face that thinly covered a fuming

crater beneath. When life treated this man rudely, he would fight

back, and he would win against odds. But as the architect saw him, he

was a tough, unlovely specimen.

"I suppose any one would like to have money," Hart answered vaguely.

Then feeling that the doctor's company was intolerable, he turned down

a side street, calling out, "So long, Coburn."

The doctor's face betrayed a not wholly sympathetic amusement when his

companion left him in this abrupt manner.

When Jackson entered the house, his uncle's old home, his mother was

sitting by the library table reading, just as she had sat and read at

this hour for the past twenty years. Powers Jackson had carefully made

such provision for her as would enable her to continue this habit as

long as she might live. She called to her son:--

"You're late, son. Supper's on the table."

"Don't wait for me," he answered dully, going upstairs to his room.

When he joined his mother at the supper-table, his mustache was brushed

upwards in a confident wave, and his face, though serious, was not

blackened by soot and care.

"Did you see Everett?" Mrs. Hart asked suggestively.

Jackson told her in a few words the event of the afternoon, recounting

the chief provisions of the will as he remembered them. For some

moments she said nothing. Then she remarked, with a note of annoyance

in her voice:--

"Powers was always bound I sh'd never leave this house except to follow

him to Rose Hill. And he's fixed it so now I can't! I could never

make him see how sooty it was here. We have to wash the curtains and

things once a fortnight, and then they ain't fit to be seen half the

time."

Her son, who thought that he had his own grievances against his uncle,

made no reply to this complaint. Before they had finished their meal,

Mrs. Hart added:--

"He might have done more for you, too, seeing what a sight of money he

left."

"Yes, he might have done it! But you see he didn't choose to. And I

guess the best thing we can do under the circumstances is to say as

little as possible about the will. That is, unless we decide to fight

it."

He threw this out tentatively. It had not occurred to him to contest

the will until that moment. Then he thought suddenly, "Why should I

stand it?"

But Mrs. Hart, who had never opposed her brother in all her life,

exclaimed:--

"You couldn't do that, Jackson! I am sure Powers wouldn't like it."

"Probably not," the young man replied ironically. "But it isn't his

money any longer!"

It occurred to him soon, however, that by this act he would endanger

his mother's comfortable inheritance, besides estranging his cousin

Everett and all the old man's friends. To contest the will would be a

risk and, moreover, would be ungrateful, petty. It was a matter at any

rate upon which he should have to take the best of advice. When he

spoke again at the end of their supper, he said impartially:--

"I am glad you are comfortably looked out for, though I hope I should

always be able to give you a home, anyway. And we must remember that

uncle gave me my education and my three years in Paris, and I suppose

that after that he thought ten thousand dollars was all that I was

worth,--or could take care of."

He said this, standing in front of the heavy black-walnut sideboard

which he abhorred, while he lit a cigarette. As he spoke he felt that

he was taking his injury in a manly way, although he still reserved to

himself the right to seek relief from the courts.

And in the deeper reaches of his being there lay a bitter sense of

resentment, a desire to make the world pay him in some manner for his

disappointment. If he had to, he would show people that he could make

his own way; that he was more than the weakling his uncle had

contemptuously overlooked in the disposal of his property. He should

rise in his profession, make money, and prove to the world that he

could swim without Powers Jackson's millions.

Oddly enough, as he stood there smoking, his eyes narrowed, his

handsome face hardened into something like the stocky doctor's bull-dog

expression. The rough, brute man in him thrust itself to the surface!

"What kind of a school are they going to start with all that money?"

Mrs. Hart asked, as she seated herself for the evening.

"Oh, something technical. For sons of mechanics, a kind of mechanics'

institute, I should say."

He thought of some of the old man's caustic remarks about charities,

and added:--

"Wanted to make good before he quit, I suppose?"

"Will you have to stay on with that firm?" Mrs. Hart asked, taking up

Lanciani's "Pagan and Christian Rome."

"I suppose I'll have to for a time," answered Jackson, gloomily....

Thus these two accepted the dead man's will. Powers Jackson had come

to his decision after long deliberation, judging that toward all who

might have claims of any kind upon him he had acted justly and

generously. He had studied these people about him for a long time.

With Everett, who was only distantly related to him, he had acquitted

himself years before, when he had put it in the young man's way to make

money in his profession, to kill his prey for himself. Jackson, he

deemed, would get most out of the fight of life by making the struggle,

as he had made it himself, unaided. As for Helen, he had given the

girl what was most intimately his, and what would do her the least harm

by attracting to her the attention of the unscrupulous world. There

remained what might be called his general account with the world, and

at the end he had sought to settle this, the largest of all.

Powers Jackson had not been a good man, as has been hinted, but that he

took his responsibilities to heart and struggled to meet them there can

be no doubt. Whether or not he had chosen the best way to settle this

account with the world, by trying to help those to live who were

unfavored by birth, cannot be easily answered. Conceiving it to be his

inalienable right to do with his money what he would, after death as in

life, he had tried to do something large and wise with it. Thus far,

he had succeeded in embittering his nephew.

CHAPTER IV

The next morning Jackson Hart was once more bending over the large

sheets of the plans for the Denver hotel. Now that he knew his fate,

the draughting-room under the great skylights of the Maramanoc Building

seemed like a prison indeed. The men in the office, he felt sure, had

read all about the will, and had had their say upon his private affairs

before he had come in. He could tell that from the additional

nonchalance in the manner of the head draughtsman, Cook, when he nodded

to him on his way to the cubby-hole where he worked. Early in the

afternoon a welcome interruption came to him in the shape of an urgent

call from the electricians working on the Canostota apartment house on

the South Side. The head of the office asked Hart to go to the

Canostota and straighten the men out, as Harmon, their engineer, was at

home ill.

As Jackson crossed the street to take the elevated train he met his

cousin. They walked together to the station, and as Wheeler was

turning away, the architect broke out:--

"I've been thinking over uncle's will. I can't say I think it was

fair,--to treat me like that after--after all these years."

The lawyer smiled coldly.

"I didn't get much, either," he remarked.

"Well, that don't make it any better; besides, you have had as good as

money from him long ago. Your position and mine aren't just the same."

"No, that's so," the lawyer admitted. "But what are you going to do

about it?"

"I don't know yet. I want to think it over. How long"--he hesitated

before finishing his thought.

"How long have you to give notice you want to contest? About three

weeks," Wheeler replied coolly. "Of course you know that if you fight

you'll put your mother's legacy in danger. And I rather guess

Hollister and the judge wouldn't compromise."

"And you?"

Wheeler shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, I suppose I should stick with the others."

Then Wheeler nodded and was off down the street. He did not appear to

be surprised or disturbed by what his cousin had told him. Hart,

pondering the matter in perplexity, continued on his way to the

Canostota. There he found the foreman for the electrical contractor,

and spent a busy hour explaining to the man the intricacies of the

office blue prints. Then the steam-fitter got hold of him, and it was

nearly five o'clock before he had time to think of himself or his own

affairs. As he emerged from the basement by a hole left in the floor

for the plumbers and steam-fitters to run their pipes through, he

noticed a space where a section of the fireproof partition had been

accidentally knocked out. Through this hole he could see one of the

steel I-beams that supported the flooring above, where it had been

drilled to admit the passing of a steam pipe. Something unusual in the

appearance of the metal caught his eye, and he paused where he was,

halfway out of the basement, to look at it again. The I-beam seemed

unaccountably thin and slight. He felt in his pocket for a small rule

that he usually carried with him. He was not quite familiar, even yet,

with the material side of building in America; but he knew in a general

way the weights and thicknesses of steel beams that were ordinarily

specified in Wright's office for buildings of this size.

"How's this, Davidson?" he asked the steam-fitter, who was close at his

heels. "Isn't that a pretty light fifteen-inch I-beam?"

The workman looked absolutely blank.

"I dunno. I expect it's what's called for."

Even if the man had known that something was wrong about the steel, he

would have said nothing. It was silly to ask a subcontractor to give

evidence damaging to his employer. The architect stooped and asked the

man to hand him his calipers. As he was trying to measure the section

of steel, he saw a man's face looking down at him from the floor above.

Presently a burly form appeared in the opening, and Jackson recognized

Graves, who was the general contractor for the building.

"We haven't begun to patch up the tile yet," the contractor observed,

nodding to the architect. "We thought we'd leave it open here and

there until Mr. Harmon could get around and look into things. I'm

expecting Mr. Wright will be out here the first of the week, too."

The contractor talked slowly, without taking his eyes from Hart. He

was a large, full-bearded man, with a manner self-confident or

assuming, as one chose to take it. Hart was always at a loss how to

treat a man like Graves,--whether as a kind of upper workman to be

ordered about, or as a social equal.

"Is that so?" he asked in a non-committal tone. "Mr. Harmon hasn't

been out here much of late?"

"No, sir. It must be three weeks or more since Mr. Harmon was here

last. He's been sick that long, ain't he?"

The steam-fitter had slipped away. Hart had it on his lips to ask the

contractor to show him the specifications for the steel work, but he

was not sure that this was the proper method of procedure. Graves kept

his cool gray eyes fastened on the young architect, while he said:--

"That's why I've been keeping things back, so as Mr. Wright could

satisfy himself that everything was all right. A terribly particular

man, that Mr. Wright. If you can please him!"

He was studying the young man before him, and very ably supplying

answers to the architect's doubts before he could express them. The

contractor did not pause to give Hart time to think, but kept his

stream of slow, confident words flowing over the architect.

"You fellows give us a lot of bother. Now take that tile. Mr. Wright

specifies Caper's A1, which happens to be out of the market just now.

To please him I sent to Cleveland and Buffalo for some odds and ends

they had down there. But there are a dozen makes just as good!"

He spoke like a man who did always a little more than his duty.

Although the architect was conscious of the skilful manner in which his

attention was being switched from the steel beams, he felt inclined to

trust the man and judged his suspicions to be ill-timed.

Graves was not one of the larger contractors employed on the firm's

buildings. He had worked up from small beginnings as a master mason,

and Wright, having used him on several little commissions, had always

found him eager to do his best. This was the first job of any

considerable size that Graves had done for the firm, and he had got

this by under-bidding considerably all the other general contractors

who had been invited to bid on the work. These facts Hart did not

happen to know.

"Are you going north, Mr. Hart?" Graves asked, as they turned to the

street entrance. "My team is just outside. Shall be pleased to give

you a lift."

Speaking thus he ushered the architect from the Canostota where the

dusk was already falling. The building rose sheer and massive, six

stories above their heads, with rows of unglassed windows like

sightless eyes. Jackson looked up at it critically, admitting to

himself frankly Wright's ability and restrained taste. This apartment

building stood out from its vulgar neighbors with a kind of

aristocratic distinction that called the passer-by to admire its frugal

plainness.

The contractor's horse was a nervous, fast little beast. The light

runabout whirled into the broad avenue of Grand Boulevard, and there

Graves let the animal out for a couple of blocks. A thin smile of

satisfaction wrinkled the contractor's bearded lips. Then he pulled on

the reins, and turned in his seat to face the architect.

