CHAPTER I

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THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME [Illustration: "'JAMES DID IT! JAMES HAS MADE A

TOUCHDOWN'"]

THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME

BY

WAYLAND WELLS WILLIAMS

_WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY J. HENRY_

"_And thus the whirligig of Time brings in his

revenges._"--Twelfth Night.

NEW YORK

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

_Copyright, 1916, by_

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

_All rights reserved, including that of translation

into foreign languages._

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER

I UNWRITTEN PAPERS

II AUNTS

III NOT COLONIAL; GEORGIAN

IV PUPPY DOGS, AND A PSYCHOLOGICAL FACT

V BABES IN THE WOOD

VI ARCADIA AND YANKEEDOM

VII OMNE IGNOTUM

VIII LIVY AND VICTOR HUGO

IX A LONG CHEER FOR WIMBOURNE

X RUMBLINGS

XI AUNT SELINA'S BEAUX YEUX

XII AN ACT OF GOD

XIII SARDOU

XIV UN-ANGLO-SAXON

XV CHIEFLY CARDIAC

XVI THE SADDEST TALE

PART II

I CAN LOVE BE CONTROLLED BY ADVICE?

II CONGREVE

III NOT TRIASSIC, CERTAINLY, BUT NEARLY AS OLD

IV WILD HORSES AND CHAMPAGNE

V A SCHOeNE SEELE ON PISGAH

VI A LONG CHAPTER. BUT THEN, LOVE IS LONG

VII A VERY SHORT CHAPTER, IN ONE SENSE

VIII ONE THING AND ANOTHER

IX LABYRINTHS

X MR. AND MRS. ALFRED LAMMLE

XI HESITANCIES AND TEARS

XII A ROD OF IRON

XIII RED FLAME

XIV A POTTER'S VESSEL

XV THE TIDE TURNS

XVI REINSTATEMENT OF A SCHOeNE SEELE

THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME

PART I

CHAPTER I

UNWRITTEN PAPERS

Two o'clock struck by the tall clock on the stairs, and young Harry

Wimbourne, lying wide awake in his darkened bedroom, reflected that he

had never heard that clock strike two before, except in the afternoon.

To his ears the two strokes had a curious and unfamiliar sound; he

waited expectantly for more to follow, but none did, and the tones of

the second stroke died slowly away in a rather uncanny fashion through

the silent house. For the house was silent now; the strange and

terrifying series of sounds, issuing from the direction of his mother's

room, that had first awakened him, had ceased some time ago. There had

been much scurrying to and fro, much opening and shutting of doors,

mingled not infrequently with the sound of voices; voices subdued and

yet strained, talking so low and so hurriedly that no complete sentences

could be caught, though Harry was occasionally able to distinguish the

tones of his father, or the nurse, or the doctor. Once he detected the

phrase "hot water"; and even that seemed to give a slight tinge of

familiarity and sanity to the other noises. But then had come those

other sounds that froze the very blood in his veins, and made him lie

stiff and stark in his bed, perspiring in every pore, in an agony of

ignorance and terror. It was all so inexplicable; his mother--! A

strange voice would not have affected him so.

But all that had stopped after a while, and everything had quieted down

to the stillness that had prevailed for an hour or more when the clock

struck two. The stillness was in its way even more wearing than the

noises had been, for it gave one the impression that more was to

follow. "Wait, wait, wait," it seemed to Harry to say; "the worst is

not nearly over yet; more will happen before the night is out; Wait,

wait!" and the slow tick of the clock on the stairs, faintly heard

through the closed door, took up the burden "Wait! Wait!" And Harry

waited. The passage of time seemed to him both cruelly slow and cruelly

fast; each minute dragged along like an hour, and yet when the hour

struck it seemed to him to have passed off in the space of a minute.

Sleep was impossible. For the fiftieth time he turned over in his bed,

trying to find a position that would prove so comfortable as to ensure

drowsiness; yet as he did so he felt convinced that he could not sleep

until something definite, something final, even if unpleasant, should

end the suspense of the silence. He looked across the short space of

darkness that separated his bed from that of his elder brother James,

and envied him his power of sleeping through anything. But a short

sudden change in the dim outline of the other bed told him that his

brother was not asleep. Harry felt the other's gaze trying to pierce the

darkness, even as his own. He half turned, with a sharp and nervous

motion, to show that he was awake, and for some minutes both boys lay

silently gazing toward each other, each wondering how much the other had

heard.

At length James broke the silence. "It's come," he said.

"Yes, it has," answered Harry. "How long have you been awake?" he added,

feeling he must ascertain how much James knew before committing himself

any further.

"Oh, hours," said James.

"Since before--"

"Yes."

So James had heard all, thought Harry. It was just like him to be awake

all that time and never give a sign. It scarcely occurred to him that

James might be as shy as himself in reference to the events of the

night.

It must not for a moment be supposed that either of these boys was

ignorant of the nature of what was taking place in their mother's room.

Harry was ten at the time, and James was within hinting distance of his

twelfth birthday. So that when their father, a few days before, had

solemnly informed them that they might expect the arrival of a little

brother or sister before long, and that they must be most careful not

to disturb their mother in any way, etc., etc., no childish superstition

picturing the newcomer flying through the window or floating down a

stream on a cabbage leaf or, more prosaically, being introduced in the

doctor's black bag, ever entered their heads. When the trained nurse

appeared, a day or two later, they did not need to be told why she was

there. They accepted the situation, tried to make as little noise as

possible, and struck up a great friendship with Miss Garver, who at

first had ample leisure to regale them with tales of her hospital

experiences; among which, she was sorry to observe, accounts of advanced

cases of delirium tremens were easily the favorites.

For a long time the two boys lay awake without exchanging any more

conversation worth mentioning. They heard the clock strike three, and

after that they may have slept. At any rate, the first thing they were

aware of was the door of their room being opened by a softly rustling

figure which they at once recognized as that of the trained nurse. She

crossed the room and methodically lit the gas; then she turned and stood

at the foot of Harry's bed, resting her hands lightly on the footboard.

Both the boys noticed immediately how white her face was and how grave

its expression.

"Are you both awake, boys?" she asked.

They both said they were, and Miss Garver, after pausing a moment, as if

to choose her words, said:

"Then get up and put on something, and come into your mother's room with

me."

Without a word they rose and stumbled into their dressing gowns and

slippers. When they were ready Miss Garver led the way to the door, and

there turned toward them, with her hand on the knob.

"Your mother is very ill, boys. We are afraid--this may be the last time

you will see her."

Dazed and silent they followed her into the hall.

