He turned his swollen, bloody face to Dave's, and hatred stood up in

his eyes as he uttered the threat. "I'll hit you, Dave," he repeated,

"where you can't hit back."

"Thanks for the warning," said Elden. "So Irene Hardy is to be the

stake. All right; I'll sit in. And I'll win."

"You'll think you've won," returned Conward, leeringly. "And then

you'll find out that you didn't. I'll present her to you, Dave, like

that." He lifted a burnt match from an ash tray and held it before him.

Dave's impulse was to seize the thick, flabby throat in his hands and

choke it lifeless. With a resolute effort he turned to the telephone

and lifted the receiver.

"Send a car and a doctor to Conward & Elden's office," he said, when he

had got the desired number. "Mr. Conward has been hurt; fell against a

desk, or something. Nothing serious, but may need a stitch or two."

Then, turning to Conward, "It will depend on you whether this affair

gets to the public. On you, and Miss Wardin. Make your own

explanations. And as soon as you are able to be about our partnership

will be dissolved."

Conward was ready enough to adopt Dave's suggestion that their quarrel

should not come to the notice of the public, and Gladys Wardin

apparently kept her own counsel in the matter. In a time when firms

were going out of business without even the formality of an assignment,

and others were being absorbed by their competitors, the dissolution of

the Conward & Elden establishment occasioned no more than passing

notice. The explanation, "for business reasons," given to the

newspapers, seemed sufficient. Some few may have had surmises, but

they said nothing openly. Bert Morrison, for example, meeting Dave in

the street, congratulated him upon the change. "I knew you would find

him out some day;" she said. "Find what out?" Dave questioned, with

feigned surprise. "Oh, nothing," was her enigmatic answer, as she

changed the subject.

Irene Hardy found herself in a position of increasing delicacy. Since

the day of their conversation in the tea-room Dave had been constant in

his attentions, but, true to his ultimatum, had uttered no word that

could in any way be construed to be more or less than Platonic. His

attitude vexed and pleased her. She was vexed that he should leave her

in a position where she must humiliate herself by taking the

initiative; she was pleased with his strength, with his daring, with

the superb self-control with which he carried out a difficult purpose.

Just how difficult was that purpose Irene was now experiencing in her

own person. She had now no doubt that she felt for Dave that

attachment without which ceremonies are without avail, and with which

ceremonies are but ceremonies. And yet she shrank from

surrender. . . . And she knew that some day she must surrender.

The situation was complicated by conditions which involved her

mother--and Conward. Mrs. Hardy had never allowed herself to become

reconciled to Dave Elden. She refused to abandon her preconceived

ideas of the vulgarity which through life must accompany one born to

the lowly status of cow puncher. The fact that Dave, neither in manner

nor mind, gave any hint of that vulgarity which she chose to associate

with his early occupation, did not in the least ameliorate her

aversion. Mrs. Hardy, without knowing it, was as much a devotee of

caste as any Oriental. And Dave was born out of the caste. Nothing

could alter that fact. His assumption of the manners of a gentleman

merely aggravated his offence.

It was also apparent that Conward's friendship for Mrs. Hardy did not

react to Dave's advantage. Conward was careful to drop no word in

Irene's hearing that could be taken as a direct reflection upon Dave,

but she was conscious of an influence, a magnetism, it almost seemed,

the whole tendency of which was to pull her away from Elden. She knew

there had been trouble between the two men, and that their formal

courtesy, when they met at her mother's house, was formal only; but

neither admitted her into the secret. Dave did not venture to speak of

the quarrel and Conward's threat, partly from a sense of delicacy;

partly from a curiously strained point of honour that that would be

taking an unfair advantage of Conward; but most, perhaps, because of

his complete assurance that Conward would never be able to carry his

threat into effect. He had absolutely no misgivings on that score.

Conward, on the other hand, knew that his standing with Irene would

not, as yet, justify him in playing any trump card. He realized that

the girl's affections were placed on Elden, but he trusted, by winning

for himself an intimate position in the family, to grow gradually into

more favourable relationship with her. Conward had a manner, a

mildness of voice, a confidential note in his words, which had not

failed him on previous occasions, and although he now stalked bigger

game than ever before he had no serious doubt of ultimate success. As

for Irene, a certain aversion which she had felt for Conward at first

did disappear under the influence of his presence in the household and

the courteous attentions, which, although directed to her mother, were

in some degree reflected upon herself.

It would not be true to say that Irene's acquaintance with Conward made

it more difficult for her to accept the terms of Dave's ultimatum. She

regarded the two men from a totally different point of view, and there

seemed no reason why her vision of one should in any way obscure her

vision of the other. One was merely a friend of the family, to be

treated on grounds of cordial good-fellowship; the other was her

prospective husband. It was no consideration for Conward that sealed

her lips. There was another matter, however, which bore heavily upon

her pride, and strewed her path with difficulties.

Mrs. Hardy had invested practically all her little fortune in her

house. The small sum which had been saved from that unfortunate

investment had been eaten up in the cost of furnishing and maintaining

the home. Dr. Hardy, in addition to his good name, had left his

daughter some few thousand dollars of life insurance, and this was the

capital which was now supplying their daily needs. It, too, would soon

be exhausted, and Irene was confronted with the serious business of

finding a means of livelihood for herself and her mother.

She discussed her problem with Bert Morrison, with whom she had formed

a considerable friendship. She wondered whether she might be able to

get a position on one of the newspapers.

"Don't think of it," said Bert. "If you want to keep a sane, sweet

outlook on humanity, don't examine it too closely. That's what we have

to do in the newspaper game, and that's why we're all cynics.

Shakespeare said 'All the world's a stage,' and the same might have

been said of the press. The show looks pretty good from the pit, but

when you get behind the scenes and see the make-up, and all the strings

that are pulled--and who pulls them--well, it makes you suspicious of

everything. You no longer accept a surface view; you are always

looking for the hidden motive below. Keep out of it."

"But I must earn a living," Irene protested, "and I'm not a

stenographer, nor much of anything else. I wasn't brought up to be

useful, except with a view to superintending a household--not

supporting it."

"Ever contemplate marriage?" said Miss Morrison, with disconcerting

frankness.

The colour rose in Irene's cheeks, but she knew that her friend was

discussing a serious matter seriously. "Why, yes," she admitted. "I

have contemplated it; in fact, I am contemplating it. That's one of

the reasons I want to start earning my living. When I marry I want to

marry as a matter of choice--not because it's the only way out."

"Now you're talking," said Bert. "And most of us girls who marry as a

matter of choice--don't marry. Perhaps I'm too cynical. I suppose

there are some men who would make good husbands--if you could find

them. But I've seen a few, the rough and the smooth, and I've only

known one man from whom a proposal would set me thinking. And he'll

never propose to me--not now. Not since Miss Hardy came west."

"Oh," said Irene, slowly. "I'm--I'm so sorry." . . .

"It's all right," said Bert, looking out of the window. "Just another

of life's little bumps. We get used to them--in time. But you want a

job. Let me see; you draw, don't you?"

"Just for pastime. I can't earn a living that way."

"I'm not so sure. Perhaps not with art in the abstract. You must

commercialize it. Don't shy at that word. Believe me, all art is

pretty well commercialized in these times. Our literary men are

writing advertisements instead of poetry and getting more for it. And

if you, on the one hand, can make a picture of the Rockies, which you

can't sell, and on the other can make a picture of a pair of shoes,

which you can sell, which, as a woman of good sense, in need of the

simoleons, are you going to do? You're going to draw the shoes--and

the pay cheque. Now I think I can get you started that way, on

catalogue work and ad. cuts. Try your pencil on something--anything at

all--and bring down a few samples."

So Irene's little studio room began to take on a practical purpose. It

was work which called for form and proportion rather than colour, and

in these Irene excelled. She soon found herself with as much as she

could do, in addition to the duties of the household, as maids were

luxuries which could no longer be afforded, and her mother seemed

unable to realize that they were not still living in the affluence of

Dr. Hardy's income. To Irene, therefore, fell the work of the house,

as well as its support. But her success in earning a living did not

seem in the slightest degree to clear the way for marriage. She could

not ask Dave to assume the support of her mother; particularly in view

of Mrs. Hardy's behaviour toward him, she could not ask that. She

sometimes wondered if Conward-- For a long while she refused to

complete the thought, but at length, why not? Why shouldn't Conward

marry her mother? And what other purpose could he have in his

continuous visits to their home? Mrs. Hardy, although no longer young,

had by ho means surrendered all the attractions of her sex, and Conward

was slipping by the period where a young girl would be his natural

mate. If they should marry--Irene was no plotter, but it did seem that

such a match would clear the way for all concerned. She was surprised,

when she turned it over in her mind, to realize that Conward had won

for himself such a place in her regard that she could contemplate such

a consummation as very much to be desired. Subconsciously, rather than

from specific motive, she assumed a still more friendly attitude toward

him.

Bert Morrison's confession had, however, set up another very insistent

train of thought in Irene's mind. She realized that Bert, with all her

show of cynicism and masculinity, was really a very womanly young

woman, with just the training and the insight into life that would make

her almost irresistible should she enter the matrimonial market. And

Bert and Dave were already good friends; very good friends indeed, as

Irene suspected from fragments of conversation which either of them

dropped from time to time. Although she never doubted the singleness

of Dave's devotion she sometimes suspected that in Bert Morrison's

presence he felt a more frank comradeship than in hers. And it was

preposterous that he should not know that Bert might be won for the

winning. And meantime. . . .

Another winter wore away; another spring came rushing from the mountain

passes; another summer was upon them, and still Irene Hardy had not

surrendered. A thousand times she told herself it was impossible, with

her mother to think of-- And always she ended in indignation over her

treatment of Dave. It was outrageous to keep him waiting. And

somewhere back of her self-indignation flitted the form--the now

seductive form--of Bert Morrison.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Irene Hardy chose to be frank with herself over the situation. She had

not doubted the sincerity of her attachment for Dave Elden; but, had

she experienced such a doubt, the entry of Bert Morrison into the drama

would have forever removed it. Indeed, now that she knew that Dave's

suit would be regarded with favour by another woman--an accomplished,

clever, experienced woman,--she was very much more eager to monopolize

it to herself. And in fairness she admitted that things could not

continue as they were. The menace of Bert Morrison was static, so to

speak. With fine self-abnegation Bert was standing aside. But how

long would she continue to stand aside? Irene was old enough to know

that the ramparts of friendship are a poor defence when the artillery

of passion is brought to bear; indeed, it is usually through those very

ramparts that the assault is effected. And if she continued to trifle

with Dave Elden--

Yes, _trifle_. She would be frank. She would not spare herself. She

had been trifling with him. Rather than accept the terms which her own

attitude had made necessary--rather than tell him with her lips what

she felt in her heart--she had trifled away all these months, almost

these years. . . . She would lay her false pride aside. In the purity

of her womanhood, which he could not misunderstand, she would divest

herself of all convention and tell him frankly that--that--

She was not sure what she would tell, or how she would tell it. She

was sure only that she would make him know. At the very next

opportunity. . . .