"I'm glad of this chance to get acquainted with you, Mr. Hart," he

began pleasantly. "I have been thinking lately that we might be of

some use to each other."

He paused to let his words sink into his companion's mind. Then he

resumed in a reflective manner:--

"I ain't content to build just for other folks. I want to put up

something on my own account. Oh, nothing like as fine as that

Canostota, but something pretty and attractive, and a building that

will pay good. I've just the lot for it, out south alongside

Washington Park. It's a peach! A corner and two hundred feet. Say!

Why won't you come out right now and have a look at it? Can you spare

the time? Good."

The little runabout whisked around, and they went speeding south over

the hard boulevard.

"Now's about the time to build. I've owned the property ever since the

slump in real estate right after the fair. Well, I want an architect

on my own account! I suppose I could go to one of those Jews who sell

their dinky little blue prints by the yard. Most of the flat buildings

hereabouts come that way. But I want something swell. That's going to

be a fine section of the city soon, and looks count in a building, as

elsewhere."

Hart laughed at this cordial testimony to his art.

"There's your boss, Wright. But he's too high-toned for me,--wouldn't

look at anything that toted up less than the six figures. And I guess

he don't do much designing himself. He leaves that to you young

fellows, don't he?"

Hart could see, now, the idea that was in the contractor's mind, and

his interest grew. They pulled up near the south corner of the Park,

beside some vacant land. It was, as Graves said, a very favorable spot

for a showy apartment building.

"I want something real handsome," the contractor continued. "It'll be

a high-priced building. And I think you are the man to do it."

Graves brought this out like a shot.

"Why, I should like to think of it," the architect began

conventionally, not sure what he ought to say.

"Yes, you're the man. I saw the plans for that Aurora church one day

while I was waiting to talk with Mr. Wright, and I said to myself then,

'There's the man to draw my plans when I get ready to build. The

feller that designed that church has got something out of the ordinary

in him! He's got style!'"

Praise, even from the mob, is honey to the artist. Jackson

instinctively thought better of the self-confident contractor, and

decided that he was a bluff, honest man,--common, but well meaning.

"Well, what do you say, Mr. Hart?"

It ended with Hart's practically agreeing to prepare a preliminary

sketch. When it came to the matter of business, the young architect

found that, notwithstanding the contractor's high consideration of his

talent, he was willing to offer only the very lowest terms for his

work. He told the contractor, however, that he would consider his

offer, remarking that he should have to leave Wright's office before

undertaking the commission.

"But," he said with a sudden rush of will, "I was considering starting

for myself very soon, anyway."

It was not until after the contractor had dropped him at his club in

the down-town district that he remembered the steel beams in the

Canostota. Then it occurred to him that possibly, had it not been for

the accident which had brought Graves to that part of the building just

as he was on his knees trying to measure the thickness of the metal,

the contractor might not have discovered his great talent. As he

entered the club washroom, the disagreeable thought came to him that,

if the I-beams were not right, Graves had rather cleverly closed his

mouth about the Canostota. In agreeing to do a piece of work for

Wright's contractor, he had placed himself where he could not easily

get that contractor into trouble with his present employer.

As he washed his hands, scrubbing them as if they had been pieces of

wood in order to remove the afternoon's dirt, he felt that there was

more than one kind of grime in the city.

CHAPTER V

There were very few men to be found in the club at this hour. The

dingy library, buzzing like a beehive at noon with young men, was empty

now except for a stranger who was whiling away his time before a dinner

engagement. Most of the men that the architect met at this club were,

like himself, younger members of the professions, struggling upward in

the crowded ranks of law, medicine, architecture. Others were employed

in brokers' offices, or engaged in general business. Some of them had

been his classmates in Cornell, or in the technological school, and

these had welcomed him with a little dinner on his return from Paris.

After that cheerful reunion he had seen less of these old friends than

he had hoped to when he had contemplated Chicago from his Paris

apartment. Perhaps there had been something of envy among them for

Jackson Hart. Things had seemed very pleasantly shaped for him, and

Chicago is yet a community that resents special favors.

Every one was driving himself at top speed. At noon the men fell

together about the same table in the grill-room,--worried, fagged,

preoccupied. As soon as the day's work was over, their natural

instinct was to flee from the dirt and noise of the business street,

where the club was situated, to the cleaner quarters north or south, or

to the semi-rural suburbs. Thus the centrifugal force of the city was

irresistible.

To-night there were a number of young men in the card-room, sitting

over a game of poker, which, judging from the ash-trays on the table,

had been in progress since luncheon. Several other men, with hats on

and coats over their arms, were standing about the table, looking on.

"Well, Jackie, my boy!" one of the players called out, "where have you

been hiding yourself this week?"

Ben Harris, the man who hailed the architect, had apparently been

drinking a good deal. The other men at the table called out sharply,

"Shut up, Ben. Play!"

But the voluble Harris, whose drink had made him more than usually

impudent, remarked further:--

"Say, Jack! ain't you learned yet that we don't pattern after the

German Emperor here in Chicago? Better comb out your mustache, or

they'll be taking you for some foreign guy."

Hart merely turned his back on Harris, and listened with exaggerated

interest to what a large, heavy man, with a boy's smooth face, was

saying:--

"He was of no special 'count in college,--a kind of second-rate

hustler, you know. But, my heavens! Since he struck this town, he's

got in his work. I don't believe he knows enough law to last him over

night. But he knows how to make the right men think he does. He

started in to work for those Selinas Mills people,--damage suits and

collecting. Here in less than five years he's drawing the papers for

the consolidation of all the paper-mills in the country!"

"Who's that, Billy?" Hart asked.

"Leverett, Joe Leverett. He was Yale '89, and at the law school with

me."

"He must have the right stuff in him, all the same," commented one man.

"I don't know about that!" the first speaker retorted. "Some kind of

stuff, of course. But I said he was no lawyer, and never will be, and

I repeat it. And what's more, half the men who are earning the big

money in law here in Chicago don't know enough law to try a case

properly."

"That's so," assented one man.

"Same thing in medicine."

"Oh, it's the same all over."

The men about the card-table launched out into a heated discussion of

the one great topic of modern life--Success. The game of poker finally

closed, and the players joined in the conversation. Fresh drinks were

ordered, and cigars were passed about. The theme caught the man most

eager to go home, and fired the brain most fagged.

"The pity of it, too," said the large man called Billy, dominating the

room with his deep voice and deliberate speech,--"the pity of it is

that it ruins the professions. You can see it right here in Chicago.

Who cares for fine professional work, if it don't bring in the stuff?

Yes, look at our courts! look at our doctors! And look at our

buildings. It's money every time. The professions have been

commercialized."

"Oh, Billy!" exclaimed Ben Harris. "Is this a commencement oration you

are giving us?"

A quiet voice broke in from behind the circle:--

"There's much in what you say, Mr. Blount. Time has been when it meant

something of honor for a man to be a member of one of the learned

professions. Men were content to take part of their pay in honor and

respect from the community. There's no denying that's all changed now.

We measure everything by one yardstick, and that is money. So the able

lawyer and the able doctor have joined the race with the mob for the

dollars. But"--his eye seemed to rest on the young architect, who was

listening attentively--"that state of affairs can't go on. When we

shake down in this modern world of ours, and have got used to our

wealth, and have made the right adjustment between capital and

labor,--the professions, the learned professions, will be elevated once

more. Men are so made that they want to respect something. And in the

long run they will respect learning, ideas, and devotion to the public

welfare."

The speaker's eye seemed to challenge the young architect, who listened

attentively, without thorough conviction. Something in the older man

antagonized Jackson's mood. It was easy enough for a man like

Pemberton with an assured position and comfortable means to take lofty

views!

"That's all right, Pemberton," Harris retorted. "That's first-class

talk. But I guess I see about as much of human nature in my business

as any man, and I tell you, it's only human nature to get what you can

out of the game. What men respect in this town is money,--first, last,

and all the time. So it's only natural for a man, whether he is a

lawyer or anything else, to do as the other Romans do."

Harris brought his bony, lined hand down on the card-table with a

thump, and leaned forward, thrusting out his long, unshaven chin at the

older man who had spoken. His black hair, which was thin above the

temples and across the middle of his head, was rumpled, his collar

bent, and his cuffs blackened about the edges. Hart had known him as a

boy twelve years before at the South Side High School. Thence he had

gone to a state university where four years had made little impression,

at least externally, on his raw character, and then he had entered a

broker's office, and had made money on the Board of Trade. Lately it

had been reported that he was losing money in wheat.

"Yes, sir," he snarled on, having suppressed the others for the moment.

"It don't make much difference, either, how you get your money so far

as I can see. Whether you do a man in a corner in wheat, or run a pool

room. All is, if you want to be in the game, you must have the price

of admission about you. And the rest is talk for the ladies and the

young."

Pemberton replied in a severe tone:--

"That is easy to say and easy to believe. But when I think of the

magnificent gift to the public just made by one of these very men whom

you would consider a mere money-grabber, I confess I am obliged to

doubt your easy analysis of our modern life!"

Pemberton spoke with a kind of authority. He was one of the older men

of the club, much respected in the city, and perfectly fearless. But

the broker, also, feared no man's opinion.

"Gifts to education!" sneered Ben Harris. "That's what they do to show

off when they're through with their goods. Anyway, there's too much

education going around. It don't count. The only thing that counts,

to-day, here, now, is money. Can you make it or steal it or--inherit

it!"

He looked across the room at Jackson Hart and laughed. The architect

disliked this vulgar reference to his own situation, but, on the whole,

he was much more inclined to agree with the broker than he would have

been a few days earlier.

"I am sorry that such ideas should be expressed inside this club,"

Pemberton answered gravely. "If there is one place in this city where

the old ideals of the professions should be reverenced, where men

should deny that cheap philosophy of the street, by their acts as well

as by their words, it should be here in this club."

Some of the others in the group nodded their approval of this speech.

They said nothing, however; for the conversation had reached a point of

delicacy that made men hesitate to say what they thought. Pemberton

turned on his heel and walked away. The irrepressible Harris called

after him belligerently:--

"Oh, I don't know about that, now, Mr. Pemberton. It takes all kinds

of men to make a club, you know."

As the little group broke up, Harris linked his arm in Hart's.

"I've got something to say to you, Jackie," he said boisterously.

"We'll order dinner, if you are free, and I'll put you up to something

that's better than old Pemberton's talk. It just occurred to me while

we were gassing here."

The young architect did not quite like Harris's style, but he had

already planned to dine at the club, and they went upstairs to the

dining-room together. He was curious to hear what the broker might

have to suggest to him.

Hart had agreed with Pemberton's ideas, naturally enough, in the

abstract. But in the concrete, the force of circumstances, here in

this roaring city where he found himself caught, was fast preparing him

to accept the Harris view. Like most men of his class he was neither

an idealist nor a weakling: he was merely a young man, still making up

his character as he went along, and taking color more or less from the

landscape he found himself in.