The bedroom into which they then went was a large room at the front of

the house, high of ceiling, generous of window space, and furnished for

the most part with old mahogany furniture. It was a beautiful old room

when the sun was pouring in through the great windows, and it was quite

as beautiful, in a solemn sort of way, now, when it was dimly

illuminated by one low-burning gas jet and one or two shaded candles. A

low fire was burning in the grate, and its dying flames fitfully shone

on soft-colored chintz coverings and glowing mahogany surfaces, giving

to the room an air of drowsy and delicious peace. And in the middle of

it all, on a great mahogany four-poster bed, curtained, after the

fashion of a hundred years ago, Edith Wimbourne lay dying. She, poor

lady, white and unconscious on her great bed, cared as little for the

setting of the scene in which she was playing the chief part as dying

people generally do; but we, who look on the scene with detached and

appreciative eyes, may perhaps venture the opinion that, if a choice of

deaths be vouchsafed us, we would as lief as not die in a four-poster

bed, surrounded by those we love best, and with a flickering fire

casting changing and fantastic shadows on the familiar walls and

ceiling.

Beside the dying lady on the bed, there were three other people in the

bedroom when Miss Garver led Harry and James into it. The doctor, whom

they both knew and liked well, sat at the head of the bed. In a large

armchair near the fire sat the boys' father, and somewhere in the

background hovered another trained nurse, sprung out of nowhere. The

presence of these figures seemed, in some intangible way, to make death

an actual fact, instead of a mere possibility; if they had not been

there, the boys might merely have been going to pay their mother a visit

when she was ill. Now they both realized, with horribly sinking hearts,

that they were going to see her for the last time.

The doctor looked up inquiringly as Miss Garver brought the two boys

into the room and led them over toward the bed. The father did not even

turn his head as they came in. They stood by the bedside and gazed in

silence at the pale sleeping face on the pillow. A faint odor of

chloroform hung about the bed. The doctor stood up and leaned over to

listen to the action of the dying woman's heart. After he had finished

he drew back a little from the bedside.

"You may kiss her, if you like," he said softly.

The boys leaned down in turn and silently touched the calm lips. It was

almost more than Harry could stand.

"Oh, must this be the last time?" he heard himself shrieking. But no one

paid any attention to him, and he suddenly realized that he had not

spoken the words aloud. He looked at James' face, calm though drawn, and

the sight reassured him. He wondered if James was suffering as much as

himself, and thought he probably was. He wondered if his face showed as

little as James'.

The doctor and Miss Garver were whispering together.

"Shall I take them away now?" she asked.

"Not yet," was the answer; "there is just a chance that--"

He did not finish, but Miss Garver must have understood, for she nodded

and quietly drew the boys away. They walked off toward the fireplace,

and their father, without moving his head, stretched out a hand in their

direction. Silently they sat down by him, one on each arm of his chair,

and he slipped an arm about the waist of each.

So they started on the last period of waiting for what they all knew

must come; what they prayed might come soon and at the same time longed

to postpone as long as possible. The doctor had resumed his seat at the

bedside, and now kept his fingers almost constantly on the patient's

wrist. The two nurses sat down a little way off, to be ready in

case--The emergency was not formulated. These three people were all

present for professional reasons, so we may assume that most of their

meditations were of a professional nature. But even so, they felt

beneath their professional calm the mingled sadness and sweetness and

solemnity that accompanies the sight of death, be it never so familiar.

And we may easily guess the feelings of the two boys as they awaited the

departure of the person they loved most on earth; nothing but the

feeling of suspense kept them from giving away completely. The person in

the room whom the scene might have been expected to affect most was, in

point of fact, the one who felt it least, and that was the shortly to be

bereaved husband, Hilary Wimbourne.

"Poor Edith," he mused, "poor Edith. What a wife she has been to me, to

be sure! I was fond of her, too. Not as fond as I might have been, of

course ... Still, when I think that I shall never again see her face

behind the coffee things at the breakfast table it gives me a pang, a

distinct pang ... By the bye, I don't suppose she remembered, before all

this came on, to send that Sheffield urn to be replated ... But it's

all so beautiful--the fire, the draped bed, the waiting figures, the

whole atmosphere! Just what she would have chosen to die in; all peace

and naturalness. Everything seems to say 'Good-by, Edith;

congratulations, Edith; well out of it all,' only much more beautifully.

There is a dirge--how does it go?--

Oh, no more, no more; too late

Sighs are spent; the burning tapers

Of a life as chaste as fate,

Pure as are unwritten papers,

Are burnt out--

"That comes somewhere near it; 'a life as chaste as fate'--not a bad

description of Edith ... 'Pure as are unwritten papers'--who but an

Elizabethan would have dared to cast that line just like that? Let's

see; Ford, was it, or Shirley?... If only some one were singing that

now, behind the scenes, out by the bathroom door, say, everything would

be quite perfect. 'Unwritten papers'--ah, well, people have no business

to be as pure as Edith was--and live. But what is to become of my home

without her? What will become of the boys? Good Heavens, what am I going

to do with the boys? Good little souls--how quiet they are! It all hits

them a great deal harder than it does me, I know. It won't be so bad

when they're old enough to go off to school, but till then ... I must

ask Cecilia's advice; she'll have some ideas, and by the way, I wonder

if Cecilia thought to see about that Sheraton sideboard for me?"

And so on, and so on. Hilary Wimbourne's meditations never went very far

without rounding up at a Sheraton sideboard or an old Sheffield urn or a

nice bit of Chienlung or a new idea for a pleached alley. Let us not

judge him. He was that sort of person.

These reflections, and the complete outward silence in which they took

place, were at last interrupted by a slight stirring of the sick woman

on the bed. For the last time in her mortal life--and for very nearly

the first, for the matter of that--Edith Wimbourne was to assume the

center of her family stage. Her husband and sons heard her sigh and stir

slightly as she lay, and then the doctor and Miss Garver appeared to be

busy over her for a few moments. Probably they made shift to force a

stimulant between her teeth, for in a moment or two she opened her eyes

to the extent of seeing what was about her. Almost the first sight that

greeted them was that of her two sons sitting on the arms of their

father's chair, and as she saw them she smiled faintly.

The nurse glanced inquiringly toward the doctor, who nodded, and she

went over and touched Harry lightly on the shoulder.

"Come over and speak to your mother," she whispered, and Harry walked to

her side. Very gently he took the hand that lay motionless on the bed

and held it in his. He could not have uttered a word for the life of

him.

Either the reviving action of the stimulant or the feeling of the warm

blood pulsing through his young hand, or perhaps both, lent a little

strength to the dying woman. She smiled again, and ever so slight a

flush appeared on her wasted cheeks. "Harry, dear Harry," she whispered

gently, and the boy leaned down to catch the words. "I am going to leave

you, dear, and I am sorry. I know I should be very proud of you, if I

could live ... Be a good boy, Harry, and don't forget your mother."

She closed her eyes again, exhausted with the effort of speaking. Dazed

and motionless Harry remained where he stood until the nurse led him

gently away to make room for James.

James stood for some moments as his brother had done, with his hand

clasped in that of his mother. Presently she opened her eyes once more,

and gazed gravely for a moment or two at the face of her first-born, as

though gathering her little remaining strength for what she had to say

to him.

"Listen, dear," she said at last, and James bent down. "I'm going to

die, James. Try not to be too sorry about it. It is all for the best ...

Dearest, there is something I want you to do for me; you know how I have

always trusted you, and depended on you--well, perhaps you don't know,

but I have ... James, I want you to look out for Harry. He needs it now,

and he will need it a great deal more later. You will see what I mean,

as you grow up. He is not made like you; he will need some one to look

after him. Can you promise me that you will do this?"