It came on a fine summer's evening in late July, while Dave and Irene

drifted in his car over the rich ripening prairies. Everywhere were

fields of dark green wheat, already beginning to glimmer with the gold

of harvest; everywhere were herds of sleek cattle sighing and blowing

contentedly in the cool evening air. Away to the west lay the

mountains, blue and soft as a pillow of velvet for the head of the

dying day; overhead, inverted islands of brass and copper floated

lazily in an inverted sea of azure and opal; up from the southwest came

the breath of the far Pacific, mild, and soft, and gentle.

"We started at the wrong end in our nation building," Dave was saying.

"We started to build cities, leaving the country to take care of

itself. We are finding out how wrong we were. Depend upon it, where

there is a prosperous country the cities will take care of themselves.

We have been putting the cart before the horse--"

But Irene's eyes were on the sunset; on the slowly fading colours of

the cloudlands overhead. Something of that colour played across her

fine face, mellowing, softening, drawing as it seemed the very soul to

cheeks and lips and eyes. Dave paused in his speech to regard her, and

her beauty rushed upon him, engulfed him, overwhelmed him in such a

poignancy of tenderness that it seemed for a moment all his resolves

must be swept away and he must storm the citadel that would not

surrender to siege. . . . Only action could hold him resolute; he

pressed down the accelerator until the steel lungs of his motor were

drinking power to their utmost capacity and the car roared furiously

down the stretches of the country road.

It was dusk when he had burnt out his violence, and, chastened and

spent, he turned the machine to hum back gently to the forgotten city.

Irene, by some fine telepathy, had followed vaguely the course of his

emotions; had followed them in delicious excitement, and fear, and

hope. She sensed in some subtle feminine way the impulse that had sent

him roaring into the distances; she watched his powerful hand on the

wheel; his clear, steady eye; the minute accuracy with which he

controlled his flying motor; and she prayed--and did not know what or

why she prayed. But a colour not all of the dying sunlight lit her

cheek as she guessed--she feared--she hoped--that she had prayed that

he might forget his fine resolves--that his heart might at last

out-rule his head--

In the deepening darkness her fingers found his arm. The motion of the

car masked the violence of her trembling, but for a time the pounding

of her heart would not allow her speech.

"Dave," she said at length, "I want to tell you that I think you--that

we--that I--oh! I've been very selfish and proud--"

Her fingers had followed his arm to the shoulder, and the car had idled

to a standstill. "I have fought as long as I can, Dave." She raised

her eyes full to his, and felt them glowing upon her in the dusk. "I

have fought as long as I can," she said, "and I--I always wanted to--to

lose, you know; and now--I surrender." . . .

Elden lost no time in facing the unpleasant task of an interview with

Mrs. Hardy. It was even less pleasant than he expected.

"Irene is of age," said Mrs. Hardy, bluntly. "If she will she will.

But I must tell you plainly that I will do all I can to dissuade her.

Ungrateful child!" she exclaimed, in an outburst of temper, "after all

these years to throw herself away in an infatuation for a cow

_puncher_."

The thorn of Mrs. Hardy's distress, revealed as it was in those last

contemptuous words, struck Dave as so ridiculous that he laughed

outright. It was the second occasion upon which his sense of humour

had suffered an inopportune reaction in her presence.

"Yes, laugh at me," she said, bitterly. "Laugh at her mother, an old

woman now, alone in the world--the mother that risked her life for the

child you are taking with a laugh--"

"I beg your pardon," said Dave. "I was not laughing at you, but at the

very great aversion in which you hold anyone who has at one time

followed the profession of a cowboy. As one who was born practically

with a lariat in his hand I claim the liberty of being amused at that

aversion. I've known many of the cow punching trade, and a good few

others, and while the boys are frequently rough they are generally

white--a great deal whiter than their critics--and with sounder respect

for a good woman than I have found in circles that consider themselves

superior. So if you ask me to apologize for the class from which I

come I have only a laugh for your answer. But when you say I have

taken your child thoughtlessly, there you do me an injustice. And when

you speak of being left alone in the world you do both Irene and me an

injustice. And when you call yourself an old woman you do us all an

injustice--"

"You may spare your compliments," said Mrs. Hardy, tartly. "I have no

relish for them. And as for your defence of cow _punchers_, I prefer

gentlemen. Why Irene should wish to throw herself away when there are

men like Mr. Conward--"

"Conward!" interrupted Dave.

"He has the manners of a gentleman," she said, in a tone intended to be

crushing.

"And the morals of a coyote," Dave returned, hotly.

"O-o-o-h," said Mrs. Hardy, in a low, shocked cry. That Elden should

speak of Conward with such disdain seemed to her little less than

sacrilege. Then, gathering herself together with some dignity, "If you

cannot speak respectfully of Mr. Conward you will please leave the

house. I shall not forbid you to see Irene; I know that would be

useless. But please do not trouble me with your presence."

When Dave had gone Mrs. Hardy, very angry with him, and almost equally

angry with herself owing to a vague conviction that she had had if

anything the worse of the interview, hurried to the telephone. She

rang up Conward's number.

"Oh, Mr. Conward," she said. "You know who is speaking? Yes. You

must come up to-night. I do want to talk with you. I--I've been

insulted--in my own house. By that--that Elden. It's all very

terrible. I can't tell you over the telephone."

Conward called early in the evening. Irene met him at the door. He

greeted her even more cordially than usual, dropping into that soft,

confidential note which he had found so potent in capturing such

affections as his heart, in a somewhat varied experience, had desired.

But there was no time for conversation. Mrs. Hardy had heard the bell,

and bustled into the room. She had not yet recovered from her

agitation, and made no effort to conceal it.

"Come into my sitting-room, Mr. Conward. I am so glad you have come.

Really, I am so upset. It is such a comfort to have some one you can

depend on--some one whose advice one can seek, on occasions like this.

I never thought--"

Mrs. Hardy had been fingering her handkerchief, which she now pressed

to her eyes. Conward laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. "There,

there," he said. "You must control yourself. Tell me. It will

relieve you, and perhaps I can help."

"Oh, I'm sure you can," she returned. "It's all over Irene and

that--that--I _will_ say it--that cow _puncher_. To think it would

have come to this! Mr. Conward, you are not a mother, so you can't

understand. Ungrateful girl! But I blame _him_. And the Doctor. I

never wanted him to come west. It was that fool trip, in that fool

motor--"

Conward smiled to himself over her unaccustomed violence. Mrs. Hardy

must be deeply moved when she forgot to be correct. He had readily

surmised the occasion of her distress. It needed no words from Mrs.

Hardy to tell him that Irene and Dave were engaged. He had expected it

for some time, and the information was not altogether distasteful to

him. He had come somewhat under the spell of Irene's attractiveness,

but he had no deep attachment for her. He was not aware that he had

ever had an abiding attachment for any woman. Attachments were things

which he put on and off as readily as a change of clothes. He planned

to hit Dave through Irene, but he planned that when he struck it should

be a death blow. Their engagement would lend a sharper edge to his

shaft.

It may as well be set down that for Mrs. Hardy Conward had no regard

whatever. Even while he shaped soft words for her ear he held her in

contempt. To him she was merely a silly old woman. From the day he

had first seen Mrs. Hardy his attitude toward her had been one of

subtle flattery; partly because it pleased his whim, and partly because

on that same day he had seen Irene, and he was shrewd enough to know

that his approach to the girl's affections must be made by way of the

acquaintanceship which he would establish under the guise of friendship

for her mother. Since his trouble with Dave, Conward had a double

purpose in developing that acquaintanceship. He had no compunctions as

to his method of attack. While Dave was manfully laying siege to the

front gate, Conward proposed to burglarize the home through the back

door of family intimacy. And now that Dave seemed to have won the

prize, Conward realized that his own position was more secure than

ever. Had he not been called in consultation by the girl's mother?

Were not the inner affairs of the family now laid open before him? Did

not his position as her mother's advisor permit him to assume toward

Irene an attitude which, in a sense, was more intimate than even Dave's

could be? He turned these matters over quickly in his mind, and

congratulated himself upon the wisdom of his tactics.

"It's very dreadful," Mrs. Hardy was saying, between dabbings of her

perfumed handkerchief on eyes that bore witness to the genuineness of

her distress. "Irene is not an ordinary girl. She has in her

qualities that justified me in hoping that--that she would do--very

differently from this. You have been a good friend, Mr. Conward. Need

I conceal from you, Mr. Conward, from you, of all men, what have been

my hopes for Irene?"

Conward's heart leapt at the confession. He had secretly entertained

some doubt as to Mrs. Hardy's purpose in opening her home to him as she

had done; absurd as the hypothesis seemed, still there was the

hypothesis that Mrs. Hardy saw in Conward a possible comfort to her

declining days. He had no doubt that her vanity was equal to that

supposition, but he had done her less than justice in supposing that

she had had any directly personal ambitions. Her ambitions were for

Irene. From her point of view it seemed to Mrs. Hardy that almost

anything would be better than that Irene should marry a man who had

sprung from the low estate which Elden not only confessed, but boasted.

She had hoped that by bringing Conward into the house, by bringing

Irene under the influence of a close family acquaintanceship with him,

that that young lady might be led to see the folly of the road she was

choosing. But now her clever purpose had come to nought, and in her

vexation she did not hesitate to humble herself before Conward by

confessing, in words that he could not misunderstand, that she had

hoped that he would be the successful suitor for Irene. And Conward's

heart leapt at the confession. He was sufficiently schooled in the

affairs of life to appreciate the advantage of open alliance with Mrs.

Hardy in the short, sharp battle that lay before him.

"And I suppose I need not conceal from you," he answered, "what my

hopes have been. Those hopes have grown as my acquaintance with you

has grown. It is reasonably safe to judge a daughter by her mother,

and by that standard Irene is one of the most adorable of young women."

"I _have_ been called attractive in my day," confessed Mrs. Hardy,

warming at once to his flattery.

"Have been?" said Conward. "Say rather you are. If I had not been

rendered, perhaps, a little partial by my admiration of Irene, I--well,

one can scarcely give his heart in two places, you know. And my deep

regard for you, Mrs. Hardy--my desire that you shall be spared

this--ah--threatened humiliation, will justify me in using heroic

measures to bring this unfortunate affair to a close. You may trust

me, Mrs. Hardy."

"I was sure of that," she returned, already much comforted. "I was

sure of your sympathy, and that you would find a way."

"I shall need your co-operation," he warned her. "Irene is--you will

forgive me, Mrs. Hardy, but Irene is, if I may say it, somewhat

headstrong. She is--"

"She is her father over again," Mrs. Hardy interrupted. "I told him he

should not attempt that crazy trip of his without me along, but he

would go. And this is what he has brought upon me, and he not here to

share it." Mrs. Hardy's tone conveyed very plainly her grievance over

the doctor's behaviour in evading the consequences of the situation

which his headstrong folly had created.

"She is set in her own mind," Conward continued. "We must not openly

oppose her. You must appear to be resigned, even to the extent of

treating Elden with such consideration as you can. To argue with

Irene, to attempt to persuade her, or to order Elden off the place,

would only deepen their attachment. Lovers are that way, Mrs. Hardy.

We must adopt other tactics."

"You are very clever," said Mrs. Hardy. "You have been a student of

human nature."