His aspirations for art, if not fine, were sufficiently earnest and

sincere. He had always thought of himself as luckily fortuned, so that

he could devote himself to getting real distinction in his profession.

So he had planned his life in Paris. Now, brought back from that

pleasant world into this stern city, with all its striving, apparently,

centred upon the one business of making money, then deprived by what

seemed to him a harsh and unfair freak of fortune of all his pleasant

expectations, he was trying to read the face of Destiny. And there he

seemed to find written what this gritty broker had harshly expressed.

There was, to be sure, another road to fortune, which had not been

mentioned, and that was to make a rich marriage. This road had been

followed with signal success by a number of his acquaintances: it was

one of the well-recognized methods of attaining that point of vantage

which he had hoped to inherit,--to win one of the daughters of wealth!

And since his return from Europe the young architect had had his

opportunities in the society where he had been welcomed. But apart

from his growing love for Helen Spellman, he was too sturdy a man to

like this easy method of advancement. He turned from the idea with

instinctive repugnance, and an honest feeling of contempt for the men

who in that way had sneaked into fortune.

"Say, you've got a good friend in Mrs. Will Phillips," Harris began

bluntly when they were seated opposite each other.

"Oh, Mrs. Phillips! I used to see something of her in Paris," Jackson

acknowledged indifferently.

He remembered that he had not followed the widow's invitation to call

upon her, all thought of her having been driven out of his mind by the

happenings of the last few days.

"I rather think she would like to see more of you in Chicago!" the

broker laughed back.

"How do you know?" Hart asked, wondering where Harris's path crossed

that of the gay Mrs. Phillips.

"Oh, I know all right. She's a good customer of ours. I've been

talking to her half the afternoon about things."

"Oh!" Jackson exclaimed, not much interested in the subject.

The broker's next remark had nothing to do with Mrs. Phillips.

"You fellows don't make much money building houses. Ain't that so?

You need other jobs. Well, I am going to give you a pointer."

He stopped mysteriously, and then began again:--

"I happen to know that the C. R. and N. Road is going to put a lot of

money into improvements this summer. Among other things they're

getting ready to build new stations all along the north shore

line,--you know, up through the suburbs,--Forest Park, Shoreham, and so

on. They've got a lot of swell patronage out that way, and they are

making ready for more."

Hart listened to the broker with renewed interest. He wondered how

Harris should happen to know this news ahead of the general public, and

he began to see the connection it might have with his own fortune.

"That's where they are going to put a lot of their surplus earnings.

Now, those stations must be the top of the style,--real buildings, not

sheds. And I don't think they have any architect yet."

"Well!" the architect remarked cynically. "The president or one of the

vice-presidents will have a son, or nephew, or some one to work in.

Or, perhaps, they may have a competitive trial for the plans."

"Perhaps they will, and perhaps they won't," Harris answered knowingly.

"The man who will decide all that is their first

vice-president,--Raymond, Colonel Stevens P. Raymond,--know him?"

Hart shook his head.

"Well, Mrs. Phillips does. He lives out in Forest Park, where she's

thinking of building a big house."

"Is Mrs. Phillips thinking of building in Forest Park?" the architect

asked quickly.

Harris looked at him in a bored manner.

"Why, I thought you were going to draw the plans!"

"She asked me to come to see her," Hart admitted. "But that was all.

I thought it was just a social matter."

"Well, if a rich and good-looking woman asked me to call on her, I

shouldn't take all year about making up my mind!"

Jackson could not help thinking that it would be more embarrassing to

call on the widow now than if he had not had this talk with the broker.

His relations with Mrs. Phillips in Paris had been pleasant, unalloyed

with business. He remembered how he had rather patronized the

ambitious young woman, who had desired to meet artists, to go to their

studios, and to give little dinners where every one talked French but

her stupid husband.

"The widow Phillips thinks a lot of your ability, Jackie, and old

S.P.R. thinks a lot of the widow. Now do you see?"

The architect laughed nervously. He could see plainly enough what was

meant, but he did not like it altogether.

"She can do what she likes with the old man. The job is as good as

yours, if you work it properly. I've given you the tip straight ahead

of the whole field. Not a soul knows that the C. R. and N. is going in

for this kind of thing."

"It would be a big chance," the architect replied. "It was good of you

to think of me, Ben."

"That's all right. It popped into my head when that ass Pemberton

began his talk about your uncle's gift to the public. I must say,

Jack, it seemed to me a dirty trick of the old man to cut you out the

way he did. Are you going to fight the will, or is it so fixed that

you can't?"

"I don't know, yet, what I shall do about it."

"To bring a fellow up as he did you, and then knock on him at the

end,--it's just low down!"

That was the view Jackson Hart was more and more inclined to take of

his uncle's will, and he warmed to the coarse, outspoken broker, who

had shown him real friendliness when he was no longer in a position to

be of importance to any one. Harris seemed to him to be warm-blooded

and human. The young architect was beginning to feel that this was not

a world for delicacy of motive and refinement. When he suggested

diffidently that some large firm of architects would probably be chosen

by the C. R. and N. people, Harris said:--

"Rats! Raymond won't hunt round for references, beyond what Mrs.

Phillips will give him. You see her as quick as you can and tell her

you want the chance."

The Opportunity which Harris had suggested would be given to him by a

woman. Yet, however much he might dislike to go to a woman for such

help, the chance began to loom large in his imagination. Here was

something that even Wright would be glad to have. He saw himself in

his own office, having two large commissions to start with, and

possibly a third,--Mrs. Phillips's new house in Forest Park!

Perhaps Wright did know, after all, about the C. R. and N. matter.

Hart's fighting blood rose: he would do his best to snatch this good

thing from him, or from any other architect! And to do it he would

take the readiest means at hand. He forgot his contempt for that

American habit of pull which he had much deplored in studio

discussions. All that had been theory; this was personal and

practical. When Harris had to leave, after coffee, the architect shook

him warmly by the hand and thanked him again for his friendliness.

Within the day Fortune had smiled upon him twice. Neither time, to be

sure, was the way to her favor quite what he would have chosen if he

could have chosen. But one must not discriminate too nicely, the young

man was beginning to feel, when one picks up the cards to play....

Below, from the busy street, rose the piercing note of the

city,--rattle, roar, and clang,--scarcely less shrill at eight of an

evening than at noon. From the bulk-heads on the roof of the next

building soared a drab-colored cloud of steam, eddying upwards even to

the open windows of the club dining-room. The noise, the smell, the

reek of the city touched the man, folded him in, swayed him like a

subtle opiate. The thirst of the terrible game of living, the desire

of things, the brute love of triumph, filled his veins. Old Powers

Jackson, contemptuously putting him to one side, had unconsciously

worked this state of mind in him. He, Jackson Hart, would show the

world that he could fight for himself, could snatch the prize that

every one was fighting for, the supreme prize of man's life to-day--a

little pot of gold!

CHAPTER VI

"How did young Mr. Hart take the will?" Mrs. Phillips asked her

brother-in-law the first time she saw him after the funeral.

"Why, all right, I guess," the judge answered slowly. "Why shouldn't

he?"

"I hoped he would fight it," the widow replied, eying the judge calmly.

"I believe he isn't that much of a fool. Just because Powers looked

after his mother, and fed him all these years, and gave him an

expensive education,--why should he be obliged to leave the chap all

his money, if he didn't want to?"

Mrs. Phillips avoided a direct reply, and continued to announce her

opinions,--a method of conversation which she knew was highly

irritating to the judge.

"Philanthropy! What's the use of such philanthropy? The city has

enough schools. It's all foolishness to give your money to other

people to eat up!"

"That is a matter of feeling," Judge Phillips answered dryly. "I

shouldn't expect you to feel as Powers did about such things."

Harrison Phillips had few illusions concerning his sister-in-law, and

she knew it. Years before they had reached the point where they

dispensed with polite subterfuges and usually confined their social

intercourse to the superficial surface of conversation. He had known

her ever since she came to Chicago from a little Illinois town to study

music. Indeed, he had first introduced his younger brother to her, he

remembered unhappily. She was Louise Faunce, then,--a keen, brown-eyed

country girl of eighteen. When Will Phillips wanted to marry her, the

judge had already felt the pretty girl's little claws, and had been

foolish enough to warn his brother of his fate. Will Phillips was a

dull young man, and had poor health. The older brother knew that Will

was being married for his money,--a considerable fortune for a girl

from Ottumwa, Illinois.

And the marriage had not been a happy one. The last years of his life

Will Phillips had taken to drinking. The judge felt that the wife had

driven his brother to his sodden end, and he hated her for it, with a

proper and legal hatred. Six months before his end Will Phillips had

come home from Europe, leaving his two children in Paris with his wife,

apparently for an indefinite separation. Why the widow had chosen to

return to Chicago after her husband's death was a mystery to the judge,

who never gave Louise Phillips credit for half her character. For she

was shrewd enough to perceive that neither she nor her children could

have any permanent position in the world outside of Chicago. And she

had no mind to sacrifice the social position that her husband's family

and friends had made for her.

She told her brother-in-law on her return that she had found Europe an

unsuitable place in which to bring up the children, and proposed before

long to build a new house, perhaps in Forest Park,--one of the older

and more desirable suburbs to the north of the city.

"I must make a home for my children among their father's friends," she

said to the judge with perfect propriety. "Venetia, especially, should

have the right background now that she is becoming a young woman."

Venetia--so named in one of the rare accesses of sentiment which came

to Mrs. Phillips, as to all mortals, because it was to Venice that she

had first been taken as a young bride--was now sixteen years old. Her

brother Stanwood, a year younger, had been placed in a fashionable

Eastern school, where he was preparing for Yale, and ultimately for the

"career of diplomacy," as his mother called it.

The judge, who was trustee for his brother's children, had called this

Sunday afternoon to discuss the project of the new house with his

sister-in-law. She had notified him that she should need presently a

considerable sum of money, and expected to take a part of it, at least,

from the children's inheritance. About this money matter they had come

to a warm difference of opinion, which Mrs. Phillips had put aside

momentarily to discuss the Jackson will.

"If you will wait," she remarked, having exhausted her opinion about

philanthropy and Powers Jackson's will, "you might see my architect. I

have asked Mr. Hart to call this afternoon."

"I don't pine to see him," the old man retorted testily. "So you have

gone that far?"

"Yes! There isn't the slightest use of being disagreeable about it,

you see. Nothing that you can say will change my mind. It never has.

You would like to keep me from spending the money. But you can't

without a row, a scandal. Besides, I know it will be a good investment

for both the children."

"You were always pretty keen for a good investment!"

"You mean by that sarcasm that you think I was sharp when I married

your brother, because I had nothing but my good looks. They were

certainly worth as much as a husband--who--drank himself--to death."

"We won't go into that, please," the judge said, his bright blue eyes

glittering. "I hope, Louise, to live to see the day when you get what

you deserve,--just how I don't know."

"Thank you, Harrison," Mrs. Phillips replied unperturbed. "We all do

get what we deserve, sooner or later, don't we?"