"Yes," whispered James.

His mother sighed gently, as though with relief. "Now kiss me, dear,"

she said, and then, almost inaudibly, "It is good to leave some one I

can trust." Then she closed her eyes, for the last time.

James never repeated those words of his mother to any human being, as

long as he lived, not even to Harry. It would be too much to say that

they were never absent from his thoughts, for in truth he thought but

seldom of them, after the first few days. But in some compelling though

intangible way he realized, as he stood there by his mother's death-bed,

that he had accepted a trust from which nothing but death would release

him.

The doctor returned to the side of the dying woman. Swiftly and quietly

Miss Garver placed a hand on the shoulder of each of the two boys and

led them from the room. Edith Wimbourne slept, and her sleep slowly

passed into death.

The man in the chair never moved.

CHAPTER II

AUNTS

Till Miss Garver had seen Harry and James tucked away in their beds

again and had put out the light and left their room, both the boys

maintained the same outward composure that they had shown throughout the

experiences of the night. But once left alone in the quiet of their

darkened bedroom, no further ordeal ahead of them to inspire

restraint--for they knew perfectly well by this time that their mother

must be dead--they gave way entirely to their natural grief and spent

what they both remembered afterward as the wretchedest night of their

lives.

It was scarcely better when Miss Garver woke them in the morning, though

sleep had so completely erased all recollection of the night before that

Harry, lazily sitting up and rubbing his eyes, asked what time it was in

the most natural voice in the world.

"About ten o'clock," was the reply.

"Ten o'clock! Why, we're an hour late for school already."

"You are not going to school to-day," answered Miss Garver, gently, and

she hated to say it, knowing that the remark would immediately set them

remembering. When she turned toward them again she saw that it had,

indeed.

"Listen," she told them, as gently as she could, "I want you both to get

dressed now as quickly as possible and then go down and eat your

breakfast. After that I am going to take you both down town. There is a

good deal to be done. So hurry up."

"Why are you going to take us down town?" asked James.

"To get some clothes."

"But I don't understand," he began again, and then he did. He started

dressing, mechanically, and had half completed his toilet before he

noticed his brother, who was kneeling despairingly by his bed, with his

face buried in the pillow.

"Come on, Harry," he said gently; "I'm nearly ready."

"No," moaned Harry.

"Yes. It's got to be done, you know."

"Oh, go away and leave me alone."

James bent his head down close to that of his brother. "You feel better

when you're doing something," he said softly.

Harry, at length persuaded, arose and began to dress, and before long he

began to feel that James was right. Doing something did not remove the

pain, or even ease it, but it made you notice it less. It was even

better during breakfast. Both the boys ate steadily and fairly

copiously, though their enjoyment, if there was any, of what was

customarily their pleasantest meal, was wholly subconscious. There was

honey on the table, and Harry, without realizing what he was doing,

helped himself to it for a second time. He mechanically pushed the pot

back toward James, who also partook. Almost simultaneously their teeth

closed on honey and muffin, and at the same time their eyes met. For two

or three seconds they gazed shamefacedly at each other, and then stopped

eating. Harry left the table and stood in front of the window, looking

out over the wide lawn.

"Oh, Mother, Mother," he cried within himself; "to think I should be

eating honey and muffin, now, so soon, and enjoying it! Oh, forgive me,

forgive me!"

When the first shock of self-contempt had passed off, the boys wandered

into the library, in search of their father. They discovered him, seated

at his desk as they had expected, but it was with a sharp shock of

surprise that they perceived that he was interviewing the cook. Both

were more or less disgusted at the discovery, but they felt

nevertheless, in a vague but reassuring way, that this partly justified

the honey episode.

The interview closed almost as soon as they entered, and their father

called them over to him.

"You have both been very good," he said, taking a hand of each of them;

"this has all been very hard for you, I know." He paused, and then,

seeing signs of tears on their faces, he went on somewhat hurriedly:

"You must go down town with Miss Garver now; she has very kindly offered

to get you what you will need for the funeral. Aunt Cecilia will take

you to New York after that, I expect, and will fit you out more fully.

The funeral will be to-morrow at three o'clock, and you will be on hand

for that. I don't know whether any one told you; the baby died--the one

that was born last night. It was a little girl; she only lived a few

minutes. She will be buried with your mother. There will be a lot of

people coming up to-day and to-morrow for the funeral; Uncle James and

Aunt Cecilia and various others, and as there is a good deal to arrange

you must try to be a help and not a hindrance, and make yourselves

useful if you can. Now run along with Miss Garver and--oh, one more

thing. I should advise you not to ask to see your mother again. You can,

of course, if you want to, but I rather think you will not be sorry if

you don't. You see, you probably have a good many years in which you

will have to live on her memory, and I think it will be better if your

last recollection of her is as she was when she was alive, not when she

was dead ... and if you want to drive down to the station after lunch to

meet Uncle James and Aunt Cecilia on the two-fifty, you can. You'd

better do that; it's a good thing to give yourself plenty of occupation.

That's all--good-by."

Then they went off in search of black clothes, and somewhat to their

surprise they noticed that Miss Garver had returned to her companionable

self of the preceding days; it was almost as if their mother had not

died, except that she was gravely cheerful now, instead of cheerfully

cheerful, as before.

Before long the boys noticed that almost every one they had to do with

adopted the attitude taken by Miss Garver. Lunch, to be sure, was a

rather terrible meal, for then they were alone with their father, and

he, though he refrained from further allusion to the loss that hung over

them all, was silent and preoccupied. But Uncle James and Aunt Cecilia,

when met at the station by their nephews, spoke and acted much as usual,

and neither of them noticed that Aunt Cecilia's gentle eyes filled with

tears as she kissed them. They had always loved Aunt Cecilia best of all

their aunts, though she was not their real aunt, being the wife of their

father's younger brother. Of their Uncle James the boys were both a

little afraid, and never felt they understood him. He was much like

their father, both in behavior and appearance--though he was

clean-shaven and their father wore a beard and mustache--but he was much

more unapproachable. He had an uncomfortable way of suddenly joining in

a conversation with an apparently irrelevant remark, at which everybody

would generally remain silent for a moment and then laugh, while he sat

with grave and unchanged countenance. The boys had once spoken to their

father of their uncle's apparent lack of sympathy; Harry had complained

that Uncle James never seemed to "have any feelings." "Well," replied

their father, "he is a better lawyer than I am," and the boys never saw

any sense in that reply till they remembered it years afterward, and

even then they never could decide whether it was meant as an explanation

or a corollary.

