AT THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
The days that followed brought uncertainty and doubt to the heart and
mind of John Saxton. He had seen Evelyn several times before she left
home, on occasions when he went to the house with Fenton for conferences
with her father. He had intended saying good-by to her, but the Porters
went hurriedly at last and he was not sorry; it was easier that way. But
Mrs. Whipple, who was exercising a motherly supervision over John, had
exacted a promise from him to come to Orchard Lane during the time that
she and the general were to be with the Porters in their new cottage.
When he went East, Saxton settled down at his club in Boston, and
pretended that it was good to be at home again; but he went about with
homesickness gnawing his heart. He had reason to be happy and satisfied
with himself. He had practically concluded the difficult work which he
had been sent to Clarkson to do; he had realized more money from their
assets than the officers of the trust company had expected; and they
held out to him the promise of employment in their Boston office as a
reward. So he walked the familiar streets planning his future anew. He
had succeeded in something at last, and he would stay in Boston,
having, he told himself, earned the right to live there. The assistant
secretaryship of the trust company, which had been mentioned to him,
would be a position of dignity and promise. He had never hoped to do so
well. Moreover, it would be pleasant to be near his sister, who lived at
Worcester. There were only the two of them, and they ought to live near
together.
It is, however, an unpleasant habit of the fates never to suffer us to
debate simple problems long; they must throw in new elements to puzzle
us. While he deferred going to Orchard Lane a new perplexity confronted
him. One of Margrave's "people" came from New York as the representative
of the syndicate that had purchased the Clarkson Traction Company, and
sought an interview. John had met this gentleman at the time the sale
was closed; he was a person of consequence in the financial world, who
came quickly to the point of his errand. He offered John the position of
general manager of the company.
Margrave, it appeared, was not to have full swing after all. He was to
be president, but John's visitor intimated broadly that the position was
to be largely honorary. They had looked into the matter thoroughly in
New York and were anxious that the policy and methods of the
receivership should continue. Mr. Margrave was an invaluable man, said
the New Yorker, but his duties with the railroad company had so
multiplied that he would be unable to give the necessary care to the
street car management. John should have absolute authority. The
syndicate would be greatly disappointed if he declined. A salary was
named which was larger than John had ever dreamed of receiving in any
occupation; and they wished an answer within a few days. John Saxton was
human, and it was not easy to decline a salary of six thousand dollars
for services which he knew he could perform, offered to him by a
gentleman whom people were not in the habit of refusing. He remained
indoors at the club all day, smoking many pipes in a fruitless effort to
reconcile his resolves with his new problems.
The next day he thought he saw it all more clearly. Perhaps, he
reflected, life in Boston would become endurable; there was his sister
to consider, and he owed something to her; she was all he had. He went
out and walked aimlessly through the hot streets, little heeding what he
did. He realized presently that he had gone into a railway office and
asked for a suburban time table. He carried this back to the club, where
the atmosphere of his cool, quiet room soothed him; and he lay down on a
couch and studied the list of Orchard Lane trains. He found that he
could run out almost any hour of the day. He slept and woke refreshed,
with the time table still grasped in his hand. He had been very foolish,
he concluded; it would be a simple matter to go out to Orchard Lane to
call on the Porters and Whipples, and he picked out one of the afternoon
trains and marked it on the folder with a lead pencil. He spent the
evening writing letters,--in particular a letter to the representative
of the Clarkson Traction syndicate, declining the general managership;
and the next afternoon when he went up to Orchard Lane he carried the
letter sealed and stamped in his pocket, as a kind of talisman that
would assure his safety.
It suited his righteous mood that he should find no one at home at Red
Gables but Mr. Porter, who played golf all the morning and slept and
experimented at landscape gardening all the afternoon. He welcomed John
with unwonted cordiality, in the inexplicable way people have of being
friendlier with a fellow townsman away from their common habitat than at
home. He led the way to a cool and cozy corner of the broad veranda,
where Japanese screens made a pleasant nook. The afternoon sea shimmered
beyond the trees; the lawn was tended with urban care. Porter was very
proud of the place and listened with approval to John's praise of it.
"Well, sir; it's cooler than Clarkson."
"A trifle, yes; the efforts of the Clarkson papers to make a summer
resort of the town were never very successful." John's eyes rested on a
wicker table where there were books and a little sewing basket, which it
wrung his heart to see.
"Folks are all off somewhere. The Whipples are in town. Grant's gone
sailing and Evelyn's out visiting or attending a push of some kind up
the shore. But I guess I know when I've got a good thing. You don't
catch me gadding into town when I've got a cool place to sit." He
stretched his short legs comfortably. "I hope you'll smoke a cigar if
you've got one. They've cut mine off, and Evelyn won't let me keep any
around; thinks they'd be too much of a temptation."