"Sometimes I give up hope!" the old man exclaimed irascibly.

"There's my young man now!" she observed, looking out of the window.

"If you want to know just what extravagances I am going into, you had

better wait."

"I'll know soon enough! Where's Ven? I want to see her."

"She should be out riding with John."

Mrs. Phillips rose from her deep chair to greet the architect. All at

once her face and manner seemed to lose the hard, cold surface that she

had presented to the judge, the surface of a middle-aged, shrewd woman.

Suddenly she expanded, opened herself graciously to the young man.

The old gentleman stalked out of the drawing-room, with a curt nod and

a grunt for Hart. The architect looked to the widow for an explanation

of the stormy atmosphere, but, ignoring the judge, she smiled all the

warmer welcome to her visitor.

"So good of you to answer my note promptly," she murmured. "For I know

how busy you are!"

"I had already promised myself the pleasure for to-day," Jackson

replied quickly, using a phrase he had thought up on his way into the

room.

And as he looked at her resting in her deep chair, he realized that it

was a distinct pleasure to be there. He felt that here in Chicago even

in the ugly drawing-room of the old-fashioned house Mrs. Will Phillips

was much more of a person than she had been in Paris. Still, here as

there, the woman in her was the first and last fact. She was

thirty-seven, and in the very best of health. To one who did not lay

exclusive emphasis on mere youth, the first bloom of the fruit, she was

much more beautiful than when, as a raw girl from Ottumwa, she had

married Willie Phillips. Sensitive, nervous, in the full tide of her

physical life, she had what is euphemistically called to-day

temperament. To this instinctive side of the woman, the handsome,

strong young man had always appealed.

It is also true that she was clever, and had learned with great

rapidity how to cover up the holes of a wretched education. At first,

however, a man could think of but one thing in the presence of Mrs.

Phillips: "You are a woman, and a very inviting one!"

Doubtless she meant that men should think that, and nothing more, at

first. Those who had come through the fire, to whom she was cold and

hard, like an inferior gem, might say later with the judge:--

"Louise flings her sex at you from the first smile. If you feel that

sort of thing, the only thing to do is to run."

Jackson Hart had not yet reached this point of human experience.

Nevertheless, he was but dimly aware that the woman opposite him

troubled his mind, preoccupied as it happened to be with business, like

a too pronounced perfume. Here, in the hard atmosphere of an American

city, he was not inclined to remember the sentimentalities of his Paris

days and was more interested in the widow's prospective house than in

her personal charms. Accordingly, Mrs. Phillips, with quick

perception, soon dropped the reminiscential tone that she had been

inclined to take at first. She came promptly to business:--

"Could you consider a small commission, Mr. Hart?" she asked with

apparent hesitation.

The architect would have undertaken to build a doll's house.

Nevertheless, his heart sank at the word "small."

"I so much want your advice, at any rate. I value your taste so

highly. You taught me how to look at things over there. And we should

agree, I am sure!"

Then she unfolded more plainly her purpose of building in Forest Park.

She had thought of something Tudor. (She had been visiting at a Tudor

house in the East.) But the architect, without debating the point,

sketched on the back of an envelope the outline of an old French

château,--a toy study in part of the famous château at Chenonceaux.

"What a lovely roof!" Mrs. Phillips exclaimed responsively. "And how

the thing grows under your hand! It seems as though you must have had

just what I wanted in mind." She leaned over the little piece of

paper, fascinated by the architect's facility.

As he drew in the façade, he noticed that the widow had very lovely

hair, of a tone rarely found in America, between brown and

black,--dusky. Then he remembered that he had made the same

observation before in Paris. The arch of her neck, which was strong

and full, was also excellent. And her skin was of a perfect pallor.

By the time he had made these observations and finished his rough

little sketch, the Tudor period had been forgotten, and the question of

the commission had been really decided. There remained to be debated

the matter of cost. After one or two tactful feints the architect was

forced to ask bluntly what the widow expected to spend on the house.

At the mention of money Mrs. Phillips's brows contracted slightly. A

trace of hardness, like fine enamel, settled on her features.

"What could you build it for?" she demanded brusquely.

"Why, on a thing like this you can spend what you like," he stammered.

"Of course a house in Forest Park ought to be of a certain kind,--to be

a good investment," he added politely.

"Of course. Would twenty-five thousand dollars be enough?"

The architect felt relieved on hearing the size of the figure, but he

had had time to realize that this agreeable client might be close in

money matters. It would be well to have her mind keyed to a liberal

figure at the start, and he said boldly:--

"You could do a good deal for that. But not a place like this,--such a

one as you ought to have, Mrs. Phillips," he added, appealing to her

vanity.

Once he had called her Louise, and they both were conscious of the

fact. Nevertheless, she eyed him keenly. She was quite well aware

that he wanted to get all the freedom to develop his sketch that a good

sum of money would give, and also had in mind the size of his fee,

which would be a percentage of the cost. But this consideration did

not offend her. In this struggle, mental and polite, over the common

topic of money, she expected him to assert himself.

"It's no use being small in such matters," she conceded at length,

having reflected on the profits of certain dealings with Ben Harris's

firm. "Let us say fifty thousand!"

"That's much more possible!" the architect replied buoyantly, with a

vague idea already forming that his sketches might call for a house

that would cost seventy or seventy-five thousand dollars to complete.

The money matter out of the way, the widow relapsed into her friendly

manner.

"I hope you can begin right away! I am so anxious to get out of this

old barn, and I want to unpack all the treasures I bought in Europe the

last time."

Judge Phillips would have shuddered to hear his brother's large brick

house, encircled in Chicago fashion by a neat strip of grass, referred

to as a "barn." And the architect, on his side, knowing something of

Louise Phillips's indiscriminate taste in antiquities, was resolved to

cull the "treasures" before they found a place in his edifice.

"Why, I'll begin on some sketches right away. If they please you, I

could do the plans at once--just as soon as I get my own office," he

added honestly. "You know I have been working for Walker, Post, and

Wright. But I am going to leave them very soon."

"I am glad to hear that," Mrs. Phillips replied sympathetically. "It

ought to have been so different. I think that will was disgraceful! I

hope you can break it."

"I don't know that I shall try," he answered hastily, startled at the

widow's cool comment on his uncle's purposes.

"Well, you know best, I suppose. But _I_ should think a long time

before I let them build that school."

"At any rate, it looks now as if I should want all the work I can get,"

he answered, looking into her eyes, and thinking of what Harris had

told him of the G. R. and N. job. He had it on his lips to add, "Can't

you say a word for me to your friend Colonel Raymond?" But he could

not bring himself easily to the point of asking outright for business

favors at a woman's hand. While he hesitated, not finding a phrase

sufficiently delicate to express the idea, she happily saved him from

the crudity of open speech.

"Perhaps I can help you in certain ways. There's something-- Well, we

won't begin on that to-day. But you can rest assured that I am your

friend, can't you?"

They understood each other thus easily. He knew that she was well

aware of what was in his mind, and was disposed to help him to the full

extent of her woman's power. In his struggle for money and

place,--things that she appreciated,--she would be an able friend.

Having come to a complete agreement on a number of matters, in the

manner of a man and a woman, they began to talk of Paris and of other

days. Outside in the hall there was the sound of steps, and a

laughing, vigorous girl's voice. The architect could see a thin, tall

girl, as she threw her arms about Judge Phillips's plump neck and

pulled his head to a level with her mouth. He noticed that Mrs.

Phillips was also watching this scene with stealthy eyes. When the

door had closed upon the judge, she called:--

"Venetia, will you come here, dear! I want you to meet Mr. Hart. You

remember Mr. Hart?"

The girl crossed the drawing-room slowly, the fire in her strangely

extinguished at the sound of her mother's voice. She gave a bony

little hand to the architect, and nodded her head, like a rebellious

trick dog. Then she drew away from the two and stood beside the

window, waiting for the next order.

She was dark like her mother, but her features lacked the widow's

pleasant curves. They were firm and square, and a pair of dark eyes

looked out moodily from under heavy eyebrows. The short red lips were

full and curved, while the mother's lips were dangerously thin and

straight. As the architect looked at the girl, standing tall and erect

in the light from the western window, he felt that she was destined to

be of some importance. It was also plain enough that she and her

mother were not sympathetic. When the widow spoke, the daughter seemed

to listen with the terrible criticism of youth lurking in her eyes.

A close observer would have seen, also, that the girl had in her a

capacity for passion that the mother altogether lacked. The woman was

mildly sensuous and physical in mood, but totally without the strong

emotions of the girl that might sweep her to any act, mindless of fate.

When the clash came between the two, as it was likely to come before

long, the mother would be the one to retreat.

"Have you had your ride, dear?" Mrs. Phillips asked in soothing tones,

carefully prepared for the public.

"No, mamma. Uncle Harry was here, you know."

"I am sorry not to have you take your ride every day, no matter what

happens," the mother continued, as if she had not heard the girl's

excuse.

"I had rather see uncle Harry. Besides, Frolic went lame yesterday."

"You can always take my horse," Mrs. Phillips persisted, her eyebrows

contracting as they had over the money question.

A look of what some day might become contempt shadowed the girl's face.

She bowed to the architect in her stiff way which made him understand

that it was no recommendation to her favor to be her mother's friend,

and walked across the room with a dignity beyond the older woman's

power.

"She is at the difficult age," the mother murmured.

"She is growing beautiful!" Jackson exclaimed.

"I hope so," Mrs. Phillips answered composedly. "When can you let me

see the sketches?"

"In two or three days."

"Won't you dine with us next Wednesday, then?"

She seemed to have arranged every detail of the transaction with

accuracy and care.

CHAPTER VII

The Spellmans lived on the other side of the city from Mrs. Phillips,

on Maple Street, very near the lake. Their little stone-front,

Gothic-faced house was pretty nearly all the tangible property that Mr.

Spellman had to leave to his widow and child when he died, sixteen

years before. There had been also his small interest in Jackson's

Bridge Works, an interest which at the time was largely speculative,

but which had enabled Powers Jackson to pay the widow a liberal income

without hurting her pride.

The house had remained very much what it had been during Mr. Spellman's

lifetime, its bright Brussels carpets and black-walnut furniture having

taken on the respectability of age and use. Here, in this homely eddy

of the great city, mother and daughter were seated reading after their

early dinner, as was their custom. Helen, having shown no aptitude for

society, after one or two seasons of playing the wall-flower at the

modest parties of their acquaintance, had resolutely sought her own

interests in life. One of these was a very earnest attempt to get that

vague thing called an education. Just at present, this consisted of

much reading of a sociological character suggested by a course of

university lectures which she had followed during the winter.

Mrs. Spellman, who had been turning the leaves of a magazine, finally

looked up from its pages and asked, "Have you seen Jackson since the

funeral?"

Helen dropped her book into her lap and looked at her mother with

startled eyes.

"No, mother. I suppose he is very busy just now."

She spoke as if she had already asked herself this question a number of

times, and answered it in the same way without satisfaction.