Later in the afternoon Aunt Selina arrived. There was always something

magnificent and aloof about Aunt Selina; she had the air of having been

transplanted out of a glorious past into a frivolous and inferior

present, and being far too well-bred to comment on its inferiority,

however keenly she was aware of it. She was the half-sister of Hilary

Wimbourne, and much older than he, being the child of a first marriage

of his father. Harry and James were on the front steps to greet her as

she drove up in state. Her very manner of stepping out of the carriage

and ascending the steps where she gravely bent and kissed each of her

nephews with the same greeting--"How do you do, my dear James," "How do

you do, my dear Harry,"--was not so much a tribute to the gravity of

this particular occasion as a typical instance of Aunt Selina's way of

doing things. Though only of average height, she generally gave the

impression of being tall by the erect way in which she habitually

carried her head, and by the straightness and spareness of her whole

figure. Her skirts always nobly swept the floor beside and behind her,

in a day when other women's skirts hung limply about their ankles. Both

Harry and James looked upon her with an awe which was only slightly

modified by affection.

But both boys' views of Aunt Selina underwent expansion within the next

twenty-four hours, and they were to learn the interesting lesson that a

warm and impulsive heart may be hidden within a forbidding exterior.

Aunt Selina entered the home of the Wimbournes with her customary quiet

ceremony, and gravely greeted such of her relatives as were present,

after which every one else in the room instinctively "stood around,"

waiting for her to make the first move. Kind and gentle Aunt Cecilia,

who was a daughter of one of New York's oldest and proudest and richest

families, was no one in particular while Aunt Selina was in the room.

Miss Wimbourne immediately proceeded to her bedroom, to repair the

ravages of travel, and when she came down again she found the

drawing-room deserted except for James, who was standing in front of a

window and gazing out into the twilight. She went over and stood by him,

also looking over the darkening lawn.

"I am very glad to get this chance to see you, James," she said

presently, in her subdued, measured tones, "even though the occasion for

my being here is such a sad one. It is not often I get a chance to see

any of my nephews and nieces."

James mumbled an inarticulate monosyllable or two in reply, without

turning his head. Aunt Selina had interrupted what was a bad half-hour

for James. She turned and looked at him, and the look of dumb suffering

on his face struck into the very roots of her heart. She stooped

suddenly and put her arms about him, kissing his cheek with a warmth

that was entirely new to James.

"I know how it feels," she whispered; "I've been through it all, not

once, but again and again, and I know just how bad it is. Dear boy, how

I wish I could bear it for you."

She sat down on a little settee that stood in front of the window, still

holding one of James' hands in hers, and the boy, after the first shock

of astonishment had passed, sank down on his knees in front of her and

buried his head in her lap. So he remained for some minutes, sobbing

almost contentedly; it was sweet to find consolation in this unexpected

quarter.

Presently he raised his miserable eyes to hers. "It's Harry,

too--partly--" he said, and could go no further.

"Yes, I know that too," said his aunt. "You mean that you have to bear

up on Harry's account--"

"Yes!"

"Because you are older and stronger than he, and you know he would

suffer more if you let him see how much you suffer. So you go about with

the pain burning your very heart out, because all the time something in

his face makes it impossible for you to breathe a word more of it than

you can help. And so every one gets the idea you are more hard-hearted

than he," she went on passionately, letting her voice sink to a whisper,

"and are not capable of as much feeling as he. But you don't care what

people think; you don't know or care about anything except oh! if you

only might go somewhere and shriek it all out to somebody, anybody! And

after a lifetime of that sort of thing self-repression becomes second

nature to you, so that you can't say a thing you think or feel, and you

become the sort of living mummy that I am, with your soul dead and

embalmed years ago, while your body, your worthless, useless body, goes

on living and living. You have begun it early, my poor James!"

She stopped, quite as much astounded at her own outburst as James. The

boy no longer cried, for astonishment had driven away his tears, but

stared thoughtfully out of the window. He had not caught the full

meaning of all that his aunt had said, but he knew that he was receiving

a most important confidence from the most unexpected possible quarter,

which was exactly in tune with his own mood. The good lady herself was

for a few moments literally too bewildered to utter a word.

"Good Heavens!" ran her astonished thoughts, "do you know what you have

done, Selina Wimbourne? You have made more of a fool of yourself in the

last five minutes than you have done in all the years since you were a

girl! God grant it may do him no harm."

To James she said aloud, as soon as she could control her voice:

"I am a foolish and indiscreet old woman, James--"

"No, you're not," interrupts the boy with sudden spirit.

"Well, I've said a great deal more than I ought, at any rate. I don't

want you to get any false impression from what I have told you. I want

to explain to you that all the suffering I have undergone from--in the

way I have told you--has not hurt me, but has rather benefited me. You

see, there are two kinds of human suffering. One is forced upon you from

the outside. You can't prevent that kind, you just have to go through

with it. It never is as bad as you think it is going to be, I find. The

other kind you make for yourself, by doing the wrong thing when you know

you ought to be doing the right thing. That is the really bad kind of

suffering, and you can always prevent it by doing the thing you know is

right."

"You mean," said James thoughtfully, "that it would have been even worse

for you if you had squealed, when you knew--when you knew you ought not

to!"

"Exactly. It's simply a question of the lesser of two evils. Doing the

pleasant but wrong thing hurts more in the end than doing the

disagreeable but right thing."

"I see. But suppose you can't tell which is the right thing and which

the wrong one?"

"Ah, there you've put your finger on a real difficulty. You just have to

think it all over and decide as best you can, and then, if it turns out

wrong, you're not so much to blame. Then, your suffering is of the kind

that you can't help. No one can do any better than what he thinks is

right at the time.... Now get up, dear, I hear people coming."

"Well, thank you, Aunt Selina. What you have told me helps, an awful

lot. Really!"

"I am glad, my dear," replied Miss Wimbourne, and when people entered

the room a second or two later no one suspected the sudden bond of

sympathy that had sprung up between the specimens of crabbed age and

youth they found there.

"Cecilia, what's going to become of those two boys?" inquired Miss

Wimbourne later in the evening, finding herself for the moment alone

with her sister-in-law.

"I've been asking myself that question pretty steadily for the last

twelve hours," answered Mrs. James. "I wish _I_ could take them," she

added, impulsively.

"Hardly, I suppose." If any of the remarks made in this conversation

seem abrupt or inconsequent, it must be remembered that these two ladies

understood each other pretty thoroughly without having to polish off or

even finish their sentences, or even to make them consecutive.

"Unfortunately," went on Mrs. James, after a brief pause, "the whole

thing depends entirely upon Hilary."

"The very last person--"

"Exactly. Yet what can one do?"

"It seems quite clear to me," said Aunt Selina, choosing her words

carefully and slowly, "that Hilary will inevitably choose the one course

which is most to be avoided. Hilary will want them to go on living here

alone with him; preserve the _status quo_ as far as possible. What do

you think?"

"I am almost sure of it. But...."

"But if any of us have the slightest feeling for those boys ... Until

they are both safely away at school, at any rate, and he won't send them

away for a year or two yet, at any rate."

"Harry not for three, I should say.... That is, _I_ shouldn't."

Silence for a moment, then Aunt Selina:

"Well, can you think of any one that could be got to come here?"

Mrs. James fluttered for a moment, as though preparing for a delicate

and difficult advance.