"It's just as well to keep away from temptation," said John, not
thinking of cigars. The sight of Porter and the mention of Clarkson
brought his homesickness to an acute stage.
"I suppose our old friend Margrave's enjoying himself running the
Traction Company by this time," continued Porter. "Well, sir; I guess he
can have it. I thought for a while that I wanted it myself, but Fenton
talked me out of it. It will pay, if they run it right; yes, sir; it's a
good thing. But the trouble with Margrave is that he won't play square.
It ain't in him. He's so crooked that they'll never find a coffin for
him,--no, sir; not in stock; I guess it'll tax the manufacturer to his
full capacity to fit Tim. But he seems to have those Transcontinental
people on the string, and they're smart fellows, too. I reckon
Margrave's a handy man for them. They used to say _I_ was crooked,"--he
twirled his straw hat, and changed the position of his legs; "but I
guess that for pure sinuosity I was never in Tim Margrave's class. Well,
Tim's a good enough fellow when all's said and done!"
"They say of him that he always stands by his friends," said John. "And
that's a good deal."
"That's right. It's a whole lot," Porter assented.
There were some details connected with the final transfer of the
Traction Company to Margrave's syndicate which Porter had not fully
understood, or which Fenton had purposely kept from him; and he pressed
John for new light on these matters. John answered or parried as he
thought wisest. He was surprised to find how completely Porter had freed
himself from business; the sometime banker talked of Clarkson affairs
with an accentuation of the past tense, as if to wave them all away as
far as possible. Events in themselves did not interest him particularly;
but he took a mildly patronizing tone in philosophizing about them. He
drew from John the fact that most of the property of the Neponset Trust
Company in the Trans-Missouri region had been sold.
"That's good. I guess you've done pretty well for them, Saxton. But I
hope we shan't lose you from Clarkson. We need young men out there; and
I guess we've got as good a town as there is anywhere west of Chicago."
"I'm sure of that," said John; and he rose to go.
"I'm sorry the rest of them are not here," said Mr. Porter. "Evelyn
ought to have been home before this. But you must come again. Come out
and try the golf course and have dinner with us any time. I'm playing a
little myself this summer. Evelyn and Grant can outdrive me all right;
but they're not in it with me on putting. I'm one of the warmest putters
on the links. You can find the shore path this way." He led John to an
exit at the rear of the house, where there was an old apple orchard.
"After you pass the lighthouse you come to a road that leads right into
the village."
John left his greetings for the rest of the household and turned away.
It had all happened much more easily than he had expected. He had burned
all his bridges behind him now; he would mail his letter in the village;
not that it would be delivered any sooner, but because it fell in with
his spirit of renunciation that it should go hence with the Orchard Lane
postmark.
He took it from his pocket and carried it in his hand. He found the walk
very pleasant, with the rough shore of the bay on one hand and pretty
villas on the other. Orchard Lane was not wholly a fiction of
nomenclature. There were veritable lanes that survived the coming of
fashion and wealth, and spoke of simpler times on these northern shores.
The path was not altogether straight, but described a tortuous line past
the lighthouse which crouched on a point of the bay. There was a train
at six o'clock; it was now five and he loitered along, stopping often to
look out upon the sea. A group of people was gathered about a tea table
on the sloping lawn in front of one of the houses. The colors of the
women's dresses were bright against the dark green. It was a gay
company; their laughter floated out to him mockingly. He wondered
whether Evelyn was there, as he passed on, beating the rocky path with
his stick.
Evelyn was not there; but her destination was that particular lawn and
its tea table. Turning a fresh bend in the path he came upon her. He had
had no thought of seeing her; yet she was coming down the path toward
him, her picture hat framed in the dome of a blue parasol. He had
renounced her for all time, and he should greet her guardedly; but the
blood was singing in his temples and throbbing in his finger tips at the
sight of her.
"This is too bad!" she exclaimed, as they met. "I hope you can come back
to the house."
She walked straight up to him and gave him her hand in her quick, frank
way.
"I'm sorry, but I must go in to town on this next train," he answered.
He turned in the path and walked along beside her.
"This happened to be one of our scattering days, for all except father."
"We had a nice talk, he and I. Your place is charming."
They descended the shore path until they came to the villa where the tea
drinkers were assembled.
"Don't let me detain you. I'm sure you were going to join these lotus
eaters."
"I don't believe they need me," she answered, evasively. "They seem
pretty busy. But if you're hungry--or thirsty, I can get something for
you there." They passed the gate, walking slowly along. He knew that he
ought to urge her to stop, and that he must hurry on to catch his train;
but it was too sweet to be near her; this was the last time and it was
his own!
"I seem to remember your tea drinking ways," she said. "You use only
sugar and the hot water."