Conward smiled pleasurably. Little as he valued Mrs. Hardy's opinion,

her words of praise fell very gratefully upon him. Flatterers are

seldom proof against their own poison. "Yes, I have studied human

nature," he admitted. "The most interesting--and the most

profitable--of all studies. And I know that young couples in love are

not governed by the ordinary laws of reason. That is why it is useless

to argue with Irene--sensible girl though she is--on a subject like

this. We must reach her some other way.

"The way that occurs to me is to create distrust. Love is either

absurdly trustful or absurdly suspicious. There is no middle course,

no balanced judgment. Everything is in extremes. Everything is seen

through a magnifying lens, or missed altogether. In the trustfulness

of love little virtues are magnified to angelic qualities, and vices

are quite unseen. But change that trust to suspicion, and a hidden,

sinister meaning is found behind the simplest word or act."

Conward had risen and was walking about the room. He was conscious of

being regarded as a man of very deep insight, and the consciousness

pleased him.

"We must cause Irene to distrust Elden--to see him in his true light,"

he continued. "That may be possible. But if it should fail we must

take another course, which I hesitate to mention to you, but which may

be necessary if we are to save her from this fatal infatuation. If our

efforts to cause Irene to see Elden in his true light were to fail, and

she were to discover those efforts, she would be more set in his favour

than ever. So we must plan two campaigns; one, which I have already

suggested, and one, if that should fail, to cause Elden to distrust

Irene. No, no," he said, raising his hand toward Mrs. Hardy, who had

started from her seat,--"there must be no vestige of reason, except

that the end justifies the means. It is a case of saving Irene, even

if we must pain her--and you--in the saving."

"It's very dreadful," Mrs. Hardy repeated. "But you are very thorough;

you leave nothing to chance. I suppose that is the way with all big

business men."

"You can trust me," Conward assured her. "There is no time to be lost,

and I must plan my campaigns at once."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Conward paused to speak to Irene before leaving the house.

"I owe you my good wishes," he said. "And I give them most frankly,

although, perhaps, with more difficulty than you suppose."

"You are very good, Mr. Conward," she acknowledged.

"I could not wish you anything but happiness," he returned. "And had I

been so fortunate as Elden, in making your acquaintance first, I might

have hoped to contribute to your happiness more directly than I can

under the present circumstances." He was speaking in his low, sedulous

notes, and his words sent the girl's blood rushing in a strange mixture

of gratification and anger. The tribute he implied--that he himself

would have been glad to have been her suitor--was skilfully planned to

appeal to her vanity, and her anger was due to its success. She told

herself she should not listen to such words; she should hate to hear

such words. And yet she listened to them, and was not sure that she

hated them. She could only say, "You are very good, Mr. Conward."

He pressed her hand at the door, and again that strange mixture of

emotions surged through her.

Conward proceeded to the business section of the town, well pleased

with the evening's events. He found his way impeded by crowds in front

of the newspaper offices. He had paid little attention to the progress

of the war scare, attributing it to the skilful publicity of interests

connected with the manufacture of armaments. To the last he had not

believed that war was possible. "Nobody wants to fight," he had

assured his business acquaintances. "Even the armament people don't

want to fight. All they want is to frighten more money out of the

taxpayers of Europe." To Conward this explanation seemed very

complete. It covered the whole ground and left nothing to be said.

But to-night he was aware of a keener tension in the crowd atmosphere.

They were good natured crowds, to be sure; laughing, and cheering, and

making sallies of heavy wit; but they were in some way more intense

than he had ever seen before. There was no fear of war; there was,

rather, an adventurous spirit which seemed to fear that the affair

would blow over, as had so many affairs in the past, and all the

excitement go for nothing. That war, if it came to war, could last, no

one dreamed; it would be a matter of a few weeks, a few months, at the

most, until a thoroughly whipped Germany would retire behind the Rhine

to plan ways of raising the indemnity which outraged civilization would

demand. Conward elbowed his way through the crowds, smiling, in his

superior knowledge, over their excitement. Newspapers must have

headlines.

At his office he used a telephone. Then he walked to a restaurant,

where, after a few minutes, he was joined by a young woman. They took

a table in a box. Supper was disposed of, and the young woman began to

grow impatient.

"Well, you brought me here," she said at last. "You've fed me, and you

don't feed anybody, Conward, without a purpose. What's the

consideration?"

"Yes, I have a purpose," he admitted. "I'm pulling off a little joke,

and I want you to help me."

"You're some joker," she returned. "Who have you got it in for?"

"You know Elden--Dave Elden?"

"Sure. I've known him ever since that jolt put him out of business up

in your rooms, ever so many years ago. He was too rural for that

mixture. Still, Elden has lots of friends--decent friends, I mean."

"I'm rather sorry you know him," said Conward. "But--what's more to

the point--does he know you?"

"Not he. I guess he had no memory the next morning, and would have

made a point of forgetting me, even if he had."

"That's all right, then. Now I want you to get him down to your place

some night to be agreed upon--I'll fix the date later--and keep him

there until I call for him, with his _fiancée_."

"Some joke," she said, and there was disgust in her voice. "Who is it

on: Elden, me, or the girl?"

"Never mind who it's on," Conward returned. "I'm paying for it.

Here's something on account, and if you make a good job of it, I won't

be stingy."

He handed her a bill, which she kissed and put in her purse. "I need

the money, Conward, or I wouldn't take it. Say, don't you know you're

wasting your time in this one-horse town? You ought to get into the

big league. Your jokes would sure make a hit."

This part of his trap set, Conward awaited a suitable opportunity to

spring it. In the meantime he took Mrs. Hardy partially into his

confidence. He allowed her to believe, however, that Elden's habits

would stand correction, and he had merely arranged to trap him in one

of his favorite haunts. She was very much shocked, and thought it was

very dreadful, but of course we must save Irene. Mr. Conward was very

clever. That's what came of being a man of experience,--and judgment,

Mr. Conward, and some knowledge of the world.

But concerning another part of his programme Conward was even less

frank with Mrs. Hardy. He was clever enough to know that he must

observe certain limitations.

At length all his plans appeared to be complete. The city was in a

tumult of excitement over the war, but for Conward a deeper interest

centred in the plot he was hatching under the unsuspecting noses of

Irene and Elden. If he could trap Dave the rest would be easy. If he

failed in this he had another plan to give failure at least the

appearance of success. The fact that the nation was now at war

probably had an influence in speeding up the plot. Everything was

under high tension; powerful currents of thought were bearing the

masses along unaccustomed channels; society itself was in a state of

flux. If he were to strike at all let the blow fall at once.

On this early August night he ascertained that Dave was working alone

in his office. Then he called a number on a telephone.

"This is the night," he explained. "You will find him alone in his

office. I will be waiting to hear from you at----"--he quoted Mrs.

Hardy's telephone number. Then he drove his car to the Hardy home,

exchanged a few words with Irene, and sat down to a hand of cribbage

with her mother.

Poring over his correspondence, Dave tried to abstract his mind from

the tumultuous doings of these last days. Office organization had been

paralyzed; stenographers and clerks were incapable with excitement. It

was as though some great excursion had been announced; something

wonderful and novel, which divorced the interest from the dull routine

of business. And Dave, with his ear cocked for the cry of the latest

extra, spent the evening hours in a valiant effort at concentration.

Suddenly he heard a knock at the door; not a business man's knock; not

an office girl's knock; a hesitating, timid, apologetic knock.

"Come in," he called. No one entered, but presently he heard the knock

again. He arose and walked to the door. Outside stood a young woman.

She looked up shyly, her face half concealed beneath a broad hat.

"If you please," she said, "excuse me, but--you are Mr. Elden, aren't

you?"

"Yes; can I help you in any way?"

The woman tittered a moment, but resumed soberly, "You will wonder at

me coming to you, but I'm from the country. Did you think that?"

"I suspected it," said Dave, with a smile. "You knocked----" He

paused.

"Yes?"

"Like a country girl," he said, boldly.

She tittered again. "Well, I'm lost," she confessed. "I got off the

train a short time ago. My aunt was to meet me, but there are such

crowds in the street--I must have missed her. And I saw your name on

the window, and I had heard of you. So I just thought I'd ask--if you

wouldn't mind--showing me to this address."

She fumbled in her pocket, and Dave invited her into the office. There

she produced a torn piece of paper with an address.

"Why, that's just a few blocks," said Dave. "I'll walk around with

you." He turned for his hat, but at that moment there was another

timid knock on the door. He opened it. A boy of eight or ten years

stood outside.

"Can I come in?" the lad ventured.

"Why, of course you can. What is it, son?"

"Are you Mr. Elden?"

"Yes."

The lad looked shyly about the office. It was evident he was impressed

with its magnificence. Suddenly he pulled off his hat, disclosing a

shock of brown hair.

"Are you Mr. Elden that sells lots?"

"Yes. Or, rather, I _did_ sell lots, but not many of late. Were you

thinking of buying a few lots?"

"Did you sell lots to my father?"

"Well, if I knew your father's name perhaps I could tell you. Who is

your father?"

"He's Mr. Merton. I'm his son. And he said to me, before he got so

bad, he said, 'There's just one honest man in this city, and that's Mr.

Elden.' Is that you, Mr. Elden?"

"Well, I hope it is, but I won't claim such a distinction. I remember

your father very well. Did he send you to me?"

"No sir. He's too sick. He don't know anybody now. He didn't know me

to-night." The boy's voice went thick, and he stopped and swallowed.

"And then I remembered what he said about you, and I just came. Was

that all right, Mr. Elden?"

"You say your father is very sick?"

"He don't know anybody."

"Have you help--a doctor--a nurse?"

"No sir. We haven't any money. My father spent it all for the lots

that he bought from you."

Dave winced. Then, turning to the young woman, "I'm afraid this is a

more urgent case than yours. I'll call a taxi to take you to your

address."

To his surprise his visitor broke out in a ribald laugh. She had

seated herself on a desk, and was swinging one foot jauntily.

"It's all off," she said. "Say, Dave, you couldn't lose me in this

burg. You don't remember me, do you? Well, all the better. I'm

rather glad I broke down on this job. I used to be something of an

actress, and I'd have put it over if it hadn't been for the kid. The

fact is, Dave," she continued, "I was sent up here to decoy you. It

wasn't fair fighting, and I didn't like it, but money has been mighty

slow of late. I wonder--how much you'd give to know who sent me?"

Dave pulled some bills from his pocket and held them before her. She

took them from his hand.

"Conward," she said.

Dave's blood went to his head. "The scoundrel!" he cried. "The low

down dog! There's more in this than appears on the surface."

"Sure there is," she said. "There's another woman. There always is."

Elden walked to his desk. From a drawer he took a revolver; toyed with

it a moment in his hands; broke it open, crammed it full of cartridges

and thrust it in his pocket.

The girl watched him with friendly interest. "Believe me, Dave," she

said, "if Conward turns up missing I won't know a thing--not a d----

thing."

For a moment he stood irresolute. He could only guess what Conward's

plan had been, but that it had been diabolical and cowardly, and that

it concerned Irene, he had no doubt. His impulse was to immediately

confront Conward, force a confession, and deal with him as the occasion

might seem to require. But his eye fell on the boy, with his shock of

brown hair and wistful, half-frightened face.

"I'll go with you first," he said, with quick decision. Then to the

girl, "Sorry I must turn you out, but this case is urgent."