"I wonder," she said, "that is, the thought struck me to-day--if you--if

_you_ could ever--"

"Hilary and I," observed Aunt Selina in calm, clear impersonal tones

that once for all disposed of the suggestion; "Hilary and I Do Not Get

On. That way, I mean. At a distance--"

The sentence was completed by a gesture that somehow managed to convey

an impression of understanding and amity at a distance. Mrs. James'

subdued "Oh!" of comprehension, or rather of resignation, bid fair for a

while to close the interview. But presently Aunt Selina, with the air of

one accepting a sword offered with hilt toward her, asked, or rather

observed, as though it was not a question at all, but a statement:

"What do you think of Agatha Fraile?"

"Well," replied Mrs. James with something of a burnt-child air; "I like

her. Though I hardly know her, of course. I should say she would be

willing, too. Though of course one can't tell.... They are not well off,

I believe.... She is very good, no doubt...."

"Hm," said Aunt Selina serenely, aware that there was a conversational

ditch to be taken, and determined to make her interlocutrix give her a

lead. This Aunt Cecilia bravely did with:

"You mean--how much does she know about--?"

"About Hilary, yes."

"I rather think, myself, she must have found out through Edith.... I

don't see how she could have failed to know. Do you?"

"I can't say, I'm sure. Edith had rather curious ideas, though she was

one of the best women that ever lived. However, that is not the main

point for consideration now. What I want to know is, can you think of

anything better?"

"N-no," replied Mrs. James slowly. "I even think it would be the best

possible arrangement, if--Oh dear, to think it should come to

this--those poor boys!"

"Yes, I know," said Aunt Selina, briskly. "Now, that being decided, some

one has got to put it to Hilary. Hilary will do nothing alone. She comes

to-morrow morning, does she not? I think it should be settled, one way

or the other, before she goes. Now who is to approach Hilary?"

"I don't know," faltered Mrs. James, rather bewildered by the other's

swiftness of reasoning.

"Well, I do. James is the only human being I know who has, or ever had,

any influence on Hilary. Now one of us has got to talk to James, and I

rather think, Cecilia, that I could do it more successfully than you.

For the first time, that is.... Of course, afterward, you...."

"Yes, of course," murmurs Mrs. James.

"Very well, then; I will see James the first thing in the morning. I

don't say it will come to anything, but there is a great deal to be gone

through before she is even approached. We must do _something_. Living

here alone, with their father...."

"Out of the question, of course." The conversation having, as it were,

completed one lap of its course and arrived again at its starting point,

might have perambulated gently along till bedtime, had it not been

abruptly interrupted by the entrance of James, junior, come to say

good-night.

* * * * *

A few days after the funeral, after they had gone to bed of an evening,

Harry through the darkness apostrophized his brother thus:

"I tell you, James, Aunt Selina is all right; did you know it?"

"Oh," was the reply, "she gave you five dollars, too, did she?"

"Yes, but that's not what I mean. She's given me five dollars plenty of

times before this."

"Well, what do you mean, then?"

"Well, she found me in the garden one morning.... Tuesday, I guess--"

Tuesday had been the day of the funeral--"and I had been crying a good

deal, and I suppose she knew it. At any rate, she took me by the hand

and talked to me for a while...."

"What did she say to you?" This question was not prompted by vulgar

curiosity; James knew that his brother wished to be pumped.

"Oh, she didn't _say_ much. She was just awfully nice, that's all....

She told me--well, she said, for one thing, that I cried too much. Only

she didn't say it like that. She said that going about and crying wasn't

much of a way of showing you were sorry. She said that if--well, if you

really _missed_ a person, the least you could do was not to go about

making a pest of yourself, even if you couldn't really do anything to

help."

"Oh."

"She said that the last thing that would please Mama herself was to

think that all she had taught me came to no more than ... well, than

crying. Then she said.... I don't think I'll tell you that, though."

"Well, don't, if you don't want to."

"She told me that, in a way, she realized I must feel it--about

Mama--more than any one else, because I had been more with her lately

than any one else--more dependent on her, she said, ..."

"Yes, I see."

"And that while it was harder on me, it put a greater responsibility on

me, because, you see--oh, I can't explain it all! But she was about

right, I guess."

"She told me something of the same kind ... not exactly like that, I

mean, but--well, the same sort of thing. It helped, too. It's funny, to

think of her understanding better than any one else--Aunt Selina!"

"Yes, isn't it? Well, you really never can tell about people." With

which mature reflection Harry turned over and went to sleep. But his

brother lay awake for some time thinking over what he had just heard,

and as he thought, his respect for his aunt grew. Not only could she

sound the depths of his own woe and give him comfort for it, but she

could light on the one thing that would be likely to help Harry in his

own peculiar need, and show it to him with ready and fearless tact. And

what she had told Harry was practically the very opposite of what she

had told him.

"I wish I could be like Aunt Selina," he thought.

CHAPTER III

NOT COLONIAL; GEORGIAN

Harry and James lived in the city of New Haven in a big house surrounded

by spacious grounds. The house itself was an old and stately one; the

local papers, when they had occasion to mention it, usually referred to

it as the Wimbourne "mansion." The boys' dislike of this word dated from

an early age, when their father informed them that it was a loathsome

expression, which people who "really knew" never used under any

circumstances. He himself, if he had had occasion to describe it, would

have spoken of it as a "place."

The house was built in the first decade of the nineteenth century. It

was put up by Hilary Wimbourne's great-grandfather James, first of the

name, the founder of the family fortunes. He came to New Haven as a

penniless apprentice to a carriage-maker after the conclusion of the

Revolutionary wars left him without other occupation, and within ten

years after his arrival he became one of the two or three most prominent

lawyers in the place. His understanding of his early trade he turned to

good account by investing a large portion of his earnings as a lawyer in

the carriage factory in which he originally served, and which with the

benefit of his money and business acumen, became the most profitable of

its kind in the town. He bought a farm in what were then the extreme

outskirts of the city and built the spacious, foursquare,

comfortable-looking house in which the Wimbournes with whom we have to

deal still lived, nearly one hundred years later.

The house stood in a commanding position above an up-town avenue. It was

painted white with green trimmings, and had a front portico of tall

Doric columns reaching up to the top of the house. People habitually

referred to its style of architecture as "Colonial." "Post-Colonial," or

"late American Georgian" would have come much nearer the mark, but these

distinctions are as naught to the great and glorious body of New

England's inhabitants, to whom everything with pillars is and always

will be "Colonial." The house was in truth a fine example of its style,

and had been surprisingly little spoiled by the generations of

Wimbournes that had lived and died in it, but the unity of its general

effect was marred by the addition of two wings reaching out from its

sides, erected by Hilary Wimbourne's father in the fifties and showing

all the peculiarities of that glorious but architecturally weak period.

Friends of the family often expressed sympathy and sorrow at the

anachronism the house was thus made to offer, but Hilary soon became

somewhat impatient of these. In fact, he never listened to an expression

of regret on the subject without breathing a silent prayer of

thanksgiving that the wings had been built when they were, and not ten

or twenty or thirty years later, when architectural indiscretion ran to

extremes only vaguely hinted at in the forties and fifties.