"I wonder what he means to do about the will," Mrs. Spellman continued.

"It must have been a great disappointment to him. I wonder if he had

any idea how it would be?"

"What makes you think he is disappointed?" the girl asked literally.

"Why, I saw Everett this morning, and he told me he thought his cousin

might contest the will. He said Jackson was feeling very sore. It

would be such a pity if there were any trouble over Powers's will!"

Helen shut the book in her lap and laid it on the table very firmly.

"How can Everett say such things! You know, mother, Jackson would

never think of doing anything so--mean--so ungrateful!"

"Some people might consider that he was justified. And it is a very

large sum of money. If he had expectations of--"

"Just because uncle Powers was always so kind to him!" the girl

interrupted hotly. "Was that any reason why he should leave him a lot

of his money?"

"My dear, most people would think it was a sufficient reason for

leaving him more than he did."

"Then most people are very self-interested! Everett Wheeler might

expect it. But Jackson has something better in life to do than worry

over not getting his uncle's money."

Mrs. Spellman, who had known Jackson since he was a child, smiled

wisely, but made no reply.

"What good would the money be to him? Why should he want more than he

has,--the chance to do splendid things, to work for something better

than money? That's the worst about men like Everett,--they think of

nothing but money, money, from morning to night. He doesn't believe

that a man can care for any other thing."

"Poor Everett!" her mother remarked with quiet irony. "He isn't

thinking of contesting the will, however."

"Nor is Jackson, I am sure!" the girl answered positively.

She rose from her chair by the lamp, and walked to and fro in the room.

When she stood she was a tall woman, almost large, showing the growth

that the New England stock can develop in a favorable environment.

While she read, her features had been quite dull, but they were fired

now with feeling, and the deep eyes burned.

Mrs. Spellman, whose thoughts had travelled rapidly, asked suddenly

with apparent irrelevancy:--

"How would you like to spend a year in Europe?"

"Why should we?" the girl demanded quickly, pausing opposite her

mother. "What makes you say that?"

"There isn't much to keep us here," Mrs. Spellman explained. "You

enjoyed your trip so much, and I am stronger now. We needn't travel,

you know."

The girl turned away her face, as she answered evasively, "But why

should we go away? I don't want to leave Chicago."

She divined that her mother was thinking of what had occurred to her

many times, as these last days had gone by without their seeing the

young architect. Possibly, now that he knew himself to be without

fortune, he wished to show her plainly that there could be no question

of marriage between them. She rejected the idea haughtily, and

resented her mother's acceptance of it which was implied in her

suggestion. And even if it were so, she was not the one to admit to

herself the wound. It would be no pleasure for her to go away.

Could it be true that he was thinking of fighting the will? Her heart

scorned the suggestion, for there was in her one immense capacity, one

fiery power, and that was the instinct to transform all that she knew

and felt into something finer than it actually was. Her eyes were

blind to the sordid lines in the picture; her ears deaf to the

discordant notes. In that long passage home through the Mediterranean

and across the Atlantic her soul had given itself unknown to herself to

this man, and she could not admit the slightest disloyalty to her

conception of him!

She returned to her chair, resolutely picked up her book, and turned

the pages with a methodical, unseeing regularity. As the clock tinkled

off nine strokes, Mrs. Spellman rose, kissed the girl, silently

pressing her fingers on the light folds of her hair, and went upstairs.

Another half hour went by; then, as the clock neared ten, the doorbell

rang. Helen, recollecting that the servants had probably left the

kitchen, put down her book and stepped into the hall. She waited a

moment there, but when the bell rang a second time she went resolutely

to the door and opened it.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Jackson! I thought it might be a tramp."

"Well, perhaps you aren't so far wrong," the architect answered with a

laugh. "I've been walking miles. Is it too late to come in?"

For answer she held the door wide open.

"I have been dining with Mrs. Phillips; she has asked me to draw some

plans for her," Jackson explained. "As I came by the house, I thought

I would tell you and your mother about it."

"Mother has gone upstairs, but come in. You know I always read late.

And I am so glad to hear about the plans."

The strong night wind brushed boisterously through the open door,

ruffling the girl's loosely coiled hair. She put her hands to her head

to tighten the hairpins here and there. If the man could have read

colors in the dark hall, he would have seen that Helen's face, usually

too pale, had flushed. His ears were quick enough to detect the

tremulous note in her voice, the touch of surprise and sudden feeling.

It answered something electric in himself, something that had driven

him to her across the city straightway from Mrs. Phillips's house!

He followed her into the circle of lamplight, and sat down heavily in

the chair that she had been occupying.

"What's this thing you are reading?" he asked in his usual tone of

authority, picking up the bulky volume beneath the lamp. "Hobson's

'Social Problem.' Where did you get hold of that? It's pretty heavy

reading, isn't it?"

His tolerantly amused tone indicated the value he put on women's

efforts to struggle with abstract ideas.

"Professor Sturges recommended it in his last lecture. It isn't

hard--only it makes me feel so ignorant!"

"Um," he commented, turning over the leaves critically.

"But tell me about Mrs. Phillips and the house."

There was an awkward constraint between them, not that the hour or the

circumstance of their being alone made them self-conscious. There was

nothing unusual in his being there late like this, after Mrs. Spellman

had gone upstairs. But to-night there was in the air the consciousness

that many things had happened since they had been together alone: the

old man's death, the funeral, the will,--most of all the will!

He told her of the new house in Forest Park. It had been decided upon

that evening, his preliminary sketches having been received

enthusiastically. But he lacked all interest in it. He was thinking

how the past week had changed everything in his life, and most of all

his relation with this girl. Because of that he had not been to see

her before, and he felt uncertain of himself in being here now.

"Mother and I have just been speaking of you. We haven't seen you

since the funeral, you know," Helen remarked, saying simply what was in

her mind.

Her words carried no reproach. Yet at once he felt that he was put on

the defensive; it was not easy to explain why he had avoided the Maple

Street house.

"A lot has happened lately," he replied vaguely. "Things have changed

pretty completely for me!"

A tone of bitterness crept into his voice in spite of himself. He

wanted sympathy; for that, in part, he had come to her to-night. At

the same time he felt that it was a weak thing to do, that he should

have gone almost anywhere but to her.

"It takes a man a few days to catch his breath," he continued, "when he

finds he's been cut off with a shilling, as they say in the play."

Her eyes dropped from his face, and her hands began to move restlessly

over the folds of her skirt.

"I've had a lot to think about--to look at the future in a new way.

There's no hope now of my leaving this place, thanks to uncle!"

"Oh!" she exclaimed in a low voice. The coldness of her tone was not

lost upon the man. He saw quickly that it would not do to admit to her

that he even contemplated contesting his uncle's will. She was not

sympathetic in the manner of Mrs. Phillips!

"Of course," he hastened to add magnanimously, "uncle had a perfect

right to do as he liked. It was his money. But what could he have had

against me?"

"Why, nothing, I am sure!" she answered quickly.

"It looks, though, as if he had!"

"Why?" she stammered, trying to adjust herself to his level of thought.

"Perhaps he thought it was better so--better for you," she suggested

gently. "He used to say that the men of his time had more in their

lives than men have nowadays, because they had to rely on themselves to

make all the fight from the beginning. Nowadays so many young men

inherit capital and position. He thought there were two great gifts in

life,--health and education. When a man had those, he could go out to

meet the future bravely without any other help."

"Yes, I have heard him say all that," he hastened to admit. "But the

world isn't running on just the same lines it was when uncle Powers was

working at the forge. It's a longer road up these days."

"Is it?" the girl asked vaguely. Then they were silent once more.

There was nothing of reproof in her words, yet he felt keenly the

difference in the atmosphere of this faded little Maple Street house

from the world he had been living in of late. He had told himself for

the last week that now he could not marry this woman, that a great and

perfectly obvious barrier had been raised between them by his

disinheritance. It had all been so clear to him from the first that he

had not questioned the idea. This sacrifice of his love seemed to him

the greatest that his uncle had forced upon him, and as the days had

gone by he had thought incessantly how he might avoid it, how he might

obtain some part at least of that vanishing fortune.

This very evening he had had more talk about the will with the clever

Mrs. Phillips, and he had come away from her almost resolved to contest

the instrument. On the morrow he would notify his cousin, consult a

lawyer, and take the preliminary steps. On the very heels of that

decision there had come an irresistible desire to see this other

woman,--the longing for the antithesis which so often besets the

uncertain human will. Nothing was more unlike Mrs. Phillips in his

horizon than this direct, inexperienced girl, full of pure enthusiasms!

Now Helen had made him feel very surely that nothing would remove him

farther from her than the act he was contemplating in order to obtain

her. If she but knew his intention, she might scorn him forever! He

had lost her somehow, either way, he kept saying to himself, as he sat

there trying to think calmly, to feel less. And straightway he put

another black mark against his uncle's memory!

He had never cared to be near her so much as now. Every soreness and

weakness of his spirit seemed to call out for her strong, capable hand.

Even the sensuous Mrs. Phillips, by some subtle crossing of the

psychological wires, had driven him back to this plain girl, with the

honest eyes and unimpassioned bosom. So also had the slippery

contractor and the shrewd men at his club. In fact, his world had

conspired to set him down here, before the one who alone knew nothing

of its logic!

"You haven't said anything about the school," Helen remarked after a

time. "Aren't you glad!" she exclaimed, in the need of her spirit to

know him to be as generous as she thought him. "It was so big, so

large-hearted of him! Especially after all the bitter things the

papers had said about him,--to give pretty nearly everything he had

made, the whole work of his life, to help the working people--the very

ones who had so often misunderstood him and tried to hurt him. He was

great enough to forget the strikes and the riots, and their shooting at

him! He forgave them. He saw why they erred, and he wanted to lift

them out of their hate and their ignorance. He wanted to make their

lives happier and better! Weren't you glad? Wasn't it a splendid

answer to his enemies!"

Thus she idealized Powers Jackson, that hoary old he-wolf of the

prairies! Strength and tenderness and generosity she saw in him and

nothing else, and she loved him as she might have loved her father,

unquestioningly. In his somewhat loose attempt to return to the world

a part of the wealth he had got from it perhaps he had justified the

girl's vision of him. Fierce and harsh as he had appeared to others,

was he not at the end hers rather than the world's?

The warmth of her feeling lent her quiet face glow and beauty. She had

spoken fast, but in a distinct, low voice, which had a note of appeal

in it, coming from her desire to rouse the man. For the moment she

succeeded. He was ashamed to seem unworthy in her eyes, to harbor base

thoughts.

"Why, yes," he admitted; "as you put it, it seems fine. But I don't

feel sure that I admire an old man's philanthropies, altogether. He

doesn't want the money any longer,--that's a sure thing! So he chucks

it into some big scheme or other that's likely to bring him a lot of

fame. Uncle Powers was sharp enough in gathering his dollars, and in

keeping 'em too so long as he"--

"Oh! How can you say that? Don't!" the girl implored, looking at him

with troubled eyes.