"That's all right," she said. Suddenly there was a little catch in her

voice. "I'm used to being turned out."

He shot a sharp glance at her. Her face was laughing. "You're too

decent for your job," he said, abruptly.

"Thanks, Dave," she answered, and he saw her eyes glisten. "That

helps--some." And before he knew it she was into the street.

"All right, son," said Dave, taking up the matter now in hand. "What's

your name--your first name?"

"Charlie."

"And your address?"

The boy mentioned a distant subdivision.

"That _is_ out, isn't it? Well, we'll take the car. We'll run right

out and see what is to be done. I guess I'd better call a doctor at

once."

He went to the telephone and gave some directions. Then he and the boy

walked to a garage, and in a few moments were humming along the

by-streets into the country. Dave had already become engrossed in his

errand of mercy, and his rage at Conward, if not forgotten, was

temporarily dismissed from his mind. He chatted with the boy as he

drove.

"You go to school?"

"Not this year. Father has been too sick. Of course, this is

holidays, and he says he'll be all right before they're over."

Dave smiled grimly. "The incurable optimism of it," he murmured to

himself. Then outwardly, "Of course he will. We'll fix him up in no

time with a good doctor and a good nurse."

They drove on through the calm night, leaving the city streets behind

and following what was little more than a country trail. This was

crossed in every direction, and at every possible angle, by just such

other country trails, unravelling themselves into the darkness. Here

and there they bumped over pieces of graded street, infinitely rougher

than the natural prairie; once Dave dropped his front wheels into a

collapsing water trench; once he just grazed an isolated hydrant. The

city lights were cut off by a shoulder of foothill; only their dull

glow hung in the distant sky.

"And this is one of our 'choice residential subdivisions,'" said Dave

to himself, as with Charlie's guidance and his own in-born sense of

location he threaded his way through the maze of diverging trails.

"Fine business; fine business."

As the journey continued the sense of self-reproach which had been

static in him for many months became more insistent, and he found

himself repeating the ironical phrase, "Fine business, fine business.

Yes, I let Conward 'weigh the coal' all right." The intrusion of

Conward into his mind sent the blood to his head, but at that moment

his reflections were cut short by the boy.

"We will have to get out here," he said. "The bridge is down."

Investigation proved him to be right. A bridge over a small stream had

collapsed, and was slowly disintegrating amid its own wreckage. Dave

explored the stream bottom, getting muddy boots for his pains. Then he

ran the car a little to one side of the road, locked the switch, and

walked on with the boy.

"Pretty lonely out here, isn't it?" he ventured.

"Oh, no. There is a street light we can see in a little while; it is

behind the hill now. We see it from the corner of our shack. It's

very cheery."

"Fine business," Dave repeated to himself. "And this is how our big

success was made. Well, the 'success' has vanished as quickly as it

came. I suppose there is a Law somewhere that is not mocked."

They were passing through a settlement of crude houses, dimly visible

in the starlight and by occasional yellow blurs from their windows.

Before one of the meanest of these the boy at last stopped. The upper

hinge of the door was broken, and a feeble light struggled through the

space where it gaped outward. Charlie pulled the door open, and Dave

entered. At first his eyes could not take in the dim outlines before

him; he was conscious of a very small and stuffy room, with a peculiar

odour which he attributed to an oil lamp burning on a box. He walked

over and turned the lamp up, but the oil was consumed; a red, sullen,

smoking wick was its only response. Then he felt in his pocket, and

struck a match.

The light revealed the dinginess of the little room. There was a bed,

covered with musty, ragged clothing; a table, littered with broken and

dirty dishes and pieces of stale food; a stove, cracked and greasy, and

one or two bare boxes serving as articles of furniture. But it was to

the bed Dave turned, and, with another match, bent over the shrunken

form that lay almost concealed amid the coarse coverings. He brought

his face down close, then straightened up and steadied himself for a

moment.

"He'll soon be well, don't you think, Mister? He said he would be well

when the holidays----" But Dave's expression stopped the boy, whose

own face went suddenly wild with fear.

"He is well now, Charlie," he said, as steadily as he could. "It is

all holidays now for him."

The match had burnt out, and the room was in utter darkness. Dave

heard the child drawing his feet slowly across the floor, then suddenly

whimpering like a thing that had been mortally hurt. He groped toward

him, and at length his fingers found his shock of hair. He drew the

boy slowly into his arms; then very, very tight. . . . After all, they

were orphans together.

"You will come with me," he said, at length. "I will see that you are

provided for. The doctor will soon be here, or we will meet him on the

way, and he will make the arrangements for--the arrangements that have

to be made, you know."

They retraced their steps toward the town, meeting the doctor at the

broken bridge. Dave exchanged a few words with him in low tones, and

they passed on. Soon they were swinging again through the city

streets, this time through the busy thoroughfares, which were almost

blocked with tense, excited crowds about the bulletin boards. Even

with the developments of the evening pressing heavily upon his mind,

Dave could not resist the temptation to stop and listen for a moment to

bulletins being read through a megaphone.

"The Kaiser has stripped off his British regalia," said the announcer.

"He says he will never again wear a British uniform."

A chuckle of derisive laughter ran through the mob; then some one

struck up a well-known refrain,--"What the hell do we care?" Up and

down the street voices caught up the chorus. . . . Within a year the

bones of many in that thoughtless crowd, bleaching on the fields of

Flanders, showed how much they cared.

Dave literally pressed his machine through the throng, which opened

slowly to let it pass, and immediately filled up the wake behind. Then

he drove direct to the Hardy home.

After some delay Irene met him at the door, and Dave explained the

situation in a few words. "We must take care of him, Reenie," he said.

"I feel a personal responsibility."

"Of course we will take him," she answered. "He will live here until

we have a--some place of our own." Her face was bright with something

which must be tenderness. "Bring him upstairs. We will allot him a

room, and introduce him, first, to--the bath-room. And tomorrow we

shall have an excursion down town, and some new clothes for

Charlie--Elden."

As they moved up the stairs Conward, who had been in another room in

conversation with Mrs. Hardy, followed them unseen. The evening had

been interminable for Conward. For three hours he had waited word that

his victim had been trapped, and for three hours no word had come. He

had smoked numberless cigarettes, and nibbled impatiently at his nails,

and tried to appear at ease before Mrs. Hardy. If his plans had

miscarried; if Dave had discovered the plot; well---- And here at

length was Dave, engrossed in a very different matter. Conward

followed them up the stairs.

Irene and Dave chatted with the boy for a few moments, trying to make

him feel at home in his strange surroundings; then Irene turned to some

arrangements for his comfort, and Dave started down stairs. In the

passage he was met by Conward. Conward seemed at last to have dropped

the mask; he leered insolently, triumphantly, in Dave's face.

"What are you doing here?" Dave demanded, as he felt his head beginning

to swim in anger.

Conward leered only the more offensively, and walked down the stairs

beside him. At the foot he coolly lit another cigarette. If he was

conscious of the hate in Dave's eyes he hid his emotions under a mask

of insolence. He held the match before him and calmly watched it burn

out. Then he extended it toward Dave.

"You remember our wager, Elden. I present you with--a burnt-out match."

"You liar!" cried Dave. "You infamous liar!"

"Ask _her_," Conward replied. "She will deny it, of course. All women

do."

Dave felt his muscles tighten, and knew that in a moment he would tear

his victim to pieces. As his clenched fist came to the side of his

body it struck something hard. His revolver! He had forgotten; he was

not in the habit of carrying it. In an instant he had Conward covered.

Dave did not press the trigger at once. He took a fierce delight in

torturing the man who had wrecked his life,--even while he told himself

he could not believe his boast. Now he watched the colour fade from

Conward's cheek; the eyes stand out in his face; the livid blotches

more livid still; the cigarette drop from his nerveless lips.

"You are a brave man, Conward," he said, and there was the rasp of hate

and contempt in his voice. "You are a very brave man."

Mrs. Hardy, sensing something wrong, came out from her sitting-room.

With a little cry she swooned away.

Conward tried to speak, but words stuck in his throat. With a dry

tongue he licked his drier lips.

"Do you believe in hell, Conward?" Dave continued. "I've always had

some doubt myself, but in thirty seconds--_you'll know_."

Irene, attracted by her mother's cry, appeared on the stairway. For a

moment her eyes refused to grasp the scene before them; Conward

cowering, terror-stricken; Dave fierce, steely, implacable, with his

revolver lined on Conward's brain. Through some strange whim of her

mind her thought in that instant flew back to the bottles on the posts

of the Elden ranch, and Dave breaking five out of six on the gallop.

Then, suddenly, she became aware of one thing only. A tragedy was

being enacted before her eyes, and Dave would be held responsible. In

a moment every impulse within her beat forth in a wild frenzy to save

him from such a consequence.

"Oh, don't, Dave, don't, don't shoot him," she cried, flying down the

remaining steps. Before Dave could grasp her purpose she was upon him;

had clutched his revolver; had wrapped her arms about his. "Don't,

don't, Dave," she pleaded. "For my sake, don't do--_that_."

Her words were tragically unfortunate. For a moment Dave stood as one

paralyzed; then his heart dried up within him.

"So that's the way of it," he said, as he broke her grip, and the

horror in his own eyes would not let him read the sudden horror in

hers. "All right; take it," and he placed the revolver in her hand.

"You should know what to do with it." And before she could stop him he

had walked out of the house.

She rushed to the gate, but already the roar of his motor was lost in

the hum of the city's traffic.

CHAPTER TWENTY

When Dave sprang into his car he gave the motor a full head and drove

through the city streets in a fury of recklessness. His mind was

numbed; it was incapable of assorting thoughts and placing them in

proper relationship to each other. His muscles guided the machine

apparently without any mental impulse. He rode it as he had ridden

unbroken bronchos in his far-away boyhood. Only this difference; then

he had no sense of danger; now he knew the danger, and defied it. If

he killed himself, so much the better; if he killed others, so much the

better still. The world was a place without purpose; a chaos of blind,

impotent, struggling creatures, who struggled only because they did not

know they were blind and impotent. Life was a farce and death a big

bluff set up that men might take the farce seriously.

He was soon out of the city, roaring through the still Autumn night

with undiminished speed. Over tortuous country roads, across sudden

bridges, along slippery hillsides, through black bluffs of

scrub-land--in some strange way he tried to drown the uproar in his

soul in the frenzy of the steel that quivered beneath him. On and on,

into the night. Bright stars gleamed overhead; a soft breeze pressed

against his face; it was such a night as he had driven, a year ago,

with Bert Morrison. Was that only a year ago? And what had happened?

Where had he been? Oh, to bring the boy--Charlie, the boy. When was

that? Under the calm heaven his mind was already attempting to

establish a sequence; to set its outraged home again in order.

Suddenly the car skidded on a slippery hillside, turned from the road,

plowed through a clump of scrub, ricochetted against a dark

obstruction, poised a moment on two wheels, turned around and stopped.

The shock brought Dave to his senses; he got out and walked about the

car, feeling the tires with his hands in the darkness. He could

appraise no serious damage. Then he sat on the running board and

stared for a long while into the darkness. "No use being a damned

fool, anyway, Dave," he said to himself, at length. "I got it--where I

didn't expect it--but I guess that's the way with every one. The

troubles we expect, don't happen, and then the trouble that we didn't

expect gets us when we're not watching." He tried to philosophize; to

get a fresh grip on himself. "Where are we, anyway?" he continued.