"Besides," he would explain to those who showed interest in the matter,

"those wings are not always going to look as badly as they do now. Our

eyes will always look on them as unpleasantly different from the old

house, but the eyes of a hundred years hence will see in them nothing

more than a quaint and agreeable variety. After all, the two styles are

but two different aspects of neo-classicism, one a little more remote

from its original model than the other. History has proved what I say;

think how the sensitive must have shuddered in the fifteenth century

when they saw a lot of Perpendicular Gothic slammed down by the side of

pure Early English! It must have looked like the very devil to them."

Only very few people heard this theory carried back to its logical

conclusion, however. Hilary would see and recognize the drowning

expression that came over their faces, and as soon as he knew that he

was beyond their depth he stopped, for he made it a rule never to talk

above people's heads. Consequently he seldom got beyond the

"neo-classicism" point.

As far as the interior was concerned, the atmosphere of the old days had

been almost perfectly preserved. Every wall-paper, every decoration had,

by some lucky succession of chances, been as nearly as possible

duplicated when it became necessary to replace or restore, and the hand

of the seventies and eighties left almost no trace of its equally

ruthless destructive and constructive powers. So that at the time of

which we write the house was furnished almost completely in the style of

the late Georgian period, for what his ancestors omitted to leave him

the faultless taste of Hilary supplied.

The house faced westward and toward the principal street of the

neighborhood; the ground fell gently away from it on all sides, but most

steeply toward the west. Carriage drives led up to the house from the

two corners formed by the main thoroughfare and the two intersecting

streets which bounded the property. A tar footpath followed the curve of

each driveway, so that between the street and the front door of the

house there stretched an unbroken expanse of green lawn. In their early

youth Harry and James both wondered why no footpath ran directly up the

middle of the front lawn, as was the case with most of the other front

lawns of their acquaintance, and they considered it monstrously

inconvenient that they were obliged to "go way round by the corners"

when they wished to reach the house from without. At length, however,

the brilliant thought occurred to them that as they always approached

the house either from the north or the south, and never from the

unbroken block to the west, they could not well have used a central walk

if they had had it.

Such was the setting in which the early lives of these two boys took

place, and, taking one thing with another, their lot could probably not

have been bettered. The first ten years of their lives had the divine

monotony of perfect happiness and harmony, in which no more momentous

events than the measles, a change of school, or summer trips to the

coast of Maine or, more rarely, to Europe, ever occurred. They were

brought up, from their earliest years, under the direct but never too

obtrusive eye of their mother, and as we have already heard Aunt Selina

describe her as "one of the best women that ever lived," we should be

guilty of something akin to painting the rose if we ventured on any

further encomiums of her character on our own account. Their relation

with their father was hardly less ideal, though they saw much less of

him and were, at bottom, less deeply attached to him than to their

mother. Hilary was fond of his boys, and was capable of entering into

their youthful moods with a sort of intimate aloofness that the boys

found very winning. Not infrequently he would suddenly swoop down on

them in their happy but humdrum occupations and carry them off to a

baseball game or perhaps to New York for the day to spend a few hours of

bliss in the Aquarium or the Zoo, in less time than it frequently took

their mother to decide what overcoats they should wear to school. This

dashing _insouciance_ secretly captivated their mother as much as it did

them, and though by this time she had given up showing the delight it

caused her, she was never more pleased than when Hilary would so take

them off.

Hilary also read to them occasionally, and his reading was another

source of secret admiration to their mother. He never read them anything

but what his wife would have described, and rightly, too, as "far beyond

them"; such things as Spenser, Shakespeare, Sheridan, or Milton, even;

and he always read with such a mock-serious air as Sir Henry Irving used

in the scene where Charles I recites poetry to his children. His wife on

such occasions, though perfectly content with her role of Henrietta

Maria, would reflect that if _she_ tried to read such things to them

they would be fidgeting and walking about the room and longing for her

to stop, instead of sitting spellbound, as they did when he read, on the

arms of his chair and breathlessly following each word of the text.

With another parent and with other children such reading would have

proved utterly sterile, but from it the boys managed to absorb a good

deal of pleasure and the germs of literary appreciation as well, and the

words of many a great passage in many a great author became dear to them

long before they were able to grasp their full meaning. Results of their

literary sessions would crop out in the family intercourse in sundry

curious ways. One instance may serve to illustrate this. The family were

sitting about together one day after lunch; Edith Wimbourne had a pile

of household mending before her.

"I declare," she said, "these tablecloths have simply rotted away from

lying in that dark closet; they would have lasted much better if they

had been used a little."

"She let concealment," said Hilary from behind a magazine, "like a worm

i' the bud, feed--what did concealment feed on, James?"

"Feed on her damask--"

"Tablecloth!" shouts Harry, brilliantly but indiscreetly.

"Oh, shut up," retorts his brother, peevishly, as who would not, at

having the words snatched from his mouth? "You needn't be so smart, I

was going to say that anyway."

"The heck you were!"

"Yes, I was."

"You were not! You were going to say 'cheek'; I saw you start to say

it."

"Oh, shut up! Can't any one be bright but you?"

"That's all right; you were going to say it. Wasn't he, Father?" asks

Harry, with the air of one appealing to the supreme authority.

"What?" Hilary had long since returned to his magazine.

"Say 'cheek.' Wasn't he going to?"

"Who?"

"James, of course."

"I trust not. It seems to me that it is one of the slang words your

mother has requested you not to use."

"Wha--what is?"

"Cheek." Not much of a joke, certainly, but Hilary, looking with

impenetrable gravity over his glasses at his son, when he really knows

perfectly well what Harry is talking about, is funny. At any rate Harry

stops to laugh, and the quarrel is a failure. Edith could have stopped

the quarrel by simply enjoining peace, but she could not have done it

without resort to parental authority.

One day James, ordinarily phlegmatic and self-controlled, ran through

the house in a great state of dishevelment and distress in search of his

mother, holding aloft a bloody finger and weeping hot tears of woe.

"Where's Mama?" he inquired breathlessly, ending up in the library and

finding his father alone there.

"Out, I think. What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing.... A kid licked me.... I wanted something for this

finger."

"Well, go upstairs and get that large brown bottle on my wash-stand, and

we'll see what we can do about it." Hilary, taking a page out of his own

boyhood, guessed that no mere cut finger could have reduced James to

such an abject pass. He suspected that his son, who, unlike Harry, was

almost morbidly sensitive to appearances and almost never gave way to

demonstrations of grief, had augmented the disgrace of being thrashed by

allowing himself to be reduced to a state of tears in the presence of

his fellows. Some such occurrence only could account for this

precipitate rout. One or two further inquiries confirmed this

conjecture, and he then prepared to apply, if possible, a balm to his

son's mental wound as well as the physical one.

"There," said he, giving a final pull to an unprofessional-looking

bandage, composed of an entirely un-antiseptic handkerchief, "that will

stay till your mother comes in. Now go and get me that green book on the

third shelf and I'll read to you for a while, if you want."