If she had had much experience of men and things,--if she had had the

habit of mean interpretation,--she would have understood the

architect's perplexity long before this. But added to her inexperience

was her persistent need of soul to see those she loved large and

generous.

"Well," Hart resumed, more guardedly, "I didn't mean any disrespect to

the old man. It's only the oldest law of life that he lived up to.

And I guess he meant to have me learn that law as fast as I can.

You've got to fight for what you want in this world, and fight hard,

and fight all the time. And there isn't much room for sentiment and

fine ideas and philanthropy until you are old, and have earned your

pile, and done your neighbor out of his in the process!"

She was silent, and he continued, willing to let her see some of the

harder, baser reaches of his mind:--

"It's just the same way with art. It's only good when it succeeds. It

doesn't live unless it can succeed in pleasing people, in making money.

I see that now! Chicago has taught me that much in two years. I'm

going to open my own shop as soon as I can and look for trade. That's

what uncle wanted me to do. If I get some big commissions, and put up

a lot of skyscrapers or mills, why, I shall have won out. What does

any one care for the kind of work you do? It's the price it brings

every time!"

"Don't say that! Please, please don't talk that way, so bitterly."

There was real pain in her voice, and her eyes were filmed with

incipient tears. He leaned forward in his low chair and asked

impetuously: "Why do you say that? Why do you care what I say?"

Her lips trembled; she looked at him piteously for a moment, as if to

beg him not to force her to confess more openly how he had hurt her,

how much she could be hurt by seeing in him the least touch of

baseness. She rose, without knowing what she did, in an unconscious

instinct for flight. She twisted her hands nervously, facing him, as

he rose, too, with her misty, honest eyes.

"Tell me!" he whispered. "Do you care?"

"Don't," she moaned inarticulately, seeking in her whirling brain for

some defence against the man.

They hung there, like this, for the space of several seconds, their

hearts beating furiously, caught in a sudden wave of emotion, which

drew them inexorably closer, against their reason; which mastered their

natures without regard for their feeble human wills....

He drew her to him and kissed her. She murmured in the same weak,

defenceless tone as before,--"Don't, not yet."

But she gave herself quite unreservedly to his strong arms. She gave

herself with all the perfect self-forgetfulness of an absolutely pure

woman who loves and is glad. The little thoughts of self were

forgotten, the preconceptions of her training. She was glad to give,

to give all, in the joy of giving to him!

The man, having thus done what his reason had counselled him for the

past week not to do, what he would have said an hour before was

impossible for him to do, came out of the great whelming wave of

feeling, and found himself alone upon the dark street under the

tranquil canopy of the city smoke. His whole being was at rest after

the purification of strong passion, at rest and at peace, with that

wonderful sense of poise, of rightness about one's self, which comes

when passion is perfect and touches the whole soul. For the fret about

his affairs and his uncle's will, in which he had lived for the past

week, had vanished with the touch of the girl's lips.

He knew that he had committed himself to a very difficult future by

engaging himself to a poor woman and struggling upwards in real

poverty, instead of taking the decencies of a comfortable bachelorhood.

But there was something inspiring in what had happened, something

strangely electrifying to his nerves. He had stooped and caught the

masculine burden of life, but he felt his feet a-tingle for the road

before him. And, best of all, there was a new reverence in his heart

for that unknown woman who had kissed him and taken him to her--for

always.

CHAPTER VIII

"Hello, Jackie!"

Such familiarity of address on the part of Wright's head draughtsman

had long annoyed Hart, but this morning, instead of nodding curtly, he

replied briskly,--

"Hello, Cookie!"

The draughtsman winked at his neighbor and thrust out an elbow at a

derisive angle, as he bent himself over the linen plan he was carefully

inking in. The man next to him snickered, and the stenographer just

outside the door smiled. An office joke was in the air.

"Mr. Hart looks as though somethin' good had happened to him," the

stenographer remarked in a mincing tone. "Perhaps some more of his

folks have died and remembered him in their wills."

But Cook dismissed the subject by calling out to one of the men, "Say,

Ed, come over here and tell me what you were trying to do with this old

hencoop."

He might take privileges with the august F. Jackson Hart, whose foreign

training had rather oppressed the office force at times, but he would

not allow Gracie Bellows, the stenographer, to "mix" in his joke.

Cook was a spare, black-haired little man, with beady brown eyes, like

a squirrel's. He was a pure product of Wright's Chicago office, having

worked his way from a boy's position to the practical headship of the

force. Although he permitted himself his little fling at Hart, he was

really the young architect's warmest admirer, approving even those

magnificent palaces of the French Renaissance type which the Beaux Arts

man put forth during the first months of his connection with the firm.

The little draughtsman, who was as sharp as one of his own India ink

lines, could see that Hart had something on his mind this morning, and

he was curious, in all friendliness, to find out what it was. But

Jackson did not emerge from his little box of an office for several

hours. Then he sauntered by Cook's table, pausing to look out of the

window while he abstractedly lighted a cigarette. Presently the

stenographer came up to him and said:--

"Mr. Graves is out there and wants to see you particular, Mr. Hart.

Shall I show him into your office?"

"Ask him to wait," the young architect ordered.

After he had smoked and stared for a few moments longer he turned to

Cook.

"What did we specify those I-beams for the Canostota? Were they

forty-twos or sixties?"

Without raising his hand from the minute lines of the linen sheet, the

draughtsman grunted:--

"Don't remember just what. Weren't forty-twos. Nothing less than

sixties ever got out of this office, I guess. May be eighties. What's

the matter?"

"Um," the architect reflected, knocking his cigarette against the

table. "It makes a difference in the sizes what make they are, doesn't

it?"

"It don't make any difference about the weights!" And the draughtsman

turned to his linen sheet with a shrug of the shoulders that said, "You

ought to know that much by this time!"

The architect continued to stare out of the murky window.

"When is Harmon coming back?"

"Ed lives out his way, and he says it's a long-term typhoid. You can't

tell when he'll be back."

"Has the old man wired anything new about his plans?"

"You'll have to ask Miss Bellows. I haven't heard anything."

"He said he'd be here next Wednesday or Thursday at the latest, didn't

he?"

The draughtsman stared hard at Hart, wondering what was in the man's

mind. But he made no answer to the last remark, and presently the

architect sauntered to the next window.

As Jackson well knew, Graves was waiting to close that arrangement

which he had proposed for building an apartment house. The architect

had intended to look up the Canostota specifications before he went

further with Graves, but he had been distracted by other matters, and

had thought nothing more about the troublesome I-beams until this

morning.

Jackson Hart was not given to undue speculation over matters of

conduct. He had a serviceable code of business morals, which hitherto

had met all the demands of his experience. He called this code

"professional etiquette." In this case he was not clear how the code

should be applied. The Canostota was not his affair. It was only by

the merest accident that he had been sent there that day to supervise

the electricians, and had seen that drill-hole, which had led him to

question the thickness of the I-beams, and he might very well have been

mistaken about them. If there were anything wrong with them, at any

rate, it was Wright's business to see that the contractor was properly

watched when the steel work was being run through the mill. And he did

not feel any special sense of obligation toward his employer, who had

never displayed any great confidence in him.

He wanted the contractor's commission now more than ever, with his

engagement to Helen freshly pricking him to look for bread and butter;

wanted it all the more because any thought of fighting his uncle's will

had gone when Helen had accepted him. It was now clearly his business

to provide for his future as vigorously as he could....

When he rang for the stenographer and told her to show Graves into his

office, he had made up his mind. Closing his door, he turned and

looked into the contractor's heavy face with an air of alert

determination. He was about to play his own game for the first time,

and he felt the man's excitement of it!

The two remained shut up in the architect's cubby-hole for over an

hour. When Cook had returned from the restaurant in the basement where

he lunched, and the other men had taken their hats and coats from the

lockers, Hart stepped out of his office and walked across the room to

Cook's table. He spread before the draughtsman a fresh sepia sketch,

the water scarcely dried on it. It was the front elevation for a

house, such a one as is described impressively in the newspapers as

"Mr. So-and-So's handsome country residence."

"Now, that's what I call a peach!" Cook whistled through his closed

teeth, squinting at the sketch admiringly. "Nothing like that

residence has come out of this office for a good long time. The old

man don't favor houses as a rule. They're too fussy. Is this for some

magnate?"

"This isn't done for the firm," Jackson answered quickly.

"Oh!" Cook received the news with evident disappointment. "Just a

fancy sketch?"

"Not for a minute! This is my own business. It's for a Mrs.

Phillips--her country house at Forest Park."

Cook looked again at the elevation of the large house with admiring

eyes. If he had ever penetrated beyond the confines of Cook County in

the state of Illinois, he might have wondered less at Hart's creation.

But he was not familiar with the Loire châteaux, even in photographs,

for Wright's tastes happened to be early English.

"So you're going to shake us?" Cook asked regretfully.

"Just as soon as I can have a word with Mr. Wright. This isn't the

only job I have on hand."

"Is that so? Well, you're in luck, sure enough."

"Don't you want to come in?" Hart asked abruptly. "I shall want a good

practical man. How would you like to run the new office?"

Cook's manner froze unexpectedly into caution.

"Oh, I don't know. It's pretty good up here looking after Wright's

business."

Hart picked up his sketch and turned away.

"I thought you might like the chance. Some of the men I knew in Paris

may join me a little later, and I shan't have much trouble in making up

a good team."

Then he went out to his luncheon, and when he returned, he shut himself

up in his box, stalking by Cook's desk without a word. When he came

forth again the day's work was over, and the office force had left.

Cook was still dawdling over his table.

"Say, Hart!" he called out to the architect. "I don't want you to have

the wrong idea about my refusing that offer of yours. I don't mind

letting you know that I ain't fixed like most of the boys. I've got a

family to look after, my mother and sister and two kid brothers. It

isn't easy for us to pull along on my pay, and I can't afford to take

any chances."

"Who's asking you to take chances, Cookie?" Hart answered, mollified at

once. "Perhaps you might do pretty well by yourself."

"You see," Cook explained further, "my sister's being educated to

teach, but she's got two years more at the Normal. And Will's just

begun high school. Ed's the only earner besides myself in the whole

bunch, and what he gets don't count."

Thereupon the architect sat down on the edge of the draughting-table in

friendly fashion and talked freely of his plans. He hinted at the work

for Graves and at his hopes of a large commission from some railroad.

"I have ten thousand dollars in the bank, anyway. That will keep the

office going some time. And I don't mind telling you that I have

something at stake, too," he added in a burst of confidence. "I am

going to be married."

Cook grinned sympathetically over the news. It pleased him vastly to

be told of Hart's engagement in this confidential way. After some

further talk the matter of the new office was arranged between them

then and there. Cook agreed to look into a building that had just

pushed its head among the skyscrapers near the Maramanoc, to see if

there was anything left in the top story that would answer their

purposes. As they were leaving the office, Hart stopped, exclaiming

suddenly:--

"I've got to telephone! Don't wait."