"This country looks familiar." He got up again and walked about,

finding his way back to the road. He went along it a little way.

Vague impressions suggested that he should know the spot, and yet he

could not identify it. Listen! There was a sound of water. There was

a sighing of the wind in trees; a very low sighing, rather a

whispering, of a gentle wind in trees. The place seemed alive with

spirits; spirits tapping on the door of some long sealed chamber of his

memory.

Then, with a sudden shock, it came to him. It was the hillside on

which Dr. Hardy had come to grief; the hillside on which he had first

seen her bright face, her wonderful eyes---- A poignancy of grief

engulfed him, sweeping away his cheap philosophies. Here she stood,

young and clean and entrancing, thrust before him in an instant out of

the wonderful days of the past. And would she always follow him thus;

would she stand at every road corner, every street corner, on every

prairie hill, in every office hour; must he catch her fragrance in

every breeze; see the glint of her hair in every sunbeam; meet her eyes

for ever--soft eyes now veiled in tears and flashing glimpses of what

might have been? With an unutterable sinking he knew that that was so;

that the world was not big enough to hide him from Irene Hardy. There

was no way out.

He started his motor and, even in his despair, felt a thrill of pride

as the faithful gears engaged, and the car climbed back to its place on

the trail. Was all faithfulness, then, in things of steel and iron,

and none in flesh and blood? He followed the trail. Why stop now?

The long-forgotten ranch buildings lay across the stream and behind the

tongue of spruce trees, unless some wandering foothill fire had

destroyed them. He forded the stream without difficulty. That was

where he had carried her out. . . . He felt his way slowly along the

old fence. That was where she had set up bottles for his marksmanship.

. . . He stopped where the straggling gate should be, and walked

carefully into the yard. That was where she had first called him Dave.

. . . Then he found the doorstep, and sat down to wait.

When the sun was well up he rose and walked about. His lips were

parched; he found himself nibbling them with his teeth, so he went to

the stream. He was thirsty, but he drank only a mouthful; the water

was flat and insipid. . . . The old cabin was in better repair than he

would have thought. He sprung the door open. It was musty and strung

with cobwebs; that was the room she had occupied. He did not go in,

but sat down and tried to think.

Later he walked up the canyon. He must have walked swiftly, for the

sun was not yet at the meridian when he found himself at the little

nook in the rock where he and Irene had sat that afternoon when they

had first laid their hearts open to each other. He tried to recall

that long-forgotten conversation, lacerating himself with the pain of

its tenderness. Suddenly one remark stood up in his memory. "The day

is coming," she had said, "when our country will want men who can shoot

and ride." And he had said, "Well, when it does, it can call on me."

And to-day the country did want men who could shoot and ride, and he

had flown into the foothills to nurse a broken heart. . . . Broken

hearts can fight as well as whole ones. Better, perhaps, because they

don't care. He felt his frame straighten as this thought sank home.

He could be of some use yet. At any rate, there was a way out.

Some whim led him through the grove of spruce trees on his way back to

the ranch. Here, in an open space, he looked about, kicking in the dry

grass. At length his toe disturbed a few bleached bones, and he stood

and looked with unseeing eyes far across the shimmering valley.

"Brownie," he said at length. "Brownie." The whole scene came back

upon him; the moonlight, and Irene's distress, and the little bleeding

body. And he had said he didn't know anything about the justice of

God; all he knew was the crittur that couldn't run was the one that got

caught. . . . And he had said that was life. . . . He had said it was

only nature.

And then they had stood among the trees and beneath the white moon and

pledged their faith. . . .

Again his head went up, and the old light flashed in his eyes. "The

first thing is to kill the wolf," he said aloud. "No other innocent

shall fall to his fangs. Then--my country."

Darkness had again fallen before Dave found his car threading the

streets of the city, still feverish with its new-born excitement of

war. He returned his car to the garage; an attendant looked up

curiously,--it was evident from his glance that Dave had already been

missed--but no words were exchanged. He stood for a moment in the

street collecting his thoughts and rehearsing his resolves. He was

amazed to find that, even in his bitterness, the city reached a

thousand hands to him--hands of habit, and association, and custom of

mind--all urging him back into the old groove; all saying, "The routine

is the thing; be a spoke in the wheel; go 'round with the rest of us."

"No," he reminded himself. "No, I can't do that. I have business on

hand. First--to kill the wolf."

He remembered that he had given his revolver to Irene. And suddenly

she sat with him again at the tea table. . . . Where was he? Yes, he

had given his revolver to Irene. Well, there was another in his rooms.

First to kill the wolf.

In the hallway of the block in which he had his bachelor apartments

Dave almost collided with a woman. He drew back, and the light fell on

his face, but hers was in the shadow. And then he heard her voice.

"Oh, Dave, I'm so glad--why, what has happened?" The last words ran

into a little treble of pain as she noted his haggard face; he had not

eaten for twenty-four hours, nor slept for thirty-six.

"You--Edith," he managed to say. "Whatever----"

She came toward him and placed her hands on his. "I've been here a

hundred times--ever since morning--ever since Bert Morrison called up

to say you had disappeared--that there was some mystery. There isn't,

is there, Dave? You're all right, Dave, aren't you, Dave?"

"I guess I'm all right," he managed to answer, "but I got a job on--an

important job on. I must get it done. There is not time----"

But her woman's intuition had gone far below his idle words. "There is

something wrong, Dave," she said. "You never looked like this before.

Tell me what it is. Tell me, Dave; not that I want to know, for

knowing's sake, but just that I--perhaps I--can help."

Dave was silent for a moment, watching her. She had changed her

position, and he could see her face. Suddenly it occurred to him that

Edith Duncan was beautiful. If she had not quite the fine features of

Irene, she had a certain softness of expression, a certain mellowness,

even tenderness, of lip and eye; a certain womanly delicacy----

"Edith," he said, "you're white. Why is it that the woman a man loves

will fail him, and the woman he only likes--stays true?"

"Oh!" she cried, and he could not guess the depths from which her cry

was wrung. . . . "I should not have asked you, Dave," she said. "I'm

sorry."

They stood a moment, neither wishing to move away. "You said you had

something must be done at once," she reminded him at length.

"Yes," he answered. "I have to kill a man. Then I'm going to join up

with the army."

Her hands were again upon him. "But you mustn't, Dave," she pleaded.

"No matter--no matter _what_--you mustn't do that. That is the one

thing you must not do."

"Edith, you are not a man. You don't understand. That is the one

thing I must do."

"But you can't fight for your country, then. You will only increase

its troubles in these troubled times. Don't think I'm pleading for

_him_, Dave, but for you, for the sake of us--for the sake of

those--who care."

He took her hands in his and raised them to his shoulders and drew her

face close to his. Then, speaking very slowly, and with each word by

itself, "Do you really care?" he said.

"Oh, Dave!"

"Then come to my room and talk to me. Talk to me! Talk to me! For

God's sake talk to me. I must talk to some one."

She followed him. Inside the room he had himself under control again.

The street lights flooded through the windows, so he did not press the

switch. He motioned her to a chair.

And then he told her the story, all he knew.

When he had finished she arose and walked to one of the windows and

stood looking with unseeing eyes upon the street. For the second time

in his life Dave Elden had laid his heart bare to her, and again after

all these years he still talked as friend to friend. That was it. She

was under no delusion. Dave's eyes were as blind to her love as they

had been that night when he had first told her of Irene Hardy. And she

could not tell him. Most of all, she could not tell him now. . . .

Yes, she was very sure of that. If she should tell him now--if she

should let him know--he would turn to her in his grief. He would be

clay in her hands. And afterwards he would despise her for having

taken advantage of his hour of weakness. She had waited all these

years, and still she must wait.

Dave's eyes were upon her form, silhouetted against the window. It

occurred to him that in form Edith was very much like Irene. He

recalled that in those dead past days when they used to ride together

Edith had reminded him of Irene. When she stood silent so long he

spoke again.

"I'm afraid I haven't played a very heroic part," he said, somewhat

shamefacedly. "I should have buried my secret in my heart; buried it

even from you; perhaps most of all from you. I should have faced the

world with a smile, as one who rises above the slings and arrows of

outrageous fortune. People do that kind of thing in books; perhaps

some do in real life. I suppose you can't tell from the outside what

may be carried within--even by your closest friend. But--you can

advise me, Edith. I will value whatever you say."

She trembled until she thought he must see her, and she feared to trust

her voice, but she could delay a reply no longer.

"You are right, Dave," she said at length. "You never can tell what

other people are carrying; perhaps, even, as you say, your closest

friends. The first thing is to get rid of the idea that your

experience is unique; that your lot is harder than that of other

people. It may be different, but it is not harder. When you get that

point of view you will be able to pass sane judgments.

"'And when you can pass sane judgment you may see that the evidence is

not, even at the worst, very conclusive. Why should you take Conward's

word in such a matter as this?"

"I didn't take Conward's word. That's why I didn't kill him at once.

It wasn't his word--it was the insult--that cut. But she tried to save

him. She threw herself upon me. She would have taken the bullet

herself rather than let it find him. That was what--that was what----"

"I know, Dave." She had to hold herself in check lest the tenderness

that welled within her, and would shape words of endearing sympathy in

her mind, should find utterance in speech. "I know, Dave," she said.

"The next thing then is to make sure in your own mind whether you ever

really loved Irene Hardy."

He sprang to his feet. "Loved Irene!" he exclaimed, and she was in a

turmoil of fear and hope that he would approach her. But he paced his

own side of the room.

"Edith," he said, "there is no way of explaining this. You can't

understand. I know you have given yourself up to a life of service,

and I honour you very much, and all that, but there are some things you

won't be able to understand. You can't understand just how much I

loved Irene."

"I think I can," she answered, quietly. "You have kept your love

faithful and single for a dozen years, and I--I think I can understand.

But that isn't why I asked. Because if you loved Irene a week ago you

love her to-night."

"Have you never known of love being turned to hate?"

"No. Other impulses may be, but not love. Love can no more turn to

hate than sunlight can turn to darkness. Believe me, Dave, if you hate

Irene now you never loved her. Listen:

"'Love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things,

_endureth_ all things!'"

"Not all things, Edith; not all things."

"It says _all_ things."

Dave was silent for some time. When he spoke again she caught a

different sound in his voice; a tone as though his soul in those few

moments had gone through a life-time of experience.

"Edith," he said, "when you repeated those words I knew you had

something that I have not. I knew it, not by the words, but by the way

you said them. You made me feel that you were not setting a higher

standard for me than you would accept for yourself. You made me _know_

that in your own life, if you loved, you would be ready to endure all

things. Tell me, Edith, how may this thing be done?"

She trembled with delight at the new tone in his voice, for she knew

that in that hour Dave had crossed a boundary of his life and entered

into a new and richer field of existence. She knew that for him life

would never again be the empty, flippant, selfish, irresponsible thing

which in the past he had called life. He was already beginning to

taste of that wine of compensation provided for those who pass through

the valley of sorrow.

"In your case," she said, "the course is simple. It is just a case of

forgiving."