The green book happened to be no less notable a work than "Paradise

Lost," and Hilary, turning to the last pages of the twelfth book, read

of the expulsion of our sinning forbears from Eden. He read Milton

rather well, almost as well, in fact, as he secretly thought he did, and

James, though incapable at first of listening attentively or

understanding much of anything, was gradually soothed by the solemn

music of the lines; by the time his father reached the closing passage

he was listening with wide open ears.

They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld

Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,

Waved over by that flaming brand; the gate

With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms.

Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon;

The world was all before them, where to choose

Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.

They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow,

Through Eden took their solitary way.

Hilary kept the book open on his knee for a moment after he had

finished, and he noticed with interest that James leaned forward with

aroused attention to read over the passage again. "Some natural

tears--wiped them soon--the world was all before them--" the words sank

in on James' mind as his father knew they would, and suggested the

thought that the world need not be irrevocably lost through one

indiscretion.

Let no one gain from these somewhat extended accounts of Hilary's

dealings with his sons an impression to the effect that the boys found a

more sympathetic friend in their father than in their mother. As a

matter of fact, the exact contrary was true. Like all perfect art,

Hilary's successful passages with them bore no trace of the means by

which they were brought about, and consequently they did not feel that

their father's attitude toward them was inspired by anything like the

warm and undisguised affection which pervaded their mother's. Nor,

indeed, was it.

James, even in these early days, showed signs of having inherited a fair

share of his father's inborn tact in his dealings with his brother. The

fraternal relation is always an interesting one to observe, because of

its extreme elasticity, combining, as it does, apparently unlimited

possibilities for love, hate and indifference. Who ever saw two pairs of

brothers that seemed to regard each other with exactly the same

feelings? Harry and James certainly did not hate each other, but on the

other hand they did not love each other with that passionate devotion

that is supposed to characterize the ideal brothers of fancy. Nor could

they truthfully be called wholly indifferent to each other; their

mutual attitude lay somewhere between indifference and the

Castor-and-Pollux-like devotion that the older and less attractive of

their relatives constantly tried to instil in their youthful bosoms.

They were never bored by each other. James always felt for Harry's

superior quickness in all intellectual matters an admiration which he

would have died sooner than give full expression to, and Harry, though

he frequently scouted his brother's opinions in all matters, had a

profound respect for James' clearness and maturity of judgment. But

what, more than anything else, kept them on good terms with each other

and always, at the last moment, prevented serious ructions, was a way

that James had at times of viewing their relation in a detached and

impersonal light, and acting accordingly. On such occasions he appeared

to be two people; first, the James that was Harry's brother and

contemporary, less than two years older than he and subject to the same

desires and weakness, and, secondly, the James who stood as judge over

their differences and distributed justice to them both with a fair and

impartial hand.

For instance, there was the episode of the neckties. A distant relative,

a cousin of their mother's, who does not really come into the story at

all, took occasion of expressing her approval of their existence by

sending them two neckties, one purple and one green, with the direction

that they should decide between them which was to have which. James, by

the right of primogeniture that prevails among most families of

children, was given the first choice, and picked out the purple one.

Harry quietly took the other, but though there was no open

dissatisfaction expressed, it soon became evident to James that his

brother was tremendously disappointed. During the rest of the day, as he

went about his business and pleasure, vague but disturbing recollections

flitted through James' mind of Harry's being particularly anxious to

possess a purple tie, of having been half promised one, indeed, by the

very relative from whom these blessings came; circumstances which, from

the wording of the letter which accompanied the gift, obviously

constituted no legal claim on the tie, but were nevertheless enough to

appeal to James' sense of moral, or "ultimate" justice.

The next morning James, according to custom, approaching the completion

of his dressing some time before Harry, remarked in a casual tone:

"Oh, you can have that purple tie, if you want. I'd just as lief take

the green one."

Harry, who had taken the attitude of being willing to suffer to the

point of death before making a complaint in the matter, would not allow

this. In the brief conversational intervals that the spirited wielding

of a sponge, and subsequently of a towel, allowed, he disclaimed any

predilection for ties of any particular color, or of any particular kind

of tie, or for any particular color in general. Clothes were a matter of

complete indifference for him; he had never been able to understand why

people spent their time in raving inanely over this or that particular

manner of robing themselves. As for colors, he could scarcely bother to

tell one from the other; the prism presented to him a field in which it

was impossible to make any choice. If, however, in his weaker moments,

he had ever felt a passing fancy for one color over and above another,

that color was undoubtedly green. And so on, and so forth. James made no

further observation on the subject, but when he reached the necktie

stage in his dressing, he quietly put on the green tie, and Harry, like

the Roman senators of old, subsequently flashed in the purple.

James preferred the purple tie, but he let Harry have it because Harry

felt more keenly on the subject than he. "If"--so ran the substance of

his reasoning--"if I give way in this matter, about which I do not

particularly care, one way or the other, there will be a better chance

of my getting what I want some other time, when the issue is a really

vital one. By sacrificing a penny now, I gain a pound in the future."

Such clearness of sight was beyond James' years, and, but for the real

sense of justice that accompanied it might have made him an opportunist.

James would never in the last resort, have used his reasoning powers to

cheat Harry, who, though his brother, was, when all was said and done,

his best friend.

CHAPTER IV

PUPPY DOGS, AND A PSYCHOLOGICAL FACT

The story of the life of any person begins with the moment of his birth

and ends with the last breath that leaves his body. The complete account

of the inward and outward experiences that go to make up any one

individual life would, if properly told, be the most fascinating story

in the world, for there never lived a person who did not carry about

within himself the materials for a great and complete novel. Such

stories have never yet been written, and probably never will be, partly

because they would be too long and partly because the thing would be so

confoundedly hard to do. So as to make it interesting, that is. We have

chosen to begin this account of the lives, or rather, a section of the

lives, of Harry and James at the death of their mother because that was

their first great outward experience. It influenced their inward lives

even more fundamentally. It lifted their thoughts, their whole outlook

on life, from what, for want of a better expression, might be called the

level of youthful development and sent them branching and soaring into

new and strange regions.

One of the most important outward changes that Edith Wimbourne's death

caused in the life of her household was the substitution, as far as such

a thing could be, of her younger sister, Agatha Fraile, in her place.

Such was, in a word, the ultimate fruit of the conversation between Aunt

Selina and Aunt Cecilia that occurred a chapter or two ago. James

Wimbourne was approached and convinced, and in his turn approached and

convinced his brother Hilary, who, in his turn, came back to his

half-sister Selina and persuaded her to approach and convince that lady

in question on his behalf. Aunt Selina was perfectly willing to do this,

though she had not counted on it.

"Miss Fraile," she said, on the first occasion for speech that

presented itself; "my brother Hilary has asked me to put a proposition

to you on his behalf. What would you say to coming here and living with

him as his housekeeper and having an eye on those two boys, until--well,

say till it is time for them to go off to a boarding-school?"

This direct manner of approach was perhaps the one best calculated to

win Miss Fraile, who after a very little parley, assented to the

proposition. She was a very young and fragile-looking woman, having but

lately passed her thirtieth birthday, but she was in reality quite as

able to take care of herself as the next person, if not, indeed, a great

deal more so. She was the very antithesis, as the boys presently

discovered, of Aunt Selina, being all smiles and cordiality on the

outside and about as hard as tempered steel when you got a little below

the surface, in spite of her smiles, and in spite, moreover, of her

really unusual and perfectly sincere piety.