"That's always the way," the draughtsman replied. "You'll be

telephoning most of the time, now, I expect!"

The architect did not telephone to Helen Spellman, however. He called

up his cousin's office to tell Wheeler that he had concluded not to

contest the will.

"And, Everett," he said frankly, "I guess I have made rather an ass of

myself, telling you I was going to kick up a row. I hope you won't say

anything about it."

The lawyer accepted the information without remark, and hung up his

telephone. He may have wondered what had brought about this change of

heart in his cousin, but later, when the news of the engagement reached

him, he understood. For he knew Helen in a way better than her lover

did,--knew her as one knows the desired and unattainable.

A few days later Wright reached the office, and Hart told him of his

plan to start for himself, asking for an early release because

important business was waiting for his entire attention. Wright had

arrived only that morning; he was seated before his broad desk, which

was covered to the depth of several inches with blue prints,

type-written specifications, and unopened mail. He had been wrestling

with contractors and clients every minute since he had entered the

office, and it was now late in the afternoon.

"So you are going to try it for yourself?" he commented, a new wrinkle

gathering on his clouded brow. It occurred to him that Hart might be

merely hinting politely for an advance in salary, but he dismissed the

suspicion. "Have you had enough experience?" he asked bluntly.

"I'll be likely to get some more before long!" Hart replied, irritated

by the remark.

"I mean of the actual conditions under which we have to build out

here,--the contractors, the labor market, and so on? Of course you can

leave at once if you wish to. I shouldn't want to stand in your light

in any way. It is rather a bad time with Harmon home sick. But we can

manage somehow, draw on the St. Paul office if necessary."

Jackson murmured his regret for the inconvenience of his departure at

this juncture, and Wright said nothing more for a few minutes. He

remembered now that some one had told him that Hart was drawing plans

for Mrs. Phillips. This job had probably made the young architect

ambitious to start for himself. He felt that Hart should have asked

his consent before undertaking this outside work: at least it would

have been more delicate to do so. But Wright was a kindly man, and

bore no malice. In what he said next to the young architect he was

moved by pure good will.

"I don't want to discourage you, Hart, but I know what sort of luck

young fellows, the best of them, have these days when they start a new

office. It's fierce work getting business, here especially."

"I suppose so," Hart admitted conventionally.

"The fine art side of the profession don't count much with client or

contractor. It's just a tussle all the time!" he sighed, reflecting

how he had spent two hours of his morning in trying to convince a

wealthy client of the folly of cutting down construction cost from

fifty to thirty cents a cubic foot.

"You young fellows just over from the other side don't always realize

what it means to run an office. If you succeed, you have no time to

think of your sketches, except after dinner or on the train, maybe.

And if you don't succeed, you have to grab at every little job to earn

enough to pay office expenses."

Hart's blank face did not commit him to this piece of wisdom.

"The only time I ever had any real fun was when I was working for the

old firm, in New York. God! I did some pretty good things then. Old

man Post used to trim me down when I got out of sight of the clients,

but he let me have all the rope he could. And now,--why it's you

fellows who have the fun!"

"And you who trim us down!" Hart retorted, with a grim little smile.

"Well, perhaps. I have to keep an eye on all you Paris men. You come

over here well trained, damned well trained,--we can't do anything like

it in this country,--but it takes a few years for you to forget that

you aren't in la belle France. And some never get over their habit of

making everything French Renaissance. You aren't flexible. Some of

you aren't creative--I mean," he hastened to explain, getting warm on a

favorite topic, "you don't feel the situation here. You copy. You try

to express everything just as you were taught. But, if you want to do

big work, you have got to feel things for yourself, by thunder!"

Jackson kept his immobile face. It did not interest him to know what

Wright thought of the Beaux Arts men. Yet he had no intention of

falling out with Wright, who was one of the leading architects of the

country, and whose connection might be valuable to him.

"I see you don't care to have me preach," the older man concluded

humorously. "And you know your own business best."

He remembered that the Powers Jackson gift for a school would call

sooner or later for a large public building. Probably the family

interests had arranged to put this important piece of work into Hart's

hands. Wright hoped for the sake of his art that the trustees would

put off building until the young architect had developed more

independence and firmness of standard than he had yet shown.

"I think I understand a little better than I did two years ago what it

takes to succeed here in Chicago," Jackson remarked at last.

Wright shot a piercing glance at him out of his tired eyes.

"It means a good many different kinds of things," the older man said

slowly. "Just as many in architecture as elsewhere. It isn't the firm

that is putting up the most expensive buildings that is always making

the biggest success, by a long shot."

"I suppose not," Hart admitted.

And there the conversation lapsed. The older man felt the real

impossibility of piercing the young architect's manner, his

imperturbability. "He doesn't like me," he said to himself

reproachfully.

For he wanted to say something to the younger man out of his twenty

years of experience, something concerning the eternal conflict there is

in all the professions between a man's ideals of his work and the

practical possibilities in the world we have about us; something, too,

concerning the necessity of yielding to the brute facts of life and yet

not yielding everything. But he had learned from years of contact with

men the great truth that talk never saves a man from his fate,

especially that kind of talk. A man lives up to what there is in him,

and Jackson Hart would follow the rule.

So he dug his hands into the letters on his desk, and said by way of

conclusion:--

"Perhaps we can throw some things your way. There's a little job,

now." He held up a letter he had just glanced at. "They want me to

recommend some one to build a club-house at Oak Hills. There isn't

much in it. They can't spend more than seven thousand dollars. But I

had rather take that than do some other things."

"Thank you!" Hart replied with considerable animation. "Of course I

want every chance I can get."

He took the letter from Wright's outstretched hand.

CHAPTER IX

After the few swift months of spring and summer they were to be

married, late in the fall.

Meanwhile above the lake at Forest Park, in a broad, open field, Mrs.

Phillips's great house was rapidly rising. It was judged variously by

those who had seen it, but it altogether pleased the widow; and the

architect regarded it--the first independent work of his manhood--with

complacency and pride. Helen had not seen it since the walls had

passed the first storey, when, one day late in September, she made the

little journey from the city with the architect, and walked over to the

house from the Shoreham station, up the lake road.

It was a still, soft fall day, with all the mild charm of late summer

that comes only in this region. The leaves still clung in bronzed

masses to the little oaks; a stray maple leaf dipped down, now and

then, from a gaudy yellow tree, and sailed like a bird along their

path. There was a benediction in the country, before the dissolution

of winter, and the girl's heart was filled with joy.

"If we could only live here in the country, Francis!"

"All the year?" he queried doubtfully.

"Yes, always! Even the worst days I should not feel lonely. I shall

never feel lonely again, anyway."

As he drew her hand close to his breast, he said contentedly, with a

large view of their future:--

"Perhaps we can manage it before long. But land is very dear in this

place. Then you have to keep horses and servants, if you want to live

comfortably in the country."

"Oh! I didn't think of all that."

They walked slowly, very close together, neither one anxious to reach

the misty horizon, where in a bed of opalescent gray lay the beautiful

lake. The sunshine and the fruity odors of the good earth, the

tranquil vistas of bronze oaks, set the woman brooding on her nesting

time, which was so close at hand. And the man was thinking likewise,

in his way, of this coming event, anxiously, yet with confidence. The

plans for the Graveland, the contractor's big apartment house, were

already nearly finished,--and largely paid for. Very soon the office

would be idle unless new work came in, but he counted confidently on a

number of good things. There were the Rainbows, who had moved to

Shoreham, having made a sudden fortune, and were talking of building.

Then Mrs. Phillips, he knew, was doing what she could for him with

Colonel Raymond. The railroad man had promised to look over the new

house some day and meet the architect. Buoyant, convinced of his own

ability, he saw the office crowded with commissions!

Suddenly the house shot up before their eyes, big and new in all the

rawness of fresh brick and stone. It towered blusteringly above the

little oaks, a great red-brick château, with a row of little round

windows in its massive, thick-tiled red roof.

Helen involuntarily stood still and caught her breath. So this was his!

"Oh!" she murmured. "Isn't it big, Francis!"

"It's no three-room cottage," he answered, with a little asperity.

Then he led her to the front, where she could get the effect of the two

wings, the southerly terrace toward the lake, the sweeping drive, and

the classic entrance.

"I know I shall grow to like it, Francis," the girl said loyally. "It

must be very pretty inside, with those lovely French windows; and this

court is attractive, too."

She felt that she was hurting her lover in his tenderest spot, and she

tried anxiously to find better words, to show him that it was only her

ignorance which limited her appreciation. They strolled about among

the refuse heaps of the builders, viewing the place at every angle in

order to get all its effects. Just as they were about to enter the

house, there came from the south road the sound of a puffing

automobile, and presently Mrs. Phillips arrived in a large touring car,

with some people who had been lunching with her at the Shoreham Club.

They came slowly up the driveway to the house, talking and joking in a

flutter of good-natured comment. The architect recognized instantly

the burly form of Colonel Raymond. He was speaking when the car

stopped:--

"Well, Louise, you will have to take us all in next season. I didn't

know you were putting up a hotel like this."

"Hotel! It is a perfect palace!" exclaimed a short, plump woman who

had some difficulty in dismounting. "I hope you are going to have a

pergola. They're so nice. Every country house has a pergola nowadays."

"Why not an English garden and a yew hedge?" added a man who had on the

red coat of the Hunt Club. "I hope you will have your stabling up to

this, Mrs. Phillips."

Then they recognized the architect and Helen. Mrs. Phillips introduced

them to her friends, and they all went inside to make a tour of the

rooms. The painters, who were rubbing the woodwork, looked curiously

at the invading party; then, with winks among themselves, turned

indifferently to their tasks.

The visitors burst into ripples of applause over the hall with its two

lofty stone fireplaces, the long drawing-room that occupied the south

wing of the house, the octagonal breakfast room and the dining-room in

the other wing. The architect led them about, explaining the different

effects he had tried to get. He showed his work modestly, touching

lightly on architectural points with a well-bred assumption that the

visitors knew all about such things. The plump little woman followed

close at his heels, drinking in all that he said. Helen wondered who

she might be, until, in an eddy of their progress, Hart found a chance

to whisper to her, "It's Mrs. Rainbow; she's getting points!"

He seemed very much excited about this, and the general good luck of

being able to show these people over the house he had made. After the

first floor had been exhausted, the party drifted upstairs in

detachments. Helen, who had loitered after the others, could hear her

lover's pleasant voice as he led the way from suite to suite above.

The voices finally centred in Mrs. Phillips's bathroom, where the

sunken bath and the walls of colored marble caused much joking and

laughter....

"Can you tell me if Mrs. Phillips is here?" a voice sounded from the

door. Helen turned with a start. The young girl who asked the

question was dressed in a riding habit. Outside in the court a small

party of people were standing beside their horses. The girl spoke

somewhat peremptorily, but before Helen had time to reply, she added

more cordially:--

"Aren't you Miss Spellman? I am Venetia Phillips."

Then the two smiled at each other and shook hands in the way of women

who feel that they may be friends.