He gazed for a time into the street, while thoughts of bitterness and

revenge fought for domination of his mind. "Edith," he said at length,

"must I--forgive?"

"I do not say you must," she answered. "I merely say if you are wise

you will. Forgiveness is the balm of our moral life, by which we keep

the wounds of the soul from festering and poisoning the spirit.

Nothing, it seems to me, is so much misunderstood as forgiveness. The

popular idea is that the whole benefit of forgiveness is to the person

who is forgiven. Really, there is a very much greater benefit to the

person who forgives. The one who is forgiven may merely escape

punishment, but the one who forgives experiences a positive spiritual

expansion. Believe me, Dave, it is the only philosophy which rings

true under the most critical tests; which is absolutely dependable in

every emergency."

"Is that Christianity?" he ventured.

"It is one side of Christianity. The other side is service. If you

are willing to forgive and ready to serve I don't think you need worry

much over the details of your creed. Creeds, after all, are not

expressed in words, but in lives. When you know how a man lives you

know what he believes--always."

"Suppose I forgive--what then?"

"Service. You are needed right now, Dave--forgive my frankness--your

country needs you right now. You have the qualities which make you

extremely valuable. You must dismiss this grievance from your mind, at

least dismiss your resentment over it, and then place yourself at the

disposal of your country. The way is so clear that it cannot be

misunderstood."

"That is what I had been thinking of," he said. "At least that part

about serving my country, although I don't think my motives were as

high as you would make them. But the war can't last. It'll be all

over before I can take a hand. Civilization has gone too far for such

a thing as this to last. It is unbelievable."

"I'm not so sure," she answered, gravely. "Of course, I know nothing

about Germany. But I do know something about our own people. I know

how selfish and individualistic and sordid and money-grabbing we have

been; how slothful and incompetent and self-satisfied we have been, and

I fear it will take a long war and sacrifices and tragedies altogether

beyond our present imagination to make us unselfish and public-spirited

and clean and generous; it will take the strain and emergency of war to

make us vigorous and efficient; it will take the sting of many defeats

to impose that humility which will be the beginning of our

regeneration. I am not worrying about the defeat of Germany. If our

civilization is better than that of Germany we shall win, ultimately,

and if our civilization is worse than that of Germany we shall be

defeated, ultimately,--and we shall deserve to be defeated. But I

rather think that neither of these alternatives will be the result. I

rather think that the test of war will show that there are elements in

German civilization which are better than ours, and elements in our

civilization which are better than theirs, and that the good elements

will survive and form the basis of a new civilization better than

either."

"If that is so," Dave replied, "if this war is but the working out of

immutable law which proposes to put all the elements of civilization to

the supreme test and retain only those which are justifiable by that

test, why should I--or any one else--fight? And," he added as an

after-thought, "what about that principle of forgiveness?"

"We must fight," she answered, "because it is the law that we must

fight; because it is only by fighting that we can justify the

principles for which we fight. If we hold our principles as being not

worth fighting for the new civilization will throw those principles in

the discard. And that, too, covers the question of forgiveness.

Forgiveness, in fact, does not enter into the consideration at all. We

must fight, not because we hate Germany, but because we love certain

principles which Germany is endeavouring to overthrow. The impulse

must be love, not hate."

She had turned and faced him while she spoke, and he felt himself

strangely carried away by the earnestness and fervour of her argument.

What a wonderful woman she was! How she had stripped the issue of the

detail and circumstance which was confusing even statesmen, and laid it

before him in positive terms which he could find no argument to

dispute! And how in his hour of distress, when he stood on the verge

of utter recklessness and indifference, she had infused into him a

strange and new ambition--an ambition which deepened and enriched every

phase of life, and yet which held life itself less worthy than its own

attainment! And as he looked at her he again thought of Irene, and

suddenly he felt himself engulfed in a great tenderness, and he knew

that even yet----

"What am I to do?" he said. "I am willing to accept your philosophy.

I admit that mine has broken down, and I am willing to try yours. What

am I to do?"

In the darkness of her own shadow she set her teeth for that answer.

It was to be the crowning act of her self-renunciation, and it strained

every fibre of her resolution. She could not allow him to stay where

he was, even in uniform. The danger was two-fold. In a moment of

weakness he would probably shoot Conward, and in a moment of weakness

she would probably disclose her love. And if Dave should ever marry

her he must win her first.

"You had better go overseas and enlist in England," she told him

calmly, although her nails were biting her palms. "You will get

quicker action that way. And when you come back you must see Irene,

and you must learn from your own heart whether you really loved her or

not. And if you find you did not, then--then you will be free

to--to--to think of some other woman."

"I am afraid I shall never care to think of any other woman," he

answered. "Except you. But some way you're different. I don't think

of you as a woman, you know; not really, in a way. I can't explain it,

Edith, but you're something more--something better than all that."

"I assure you I am very much a woman--"

But he had sprung to his feet. "Edith, I can never thank you enough

for what you have said to me to-night. You have put some spirit back

into my body. I am going to follow your advice. There's a train east

in two hours and I'm going on it. Fortunately my property, or most of

it, has dissolved the way it came. I must pack a few things, and have

a bath and shave and dress."

She moved toward him with extended hand. "Good-bye, Dave," she said.

He held her hand fast in his. "Good-bye, Edith. I can never forget--I

can never repay--all you have been. It may sound foolish to you after

all I have said, but I sometimes wonder if--if I had not met

Irene--if----" He paused and went hot with embarrassment. What would

she think of him? An hour ago he had been ready to kill or be killed

in grief over his frustrated love, and already he was practically

making love to her. Had he brought her to his rooms for this? What a

hypocrite he was!

"Forgive me, Edith," he said, as he released her. "I am not quite

myself. . . . I hold you in very high respect as one of God's good

women. Good-bye."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

When Irene Hardy pursued Dave from the house the roar of his motor car

was already drowned in the hum of the city streets. Hatless she ran

the length of a full block; then, realizing the futility of such a

chase, returned with almost equal haste to her home. She burst in and

discovered Conward holding a bottle of smelling salts to the nose of

her mother, who had sufficiently recovered to sit upright in her chair.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded of Conward. "Why did he

threaten to shoot, and why did he leave as he did? You know; tell me."

"I am sure I wish I could tell you," said Conward, with all his

accustomed suavity. In truth Conward, having somewhat recovered from

his fright, was in rather good spirits. Things had gone better than he

had dared to hope. Elden was eliminated, for the present at any rate,

and now was the time to win Irene. Not just now, perhaps, but soon,

when the shock of her interrupted passion turned her to him for

companionship.

She stood before him, flushed and vibrating, and with flashing eyes.

"You're lying, Conward," she said, deliberately. "First you lied to

him and now you lie to me. There can be no other explanation. Where

is that gun? He said I would know what to do with it."

"I have it," said Conward, partly carried off his feet by her violence.

"I will keep it until you are a little more reasonable, and, perhaps, a

little more respectful."

"Irene," said Mrs. Hardy, sharply, "what way is that to speak to Mr.

Conward? You are out of your head, child. Such a scene, Mr. Conward.

Such a scene in my house! That cow _puncher_! I always knew it would

come out some time. It is breeding that tells, Mr. Conward. Oh, if

the papers should learn of this!"

"That's all you think of," Irene retorted. "A scene, and the papers.

You don't trouble to even wonder what was the occasion of the scene.

You and this--this _biped_, are at the bottom of it. You have been

planning to force me along a course I will not go, and you have done

something, something horrible--I don't know what--to cause Dave to act

as he did. But I'm going to know. I'm going to find out. You're

afraid of the papers. I'm not. I'll give the whole story to them

to-morrow. I'll tell that you insulted him, Conward, and how you stood

there, a grinning, gaping coward under the muzzle of his gun. How I

wish I had a photograph of it," she exclaimed, with a little hysterical

laugh. "It would look fine on the front page." She broke into peals

of laughter and rushed up the stairs.

In the morning she was very sober and pale, and marks of distress and

sleeplessness were furrowed in her face. She greeted her mother with

cold civility, and left her breakfast untouched. She gave part of her

morning to Charlie; it was saving balm to her to have some one upon

whom she could pour affection. Then she went to the telephone. She

called Dave's office; nothing was known of Mr. Elden; he had been

working there last night; he was not down yet. She called his

apartments; there was no answer. Then, with a bright thought, she

called the garage. Mr. Elden's car was out; had not been in at all

during the night. Then she tried a new number.

"Hello, is that the office of _The Call_? Will you let me speak to----"

Her mother interrupted almost frantically. "Irene, you are not going

to tell the papers? You mustn't do that. Think of what it means--the

disgrace--a shooting affair, almost, in our home. Think of me, your

mother----"

"I'll think of you on one consideration--that you explain what happened

last night, and tell me where Dave Elden is."

"I can't explain. I don't know. And I don't know----"

"And you don't want to know. And you don't care, so long as you can

keep it out of the papers. I do. I'm going to find out the facts

about this, if every paper in the country should print them. Hello?

Yes, I want to speak to Miss Morrison."

In a few words she explained Dave's sudden disappearance, stripping the

incident of all but vital facts. Bert Morrison was all sympathy.

"It's a big story, you know," she said, "but we won't think of it that

way. Not a line, so far as I am concerned. Edith Duncan is the girl

we need. A sort of adopted sister to Dave. She may know more than any

of us."

But Edith knew absolutely nothing; nothing, except that her own heart

was thrown into a turmoil of emotions. She spent the day and the

evening down town, rotating about the points where Dave might likely be

found. And the next morning she called on Irene Hardy.

In spite of all her efforts at self-control she trembled as she pressed

the bell; trembled violently as she waited for the door to open. She

had never met Irene Hardy; it was going to be a strange experience,

introducing herself to the woman who had been preferred over her, and

who had, apparently, proven so unworthy of that preference. She had

difficult things to say, and even while she said them she must fight a

battle to the death with the jealousy of her natural womanhood. And

she must be very, very careful that in saying things which were hard to

say she did not say hard things. And, most difficult of all, she must

try to pave the way to a reconciliation between Dave and the woman who

stood between her and happiness.

Irene attended the door, as was her custom. Her eyes took in Edith's

face and figure with mild surprise; Edith was conscious of the process

of a quick intellect endeavouring to classify her;--solicitor, music

teacher, business girl? And in that moment of pause she saw Irene's

eyes, and a strange commotion of feeling surged through her. There was

something in those eyes that suggested to Edith a new side to Dave's

nature; it was as though the blind had suddenly been drawn from strange

chambers of his soul. So this was the woman Dave had chosen to love.

No; one does not choose whom one will love; one loves without choosing.

Edith was conscious of that; she knew that in her own life. And even

as she looked this first time upon Irene she became aware of a subtle

attraction gathering about her; she felt something of that power which

had held Dave to a single course through all these years. And suddenly

a great new truth was born in Edith Duncan. Suddenly she realized that

if the steel at any time prove unfaithful to the magnet the fault lies

not in the steel, but in the magnet. What a change of view, what a

reversion of all accepted things, came with the realization of that

truth which roots down into the bedrock of all nature! . . .

"Won't you come in?" Irene was saying. Her voice was sweet and

musical, but there was a note of sadness in it which set responsive

chords atremble all through Edith's heart. Must she love this woman?