"But that was in the winter," he responded. He wished she had not
referred to that afternoon, when he had been weak, just as he was
proving weak now. A yacht was steaming slowly into the bay. It was a
pretty, white plaything and they paused and commended its good qualities
with the easy certainty of superficial knowledge. They walked on,
passing the lighthouse, and slowly nearing the entrance to Red Gables.
She led the talk easily and her light-heartedness added to his
depression; every step he took was an error; but he would leave her at
the gate when they came to it and go on to the village and his train.
She paused abruptly and looked across a meadow which lay between them
and the Red Gables orchard.
"I really believe it's a cow; yes, it is a cow," she declared, with
quiet conviction.
"I thought it was a yacht. Was I as dull as that?" he demanded.
"Be it far from me to say; but I was getting a little breathless. Even
the professional monologuists in the vaudeville have to rest."
He was not in a humor for frivolous conversation; but she had never been
so gay. He had committed himself to general chaos and yet she was
smiling amid the ruin of the world.
"I don't believe there are any letter boxes along here," she continued,
looking straight ahead. He remembered his letter; he was stupidly
carrying it in his hand; his fingers were cramped from their clutch upon
it. It was not easy to resist her mood, and he now laughed in spite of
himself.
"I'm disappointed. I thought they had all the necessities of a
successful summer resort here,--even mails."
"Rather poor, don't you think? I suppose you were carrying the letter to
get an opening for that."
They paused and John held open the little gate in the stone wall. He was
grave again, and something of his seriousness communicated itself to
her. Clearly, he thought, this was the parting of the ways. He had not
relaxed his hold upon the letter; it was a straw at which he clutched
for support.
"Won't you come in? There are plenty of trains and we'd like you to dine
with us."
A great wave of loneliness and yearning swept over him. Her invitation
seemed to create new and limitless distances that stretched between
them. In fumbling with the latch of the gate he had dropped his letter.
The wind caught and carried it out into the grass.
He went soberly after it and picked it up. There was a dogged
resignation in his step as he walked slowly across the grass. While he
was securing the bit of paper, she sat down on a rustic bench and waited
for him.
"The fates don't agree with you about the letter, Mr. Saxton. You were
looking for a letter box and they tried to thwart you."
"I'm not superstitious," said John, smiling a little.
"One needn't be,--to act on the direct hints of Providence."
She sat at comfortable ease on the bench, holding her parasol across her
lap. There was room for two, and John sat down.
"Suppose it were a check on an overdrawn account; would Providence
intervene to prevent an overdraft?"
"That's a commercial hypothesis; I think we should be above such
considerations." Then they were silent. John bent forward with his
elbows on his knees, playing with his stick and still holding the
letter. The wind came up out of the sea and blew in their faces. The
brass mountings of the yacht shone resplendent in the slanting rays of
the lowering sun. It was very calm and restful in the orchard. Two
robins came and inspected them, and then flew away to one of the gnarled
old trees to gossip about them.
"It happens to be important," said John, indicating the letter.
[Illustration]
"Oh, pardon me!" with real contrition. It was not her way to flirt with
a young man over a letter. John held up the envelope so that she saw the
superscription. She knew the name very well. It was constantly in the
newspapers, and the owner of it had dined once at her father's house.
"He's the head of the syndicate that has bought the Traction Company. He
has asked me to stay in Clarkson and run the street cars."
"That's very nice. But merit gets rewarded sometimes."
"But I have refused the offer," he said quietly. He had not intended to
tell her; but it was doubtless just as well; and it would alter nothing.
"My work in Clarkson is finished," he went on. "Warry's affairs will
make it necessary for me to go back from time to time, but it will not
be home again."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I thought you were to be of us. But I suppose
there is a greater difference between the East and the West than any one
can understand who has not known both." They regarded each other
gravely, as if this were, of course, the whole matter at issue.
"I can't go back,--it's too much; I can't do it," he said wearily.
"I know how it must be,--this last year and Warry! It was all so
terrible--for all of us." She was looking away; the wind had freshened;
the yacht's pennant stood out against the blue sky.
John rose and looked down at her. It was natural that she should include
herself with him in a common grief for the man who had been his friend
and whom she had loved. She had always been kind to him; her kindness
stung him now, for he knew that it was because of Warry; and a resolve
woke in him suddenly. He would not suffer her kindness under a false
pretense; he could at least be honest with her.
"I can't go back, because he is not there; and because--because you are
there! You don't know,--you should never know, but I was disloyal to
Warry from the first. I let him talk to me from day to day of you; I let
him tell me that he loved you; I never let him know--I never meant any
one to know--" He ceased speaking; she was very still and did not look
at him. "It was base of me," he went on. "I would gladly have died for
him if he had lived; but now that he is dead I can betray him. I hate
myself worse than you can hate me. I know how I must wound and shock
you--"
"Oh, no!" she moaned.
But he went on; he would spare himself nothing.
"It is hideous--it was cowardly of me to come here."