"I was off with my uncle the day you dined with mamma," she continued,

"so I missed seeing you. Isn't this a great--barn, I was going to

say." She laughed and caught herself. "I didn't remember! Mamma

likes it so much. We have just been out with the hounds,--the first

run of the season. But it was no fun, so we came on here. It's too

early to have a real hunt yet. Do you ride?"

They sat down on the great staircase and were at once absorbed in each

other. In the meantime Mrs. Phillips's party had returned from the

upper storey by the rear stairs, and were penetrating the mysteries of

the service quarters. Jackson was showing them proudly all the little

devices for which American architecture is famous,--the interior

telephone service, the laundry chutes, the electric dumb-waiters, the

latest driers. These devices aroused Colonel Raymond's admiration, and

when the others came back to the hall he took the architect aside and

discussed driers earnestly for several minutes. From that they got to

the heating system, which necessitated a visit to the basement.

Mrs. Phillips took this occasion to compliment Helen upon her lover's

success:--

"You can be proud of your young man, Miss Spellman. He's done a very

successful piece of work. Every one likes it, and it's all his, too,"

she added generously.

Helen found nothing to say in reply. The widow was not an easy person

for her to talk to. On the single other occasion when they had met, in

Mrs. Phillips's city house, the two women had looked into each other's

eyes, and both had remained cold. The meeting of the two women had not

been all that the architect had hoped it might be; for apart from this

house which he was building, there were other of his many ambitions in

which Mrs. Phillips could be very helpful to them. He did not intend

that Helen and he, when they were married, should sink into that dull,

retired manner of living that both his mother and Mrs. Spellman seemed

to prefer. It would be good business for him to enlarge his

acquaintance among the rich as fast as possible.

So this time when Helen found nothing amiable on the tip of her tongue

to reply, Mrs. Phillips examined the younger woman critically, saying

to herself, "She's a cold piece. She won't hold him long!" ...

At last the party gathered itself together and left the house. The big

touring car puffed up to the door, and the visitors climbed in, making

little final comments of a flattering nature to please the architect,

who had charmed them all. He was assiduous to the very end, laughing

again at Mrs. Rainbow's joke about the marble tub, which she repeated

for the benefit of those who had not been upstairs.

After Hart had helped her to mount the steps of the car, she leaned

over and gave him her hand.

"So glad to have met you, Mr. Hart," she said with plump

impressiveness. "I am sure if we build, we must come to you. It's

just lovely, everything."

"I shall have to give that away to Rainbow," the colonel joked.

"There's nothing so bad to eat up money as a good architect."

Then he shook hands cordially with Hart, lit a cigarette, and swung

himself to the seat beside Mrs. Phillips. After the car had started,

the riders mounted. Hart helped Venetia Phillips to her seat, and

slipped in a word about the hunt. But the girl leaned over on the

other side toward Helen, with a sudden enthusiasm.

"I do so want to see you again, Miss Spellman! But I suppose you are

very busy now."

"Oh, no," Helen protested, blushing at the girl's frank enthusiasm.

"But when you are married, can't I see a lot of you?"

Helen laughed. "Come and see me whenever you will!" she said, and the

two held hands for a moment, while the man in the red coat talked with

the architect.

When they had all gone, Jackson turned to Helen, a happy smile of

triumph on his face.

"It seemed to take!"

There had not been one word of comment on the house itself, on the

building as a home for generations of people. But Hart did not seem to

notice that. He was flushed with the exhilaration of approval.

"Yes," Helen answered, throwing all the animation she could into the

words; "I think they all liked it."

She was silent, her thoughts full of vague impressions gathered from

the little incident of the afternoon. There had been revealed to her

an unknown side of her lover, a worldly side, which accorded with his

alert air, his well-trimmed mustache, and careful attention to dress.

He had been very much at home with all these people, while she had felt

more or less out of her element. He knew how to talk to them, how to

please them, just as he knew how to build a house after their taste for

luxury and display. Although he was a poor, hardworking young

architect, he could talk hunters or motor cars or bridge whist, as the

occasion demanded. Whether it was due to his previous experience or to

an instinct for luxury, he was, in fact, very much one of them!

She cast a timid look at the great façade above them, over which the

cold shadows of the autumn evening were fast stealing, leaving the

building in its nudity still more hard and new and raw. She was glad

it was not to be her fate to live there in all its grandeur and stiff

luxury.

The architect had to speak to the superintendent of the building, and

Helen sat down on the stone balustrade of the terrace to wait for him.

The painters were leaving their job, putting on their coats as they

hurried from the house. They scarcely cast a glance her way as they

passed out, disappearing into the road, fleeing from the luxurious

abode and the silent woods, which were not theirs, to the village and

the city. The girl mused idly about them and their lives, and about

the other people who had come there this afternoon to look over the

house, and about the house itself. She reflected how much more she

liked the sketch Jackson had made of a little club-house for the Oak

Hills Country Club. It was a rough little affair, the suggestion of

which the architect had got from a kodak of a Sicilian farm-house he

had once taken. But this great American château was so different from

what she had supposed her lover would build, this caravansary for the

rich, this toy where they could hide themselves in aristocratic

seclusion and take their pleasures. And the thought stole into her

mind that he liked it, this existence of the rich and prosperous, their

sports and their luxuries,--and would want to earn with the work of his

life just their pleasures, their housing, their automobiles and

hunters. It was all strange to her experience, to her dreams!

From the second floor there came to her the sound of voices:--

"I tells you, Muster Hart, you got to rip the whoal damn piping out

from roof to basement if you wants to have a good yob of it. I tole

you that way back six weeks ago. It waren't specified right from the

beginning."

"I'll speak to Rollings about it to-morrow and see what can be done."

"That's what you say every time, and he don't do nutting," the Swede

growled.

"See here, Anderson! Who's running this job?" ...

The girl strolled away from the voices toward the bluff, where she

could see the gray bosom of the lake. The twilight trees, the waveless

lake soothed her: they were real, her world,--she felt them in her

soul! The house back there, the men and women of it, were shadows on

the marge.

"Nell!" her lover called.

"Coming, Francis."

When he came up to her she rested her head on his shoulder, looking at

him with vague longing, desiring to keep him from something not clearly

defined in her own mind. Her lover drew her to him and kissed her,

once, twice, while her eyes searched his wistfully. She seemed passive

and cold in his arms. But suddenly she closed her longing eyes, and

her lips met his, hungrily, tensely, in the desire to adore, to love

abundantly, which was her whole life.

"We must hurry to get that train,--dear. When we live out here we'll

have to sport a motor car, won't we?" he said buoyantly.

She answered slowly, "I don't know that I should want to live just

here, after all."

"Why, I thought you were crazy about the country! And I've been

thinking it might be the very thing for us to do. There's such a lot

of building in these places now since business has looked up. Mrs.

Phillips has asked me several times why I didn't move out here on the

shore. Just before she left to-day she said in a joking way that if I

wanted to build a lodge for her, I might take it for a year or so. Of

course that's a joke. But I know she's bought lately a lot more

property on the ravine, and she might be willing to let me have a small

bit on reasonable terms. She's been so friendly all along!"

He was still in the flush of his triumph, and talked rapidly of all the

plans that opened out before his fervent ambition. Suddenly he took

note of the girl's mood and said sharply, "Nell, I believe you don't

like her!"

"Why do you say that!" she exclaimed, surprised in her inner thoughts.

"I don't really know."

"Why, it's plain enough. You never talk to her. You are always so

cold! Louise is a chatty person; she likes to have you make an effort

for her. And you treated Mrs. Rainbow in the same way."

"Oh, Francis! I didn't mean to be cold. Ought I to like them if you

are to do work for them?"

Her lover laughed at her simplicity. Nevertheless, he felt somewhat

disturbed at Helen's indifference to the social aspect of their

marriage venture. He wished to make a proper stir in the puddle, and

he was beginning to suspect that Helen had little aptitude for this

distinctively woman's side of matrimony.

"Rich people always puzzle me," she continued apologetically. "They

always have, except uncle Powers, and you never thought of him as rich!

I don't feel as if I knew what they liked. They are so much

preoccupied with their own affairs. That other time when I met Mrs.

Phillips she was very much worried over the breakfast room and the

underbutler's pantry! What is an underbutler's pantry, Francis?"

This raillery over the needs of the rich sounded almost anarchistic to

the architect in his present mood, and they walked to the station

silently in the gathering darkness. But after a time, on the train, he

returned to the events of the afternoon, remarking with no relevancy:--

"She can do anything she likes with Raymond. It would be a big stroke

to get that railroad business!"

As Helen made no reply to this observation, they sank again into silent

thought.

The night before their marriage the architect told her exultantly that

Colonel Raymond had sent for him that afternoon to talk over work for

the railroad corporation.

"That's Mrs. Phillips's doing," he told Helen. "You must remember to

say something to her about it to-morrow if you get the chance. It's

likely to be the biggest wedding present we'll have!"

"I am glad!" Helen replied simply, without further comment.

He thought that she did not comprehend what this good fortune would

mean to them. And he was quite mystified when she sent him away and

refused to see him again before the ceremony of the following day. He

could not realize that in some matters--a few small matters--he had

bruised the woman's ideal of him; he could not understand why these

last hours, before she took him to her arms forever, she wished to

spend alone with her own soul in a kind of prayer....

There were only a few people present at the marriage in the little

Maple Street house the next day. Many of their more fashionable

friends still lingered away from the city although it was late in

October. Mrs. Phillips had made a point of coming to the wedding, even

putting off a projected trip to New York, and after much urging she had

been made to bring Venetia, who was strangely bent on going to this

wedding. Pemberton, an old friend of the Spellmans, who had recently

been asked to join the Powers Jackson trustees, was there, and also

little Cook, who was the backbone of the new office. Everett Wheeler

was the best man. He and Hollister had put off their yearly fishing

trip to do honor to Jackson Hart, who had won their approval, because

the young man had swallowed his disappointment about the will and was

going to marry a poor girl. Hollister and Pemberton had brought Judge

Phillips with them, because he was in town and liked weddings and ought

to send the pair a goodly gift. Of the presence of all these and some

others the young architect was agreeably conscious that October day.

Only that morning, on the way to the house, Everett had referred to the

great school building, a monumental affair, which the trustees would

have to build some day. He said nothing that might commit the trustees

in any way. Nevertheless, it was in the aroma of this new prospect,

and of all the other good fortune which had come to him since he had

taken up his burden of poverty, that Jackson Hart was married.

But Helen walked up to him to be married, in a dream, unconscious of

the whole world, with a mystery of love in her heart. When the

ceremony was over, she looked up into her husband's resolute face,

which was slightly flushed with excitement. Venetia, standing by her

uncle's side a few steps away, could see tears in the bride's eyes, and

the girl wondered in her heart what it meant.

Did the woman know now that the man who stood there face to face with

her, her husband, was yet a stranger to her soul? She raised her lips

swiftly to him, as if to complete the sacrament, and there before all

he bowed his head to kiss her.

PART II

THE STRUGGLE