Must she, in spite of herself, love this, of all women?

"I am Edith Duncan," she managed to say. "I--I think I have something

to say that may interest you."

There was a quick leap in Irene's eyes; the leap of that intuitive

feminine sense of danger which so seldom errs in dealing with its own

sex, and is yet so unreliable a defence from the dangers of the other.

Mrs. Hardy was in the living-room. "Won't you come up to my work

shop?" Irene answered without change of voice, and they ascended the

stairs together.

"I draw a little," Irene was saying, talking fast. "Oh yes, I have

quite commercialized my art, such as it is. I draw pictures of shoes,

and shirt waists, and other women's wear which really belong to the

field of a feminine artist. But I haven't lost my soul altogether. I

daub in colour a little--yes, daub, that's the word. But it keeps

one's soul alive. You will hardly recognize that," she said,

indicating an easel, "but here is the original." She ran up the blind

of the window which looked from the room out to the westward, and far

over the brown shoulders of the foothills rose the Rockies, majestic,

calm, imperturbable, their white summits flashing in the blaze of

autumn sunshine. "No warfare there," Irene went on. "No plotting, no

cruelty, no cowardice, no misunderstanding. And to think that they

will stand there forever; forever, as we know time; when our city, our

civilization, the very memory of our age shall have gone out. I never

look at them without feeling how--how--how----"

She trembled, and her voice choked; she put out her arm to a chair.

When she turned her face there were tears on it. . . . "Tell

me,--Edith," she said. . . . "You know" . . .

"I know some things," Edith managed to say. "I know, _now_, that I do

not know all. Dave and I are old friends--my father took a liking to

him and he used often to be in our house--he made him think of our own

boy that was killed and would have been just his age--and we got to

know each other very well and he told me about you, long ago. And last

night I found him at his rooms, almost mad, and swearing to shoot

Conward. And then he told me that--that----"

"Yes? Yes? What did he tell you? I am not afraid----"

Edith turned her eyes to where the white crests of the mountains cut

like a crumpled keel through a sea of infinite blue. "He told me he

saw Conward here . . . upstairs . . . and Conward made a boast . . .

and he would have shot him but you rushed upon him and begged him not

to. He said you would have taken the bullet yourself rather than it

should find Conward."

"Oh, oh," the girl cried, in the pain of one mortally hurt. "How could

he think that? I didn't care for him--for Conward--but for Dave. I

knew there had been a quarrel--I didn't know why--and I knew if Dave

shot him--and he _can_ shoot--I've seen him break six bottles out of

six on the gallop--it wasn't self-defence--whatever it was he couldn't

plead that--and they'd hang him, and that was all I saw, Edith, that

was all I saw, and I would--yes I _would_ rather have taken the bullet

myself than that that should happen----"

"You poor girl!" said Edith. "You poor girl," and her arms found the

other's neck. "You have been hurt, hurt." And then, under her breath,

"More than me."

. . . "What has he done?"

"He talked his problems over with me, and after he had talked awhile he

became more reasonable. He had already been convinced that he should

offer his services to his country, in these times. And I think I

persuaded him that it was better to leave vengeance where it belonged.

He said he couldn't remain here, and he has already left for England.

I am afraid I encouraged him to leave at once. You see, I didn't

understand."

Irene had taken a chair, and for some minutes she sat in silence. "I

don't blame you," she said at length. "You gave him good advice. And

I don't blame him, although he might have been less ready to jump at

conclusions. There remains only one thing for me to do."

"What?" said Edith, after a moment's hesitation.

"Follow him! I shall follow him, and make him understand. If he must

go into battle--with all that that means--he must go in knowing the

truth. You have been very kind, Miss Duncan. You have gone out of

your way to do me a great service, and you have shown more kindness

than I have any right to claim from a stranger. . . . I feel, too, the

call for vengeance," she exclaimed, springing to her feet, "but first I

must find Dave. I shall follow him at once. I shall readily locate

him in some way through the military service. Everything is organized;

they will be able to find his name."

She accompanied her visitor to the door. They shook hands and looked

for a moment in each other's eyes. And then Edith burst away and

hurried down the street.

Irene had searched London for two weeks. The confidence of her earlier

inquiries had diminished with each successive blind trail, which,

promising results at first, led her into a maze of confusion and

disappointment. The organization of the military service commanded

less enthusiasm than she had felt a month before. She saw it

struggling with the apparently impossible; it was as though she, in her

little studio, had been suddenly called upon to paint all the portraits

in the world . . . In some degree she understood the difficulties. In

equal degree she sympathized with those who were striving to overcome

them and she hung on from day to day in her search with a dogged

determination which set its teeth against admitting that the search was

hopeless. Her little store of money was fast dwindling away; she

looked into the face of every man in uniform with a pathetic

earnestness that more than once caused her to be misunderstood.

At last one great fear had settled on her heart. It came upon her

first suddenly on shipboard; she had resolutely thrown it out of her

mind; but it had been knocking ever since for admittance, and more than

once she had almost let it in. Suppose Dave should not enlist under

his right name? In such a case her chance of finding him was the mere

freak of accidental meeting; a chance not to be banked upon in a

country already swarming with its citizen soldiery. . . . And yet

there was nothing to do but keep on.

She had sought a park bench where groups of soldiers were continually

moving by. The lights shone on their faces, and her own tired eyes

followed them incessantly. Always her ear was alert for a voice that

should set her heart a-pounding, and more than once she had thought she

heard that, voice; more than a score of times she had thought she had

seen that figure with its stride of self-reliance, with strength

bulging in every muscle. And always it had been to learn that she had

been mistaken; always it had been to feel the heart sink just a little

lower than before. And still she kept on. There was nothing to do but

keep on.

Often she wondered how he would receive her. That cold look which had

frozen his features when she seized the revolver in his hand; would it

still sit there, too distant and detached to be even scornful? Would

she have it to break down; must she, with the fire of her own

affection, thaw out an entrance through his icy aloofness? What cost

of humiliation would be the price, and would even any price be

accepted? She could not know; she could only hope and pray and go on.

As she turned her eyes to follow a group of men in uniform she became

aware of a soldier sitting alone in the shadow a short distance away.

Some quality about him caught her attention; his face was not

discernible, and his figure was too much in the shadow to more than

suggest its outline, but she found herself regarding him with an

intentness that set her pulses racing. Some strange attraction raised

her from her seat; she took a step toward him, then steadied herself.

Should she dare risk it again? And yet there was something. . . . She

had a sudden plan. She would make no inquiry, no apology; she would

walk near by and call him by name. If that name meant nothing to him

he would not even notice her presence, but if it should be----

She was within three paces. Still she could discern nothing

definitely, but her pulses were raging more wildly than ever. They had

deceived her before; could it be that they were deceiving her again?

"Dave," she said.

He turned quickly in his seat; the light fell on her face and he saw

her; he was on his feet and had taken a step toward her. Then he

stopped, and she saw his features harden as they had on that dreadful

occasion which now seemed so long ago. Would he turn on his heel? If

he did she must rush upon him. She must tell him now, she must plead

with him, reason with him, prevail upon him at all costs.

"Well?" he said. His voice was mechanical, but in it was something

which quickened her hope; something which suggested that he was making

it mechanical because he dared not let it express the human emotion

which was struggling for utterance.

"Let me talk to you, Dave," she pleaded. "I have followed you around

the world for this. Let me talk. I can explain everything."

He stood still so long that she wondered if he never would speak. She

dared not reach her hands to him, she could only stand and wait.

"Irene," he said, "why did you follow me here?"

"There is only one answer, Dave. Because I love you, and would follow

you anywhere. No one can stop me doing that; no one, Dave--except you."

[Illustration: "There is only one answer, Dave. Because I love you."]

And again he stood, and she knew that he was turning over in his mind

things weightier than life and death, and that when he spoke again his

course would be set. Then, in the partial shadow, she saw his arms

slowly extend; they rose, wide and strong, and extended toward her.

There was a quick step, and they met about her, and the world swooned

and went by. . . .

"I can explain everything," she said, when she could talk.

"You need explain nothing," he returned. "I have lived the torments of

the damned. Edith Duncan was right; she said if it were real love it

would never give up. 'Endureth all things,' she said. 'All things,'

she said. . . . There is no limit."

She caressed his cheeks with her fingers, and knew by the touch that

they were brown again as they had been in those great days of the

foothills. "But I must tell you, dear," she said, "so that you may

understand." And then she patched together the story, from what she

knew, and from what Edith Duncan had told her, and Dave filled in what

neither had known, including the incident earlier on that fateful

evening. She could see his jaws harden as they pieced the plot

together, and she knew what he was thinking.

"Your country needs you more," she whispered. "It is better that way.

And what a man you are in uniform! I think I see you smashing heads

instead of bottles. Six out of six, Dave! It's awful, but you must do

it. Already we know what has happened in Belgium. You will forget

your own wrongs in the greater wrongs of others. . . . And I shall

join the service as a nurse. My father was a doctor, and I can soon

pick it up."

She chatted on, but he had become suddenly grave. "I don't think that

is your course, Irene," he said. "This is going to be a bigger job

than it looked. The Government will get soldiers and nurses; the

popular imagination turns to such things. But it will be neither

soldiers nor nurses that will win the war. I feel sure of that now.

It has come to me, perhaps as a kind of presentiment, but I feel

absolutely sure. The determining factor will be food. The world's

margin is narrow enough in normal times, and now we are plunged into

the abnormal. Millions of men will be taken from production and turned

to purposes of destruction. They will be taken from offices, where

they need little food, and put in the trenches, where they need much

food. Countries will be devastated; armies will retreat, destroying

all food as they go. Ships will go down with cargoes of wheat;

incendiary fires will swallow warehouses of food. I do not regret my

decision, I believe my place is in the trenches; but those less fit for

the fight than I must, in some form or other, produce food. That

includes the women; it includes you."

"Me? But what can I do?"

"Since I left home I've thought a good deal of the old ranch. I

despised it in those prosperous days--those days we thought we were

prosperous--but the prosperity is gone and the ranch remains. It still

lies out there, just as it did when you and your father motored down

that afternoon a dozen years ago. I think you'll have to go back

there, Reenie. I think you'll have to take the boy Charlie, and what

other help you can get, and go back to the old ranch and raise

something for the soldiers to eat. You can do it. There are good men

to be had; men who can't very well carry a rifle, but can drive a plow.

And believe me, Reenie, it's the plow that's going to win. Go back and

put them at it. Think of every furrow as another trench in the

defences which shall save your home from the fate of Belgium's homes.

It's not as easy as going to the front; it hasn't got the heroic ring

to it, and I suppose there are many who will commercialize it. Let

them. We shall need their profits after the war to pay our debts. But

it's the thing that must be done. And you'll do it, won't you?"

"I'll do what ever needs to be done, Dave. I'd rather be by your side,

or as near as may be, but if you say that my duty lies back on the old

ranch I shall go back to the old ranch and raise food for my soldier.

And when it's all over we shall ride those old hillsides again. . . .

Up the canyon, you remember, Dave? The little niche in the wall of the

canyon, and all the silence and the sunlight? . . . Forever. . . ."