His hands were clenched and his face twitched with pain. "Oh, if he had
lived! If he had lived!"
She rose now and looked at him with an infinite pity. This is one of
God's unreckoned gifts to man,--the gift of pity that He has made the
great secret of a woman's eyes. Evelyn's were gray now, like the stretch
of sea beyond her, where a mist was creeping shoreward over the blue
water.
"If he had lived," she said very softly, looking away through the
sun-dappled aisles of the orchard, "if he had lived--it would have been
the same, John."
But he did not understand. His name as she spoke it rang strange in his
ears. The letter had fallen to the ground and lay in the grass between
them; he half stooped to pick it up, not knowing what he did.
She walked away through the orchard path, which suddenly became to him
a path of gold that stretched into paradise; and he sprang after her
with a great fear in his heart lest some barrier might descend and shut
her out forever.
"Evelyn! Evelyn!"
It was not a voice that called her; it was a spirit, long held in
thrall, that had shaken free and become a name.
* * * * *
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FRANCEZKA
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CHILDREN OF DESTINY
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_A romance of the Carolinas_
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UNDER THE ROSE
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THE STROLLERS
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LAZARRE
By MARY HARTWELL CATHERWOOD
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MY LADY PEGGY GOES TO TOWN
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A VIVACIOUS ROMANCE OF REVOLUTIONARY DAYS
ALICE _of_ OLD VINCENNES
By MAURICE THOMPSON
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A STORY BY THE "MARCH KING"
THE FIFTH STRING
By JOHN PHILIP SOUSA
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will be as delighted with his pen as with his baton.
"The Fifth String" has a strong and clearly defined plot which shows in
its treatment the author's artistically sensitive temperament and his
tremendous dramatic power. It is a story of a marvelous violin, of a
wonderful love and of a strange temptation.
A cover, especially designed, and six full-page illustrations by Howard
Chandler Christy, serve to give the distinguishing decorative
embellishments that this first book by Mr. Sousa so richly deserves.
With Pictures by Howard Chandler Christy
12mo. Price, $1.25
The Bobbs-Merrill Company, _Indianapolis_
* * * * *
A GOOD DETECTIVE STORY
THE FILIGREE BALL
By ANNA KATHERINE GREEN
Author of "The Leavenworth Case"
This is something more than a mere detective story; it is a thrilling
romance--a romance of mystery and crime where a shrewd detective helps
to solve the mystery. The plot is a novel and intricate one, carefully
worked out. There are constant accessions to the main mystery, so that
the reader can not possibly imagine the conclusion. The story is
clean-cut and wholesome, with a quality that might be called manly. The
characters are depicted so as to make a living impression. Cora Tuttle
is a fine creation, and the flash of love which she gives the hero is
wonderfully well done. Unlike many mystery stories The Filigree Ball is
not disappointing at the end. The characters most liked but longest
suspected are proved not only guiltless, but above suspicion. It is a
story to be read with a rush and at a sitting, for no one can put it
down until the mystery is solved.
Illustrated by C. M. Relyea.
12mo, Cloth, Price, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company, _Indianapolis_
* * * * *
A VIVID WESTERN STORY OF LOVE AND POLITICS
THE 13TH DISTRICT
By BRAND WHITLOCK
This is a story of high order. By its scope and strength it deserves to
be spoken of as a novel--and that word has been very much abused by
hanging it to any old thing. It is a wonderfully good and interesting
account of the workings of politics from before the primaries on through
election, with a splendid love story also woven into it.
One would think for instance, that it would be impossible to give an
account of a "primary" and keep it interesting; it is natural to suppose
a writer would become entangled with the dull routine of it all, but he
does not, he makes it interesting. He shows the tricks, the heat, the
passion, the tumult; the weariness and stubborness of a dead lock. The
descriptions of society life in the book are equally good.
12mo. Price, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company, _Indianapolis_
* * * * *
THE TRIUMPH OF FORGIVENESS
THE LOOM OF LIFE
By CHARLES FREDERIC GOSS
Author of "The Redemption of David Corson."
In "The Loom of Life" Dr. Goss has written a powerful book, filled with
the poetry and tragedy of life. It tells a novel and impressive story in
a style marked by a charming felicity of expression.
The story, which has an epic broadness and strength, is of a young girl
who revenges a wrong done to her with life-long persecution. Finally,
however, she is forced to realize that on earth peace and happiness can
be obtained only by forgiveness.
"Mr. Goss' splendid powers have been demonstrated afresh. This book
alone is strong enough, big enough, important enough, enough suggestive
and informing, to make a reputation for any one.
"He has already a large audience created by his earlier book, 'The
Redemption of David Corson.' The new book will at once find favorable
and eager readers."--_The Living Church._
12mo, cloth. Price, $1.50
The Bobbs-Merrill Company, _Indianapolis_