CHAPTER XXII

Any philosophy which accepts the principle that the great,

over-shadowing events of life are subject to an intelligent controlling

influence must of necessity grant that the same principle applies to

the most commonplace and every-day experiences. It is impossible to

believe that the World War, for example, has a definite place in the

eternal scheme of the universe without believing the same of the

apparently most trivial incident in the life of Kaiser Wilhelm, Lloyd

George, or Woodrow Wilson, or, for that matter, of the humblest soldier

in the ranks. The course of the greatest stream of events may well be

deflected by incidents so commonplace as to quite escape the notice of

the casual observer.

Some such thought as this comforted me--or, at least, would have

comforted me, had I thought it--when a leaking gasoline tank left me,

literally as well as figuratively, high and dry in the foothills. The

sun of an August afternoon blazed its glory from a cloudless sky; far

across the shimmering hills copper-colored patches of ripening wheat

stood out ruddy and glowing like twentieth century armour on the brown

breast of the prairie; low in a valley to the left a ribbon of

silver-green mountain water threaded its way through fringes of spruce

and cottonwood, while on the uplands beyond sleek steers drowsed in the

sunshine, and far to the westward the Rockies slept unconcerned in

their draperies of afternoon purple. All these scenes the eye took in

without enthusiasm, almost without approval; and then fell on the

whitewashed ranch buildings almost in the shadow underneath. And in

these days a ranch--almost any ranch--means gasoline.

I soon was at the door. The walls had been recently white-washed;

there were new shingles of red cedar on the roof; flowers bloomed by

the path that led down to the corrals. My knock attracted a little

chap of two-and-a-half or three years; his stout hands shoved the

screen back, and I found myself ushered into his company. There

evidently was no one else about, so I visited, and we talked on those

things which are of importance in the world of three-year-olds.

"Muvver's don to the wiver," he confided. "She tum back pwetty soon."

"And Father?" I asked. "Where is he?"

Into the dark eyes came a deeper look; they suddenly shone with the

spirituality of a life only three years removed from the infinite. By

what instruction, I afterwards wondered, by what almost divine charm

had she been able to instil into his young mind the honour and the

glory and the pride of it? For there was pride, and something more

than pride; adoration, perhaps, in his words as he straightened up and

said in perfect English, "My father was a soldier. He was killed at

Courcelette."

I looked in his little, sunburned face; in his dark, proud eyes; and

presently a strange mist enveloped the room. How many little faces,

how many pairs of eyes! It was just fading away when a step sounded on

the walk, and I arose as she reached the door.

"The Man of the House has made me at home," I managed to say. "I am

shipwrecked on the hill, for a little gasoline."

"There is plenty out in the field, where the tractor is," she replied.

"You will find it without difficulty. Or if you care to wait here,

Charlie may be along presently."

Her voice had sweet, modulated tones, with just that touch of pathos

which only the Angel of Suffering knows how to add. And her face was

fair, and gentle, and a little sad, and very sweet.

"He has told me," I said. There seemed no reason why I should not say

it. She had entered into the sisterhood--that universal sisterhood of

suffering which the world has known in these long, lonely years. . . .

And it was between us, for we were all in the family. There was no

occasion to scrape acquaintance by slow, conventional thrust and parry.

"Yes," she said, sitting down, and motioning me to a chair. "I was

bitter at first. I was dreadfully bitter at first. But gradually I

got a different view of it. Gradually I came to feel and know that all

we can feel and know here is on the surface; on the outside, as you

might say, and we can't know the purpose until we are inside. It is as

though life were a riddle, and the key is hidden, and the door behind

which the key is hidden is called Death. And I don't believe it's all

for nothing; I won't believe it's all for nothing. If I believed it

was all for nothing I would quit; we would all quit.

"Then there is the suffering," she continued, after a pause. "I don't

know why there should be suffering, but I know if there were no

suffering there would be no kindness. It is not until you are

hit--hard hit--that you begin to think of other people. Until then all

is selfishness. But we women--we women of the war--we have nothing

left to be selfish for. But we have the whole world to be unselfish

for. It's all different, and it can never go back. We won't let it go

back. We've paid too much to let it go back."

It was hard to find a reply. "I think I knew your husband, a little,"

I ventured. "He was a--a man."

"He was all that," she said. She arose and stood for a moment in an

attitude of hesitation; her fingers went to her lips as though

enjoining caution. Then, with quick decision, she went into an inner

room, from which she returned with a letter.

"If you knew him you may care to read this," she said. "It's very

personal, and yet, some way, everything is impersonal now, in a sense.

There has been such a common cause, and such a wave of common

suffering, that it seems to flood out over the individual and embrace

us all. Individualism is gone. It's the community now; the state;

mankind, if you like, above everything. I suppose, so far as German

kultur stands for that, it has been imposed upon the world. . . . So

this is really, in a sense, your letter as well as mine."

I took it and read:

I have had many letters to write since my service began as a nurse in

the war, but never have I approached the task with such mixed emotions.

The pain I must give you I would gladly bear myself if I could; but it

is not all pain; underneath it, running through it in some way I cannot

explain, is a note so much deeper than pain that it must be joy.

You will already have been advised that David Elden was among those who

fell at Courcelette. It is trite to say that you have the sympathy of

a grateful nation. How grateful the nation really is we shall know by

its treatment of the heroes who survive the war, and of the dependents

of those who have crossed over. But nothing can rob you of the

knowledge that he played a man's part. Nothing can debar you from that

universal fellowship of sympathy which is springing up wherever manhood

is valued at its worth.

A new Order has been born into the world; the Order of Suffering. Not

that it is new, either; it has been with us since the first mother went

into the shadow for her first child; but always suffering has been

incidental; a matter of the individual; a thing to be escaped if

possible. But now it is universal, a thing not to be escaped, but to

be accepted, readily, bravely, even gladly. And all who so accept it

enter into the new Order, and wear its insignia, which is unselfishness

and sympathy and service. And in that Order you shall not be least,

measured by either your sacrifice or the spirit in which you accept it.

But you are yearning for his last word; for some voice that will seem

to you now almost a voice out of the grave, and I am happy to be able

to bring you that word. It was something more than chance that guided

me that night, as it is every night.

We were well behind the line of actual fighting, but still in the

danger zone of artillery fire. Night had settled in; all was darkness

save for occasional distant flares. I had become detached from my

party in moving to another station; lost, if you like, yet not lost;

never have I gone so directly to so great a destination. While trying

to get my location I became aware of a presence; it will sound strange

to you, but I became intensely aware of _your_ presence. Of course I

knew it could not be you, in the flesh, but you it seemed to be,

nevertheless. I moved as though led by an invisible hand, and

presently I found a bit of shattered wall. In the gloom I could just

discern the form of a man lying in the shelter of the wall--if you

could call it shelter--it rose scarce a foot above the ground.

I knelt beside him and turned my torch on to his face. It was pale

even through the brown skin; the eyes were closed; the hair was wet and

plastered on the forehead; there were smears of blood in it and on his

cheeks. As my light fell on his lips they framed a smile.

"Reenie," he said. "It was good of you to come. I knew you would

come."

"I am here, Dave," I answered, and I think you will forgive me the

impersonation. "Now let me find out where you are hurt, and we'll fix

you up, and get you moved presently."

He opened his eyes and looked at me with the strange look of a man

whose thread of consciousness is half unravelled. "Oh, it's you,

Edith," he said, when he had taken me in. "Funny, I thought it was

Irene. I must have been dreaming."

I questioned him again about his wound, and began feeling his hair.

"It's not there," he said. "Guess I got it all over my hands. They

got me this time. Shrapnel, in the body. Don't waste time on me.

Some other fellow may have a chance."

I found, with a little examination, that the case was as bad as he

supposed. Fortunately, the wound had induced a local paralysis, and he

was not suffering to any great degree. I placed my hand in his and

felt his grip tighten on it.

"I'm going to stay till it's over, Dave. We'll see it out together."

"That's decent," he answered, and then was still for quite a time.

"I've often wondered what was on the other side," he said at length.

"I shall know presently."

"You are not afraid?" I whispered.

"No. Only sort of--curious. And--reverent. I guess it's

reverent. . . You know I haven't been much on religion. Never seemed

to get the formula. What is the formula? I mean the key--the thing

that gives it all in one word?"

"In one word--sacrifice."

"I walked out of church once because of some doctrine about sacrifice,"

he continued. "I couldn't go it. . . And yet--there may be something

in it. It's sacrifice here, Edith. War is sacrifice. Sacrifice for

other people. It's not all on the surface. There's something deeper

than we know."

"'He that loseth his life shall find it,'" I quoted.

He did not answer, but I could see his lips smiling again. His breath

was more labored. A few drops of rain fell, and some of them spattered

on his face.

Presently he chuckled. It was an eerie sensation, out on that broad

plain of death, alone by the side of this man who was already far into

the shadow,--to hear him chuckle.

"That splash of water--you remember--it made me think of the time we

pulled the old car into the stream, and the harness broke, or

something, and I had to carry you. You remember that, Reenie?" I

could only say "Yes," and press his hand. His mind was back on the

old, old trails.

He became suddenly sober. "And when Brownie was killed," he went on,

"I said it was the innocent thing that got caught. Perhaps I was

right. But perhaps it's best to get caught. Not for the getting

caught, but for the--the compensations. It's the innocent men that are

getting killed. And perhaps it's best. Perhaps there are

compensations worth while."

His voice was weaker, and I had to lean close to catch his words.

"I'm going--out," he said. "Kiss me, Reenie."

And then I kissed him--for you.

Suddenly he sat up.

"The mountains!" he exclaimed, and his voice was a-thrill with the

pride of his old hills. "See, the moonlight--on the mountains!"

Then his strength, which seemed to have gathered itself for this one

last vision of the place of his boyhood, gave way, and he fell back.

And he did not speak any more.

And what can I add? Dear, it is not defeat. It is promise. It is

hope.

Some day we shall know. But until then we shall go on. It is woman's

bit to carry on. But not in despondency; not in bitterness; not in

anger or despair. _He_ didn't go out that way. He was reverent--and a

little curious, and he went out with a smile. And we shall go on, and

carry his smile and his confidence through the valley of our sacrifice.

What am I doing, speaking of _our_ sacrifice?

I salute you, sister in the Order of Suffering--and of hope.

EDITH DUNCAN.

I handed the letter back to her, and for a time I had no words. "Won't

you let me tell the story?" I said at length. "The world is full of

sorrow, and it needs voices to give that sorrow words, and perhaps turn

it into hope--as this letter does."

She hesitated, and I realized then how much I had asked. "It is the

story of my life--my soul," she said. "Yet, if it would help----"

"Without names," I hastened to explain. "Without real names of places

or people."

And so, in that little white-washed home, where the brown hills rise

around and the placid mountains look down from the distance, and a

tongue of spruce trees beyond the stream stands sentinel against the

open prairie, she is carrying on, not in despondency and bitterness,

but in service and in hope. And so her sisters, all this world over,

must carry on, until their sweetness and their sacrifice shall fill up

and flood over all the valleys of hate. . . . And if you should chance

that way, and if you should win the confidence of young Three-year-old,

he may stand for you and say, with his voice filled with the honour and

the glory and the pride of it,

"My father was a soldier. He was killed at Courcelette."

THE END