"I think," went on Aunt Selina rather magnificently, after the main

point had been gained, "that in the matter of the stipend there will be

no difficulty at all. You will find my brother entirely liberal in such

matters." Here she named a sum, Miss Fraile instantly decided that it

would not do, and proceeded after her own fashion to the work of raising

her opponent's bid.

"How very good of him," she murmured, letting her eyes fall to the

carpet. "All of our family have unfortunately been obliged to devote so

much thought and attention to money matters since our dear father's

death left us so badly off. Let me see.... I suppose my duties here

would take up very nearly all my time, would they not?"

"I do not know.... I daresay...."

"Exactly; one has to look so far ahead in all these matters, does one

not? I mean, that looking after this great house and those two dear boys

and Hilary himself would not leave me much time for anything like music

lessons, would it? Perhaps you did not know that I gave music lessons at

home?... Money is such a bother--! I suppose I should scarcely have time

to practise here myself, with one thing and another--household affairs

do pile up so, do they not?--without thinking of lessons or anything of

that sort; yet I daresay I should somehow be able to ... to make it up,

that is, if--"

"How much more would you need?" asked Aunt Selina bluntly.

Miss Fraile named a sum half as large again as the one previously

mentioned, but Aunt Selina, stifling a gasp, clinched the matter there.

After the funeral Miss Fraile returned to her home in semi-rural

Pennsylvania "to collect my traps" as she brightly put it, and a week

or so later came back to New Haven and settled down in her new position.

The boys on the whole liked their Aunt Agatha, though even their

exuberant boyish natures occasionally found her cheerfulness a little

oppressive, and she certainly did very well for them and for their

father. She ordered the meals, saw to the housework, arranged the

flowers, dusted the bric-a-brac with her own hands, did most of the

mending and presided at the head of the table at meals, fairly radiating

peace and cheer.

Hilary was a little appalled, to be sure, when she would burst on him on

his returning to the house of an evening with a pair of warmed slippers

in her hand and a musical little peal of laughter on her lips, but he

did not have to see much of her, and besides, he so thoroughly approved

of her.

"It is like living with Mary and Martha rolled into one," he told his

brother a month or two after her arrival; "with a little of Job and the

archangel Gabriel thrown in, flavored with a spice of St. Elizabeth of

Hungary--that bread woman, you know--and just a dash of St. Francis of

Assisi. She has covered the lawn knee-deep with bread crumbs for the

sparrows, and when she is not busy with her church work, which she

almost always is, she goes about kissing strange children on the head

and asking them if they say their prayers regularly. They all seem to

like her, too; that's the funny part of it. The boys are entirely happy

with her, and she is splendid for them. In short, I am entertaining an

angel, though not unawares--oh, no, certainly not unawares."

The two boys were thrown on each other's society much more constantly

than formerly, especially as, during the first weeks, at any rate, they

had small heart for the games of their schoolmates. James especially,

during these days of retirement, observed his brother with a

newly-awakened interest, and in the light, of course, of his mother's

last words to him. He had always thought of Harry as more irresponsible

and light-headed than himself, but it had never occurred to him that he

could give him any help against his impulsiveness beyond the customary

fraternal criticism and banter. Now he began to see that his position of

elder brother, combined with his superior balance and poise of

character, gave him a considerable influence over Harry, and he began to

feel at times an actual sense of responsibility very different from the

attitude of tolerant and half-amused superiority with which he had

previously regarded Harry's vagaries. At such times he would drop his

ridicule or blame, whichever it happened to be, and would become silent

and embarrassed, feeling that he should be helping Harry instead of

merely laying stress on his shortcomings, and yet not having the first

idea of how to go to work about it.

One day they were returning to the house after a walk through a somewhat

slummy and hoodlum-infested neighborhood and came upon a group of boys

tormenting a small, dirty, yellow mongrel puppy after the humorous

manner of their kind. They were not actually cruel to the dog, but they

were certainly not giving it a good time, and Harry's tender heart was

stirred to its core. Without a word or a second thought he rushed into

the middle of the gang, extracted the puppy and ran off with it to a

place of safety. The thing was done in the modern rather than in the

romantic style; he did not strike out at boys twice as big as

himself--there were none there, in the first place, and in any case he

had no desire for a fight--nor did he indulge in a lengthy tirade

against cruelty to animals; he simply grabbed the dog and ran. The

"micks" followed him at first, but he could run faster than they and

none of them cared much about a puppy, one way or the other.

James, meanwhile, had run off a different way, and when presently he

came upon his brother again he was walking leisurely along clasping the

puppy in a close embrace.

"You certainly are a young fool," said James, half amused and half

irritated; "what did you want to get mixed up in a street row like that

for? Darned lucky you didn't get your head smashed."

Harry thought it needless to reply to this, as the facts spoke for

themselves, and merely walked on, hugging and kissing his prize.

Then suddenly the situation dawned on James in its new light, and he

walked on, silent as Harry himself and far more perplexed. Harry's

fundamental motive was a good one, no doubt, but he realized what

disproportionate trouble the reckless following up of Harry's good

motives might bring him into. This time he had luckily escaped scot

free, but the next time he would very likely get mixed up in a street

fight, and would be lucky if he were able to walk home. And all about so

little--the dog was not really suffering; being a slum dog it had

probably thrived on teasing and mistreatment since before its eyes were

open. And the worst part of the situation was that he was so helpless in

making Harry see the thing in its true light.

At any rate, he reflected, his first attitude was of no avail. Calling

Harry a fool, he knew, would not convince him of his foolishness; it

would more likely have the effect of making him think he was more right

than ever. As he walked silently on, beside his brother, Harry's

shortcomings seemed to dwindle and his own to increase.

"Let's have a look at the beast," he said presently in an altered tone,

stopping and taking the puppy from Harry's arms. "He's not such a bad

puppy, after all. Wonder how old he is." He sat down on a nearby

curbstone and balancing the puppy on his knee apostrophized him further:

"Well, it was poor pupsy-wupsy; did the naughty boys throw stones at it?

That was a dirty shame, it was!"

James put the puppy down in the gutter and encouraged playfulness. For a

few minutes the two boys watched its somewhat reluctant antics; then

James asked:

"What are you going to do with it, anyway?"

"Take it home, I suppose."

"What'll you do with it there? Keep him in the house?"

"No. That is, I suppose Father wouldn't hear of it."

"I suppose not A puppy...! There are three dogs in the house anyway."

"What about the stable, then?"

"I don't know. There's Thomas." Thomas was the coachman, who made no

secret of his dislike for dogs "under the horses' hoofs."

"Yes," said Harry, "and Spark, too. Spark would try to bite him, I'm

afraid."

"What are you going to do with him, then?"

"I don't know; what shall we?"

"It's for you to say--he's your dog."

"Do you think," said Harry, lowering his voice and gazing furtively

around, "do you think it would be all right just to leave him here?"

James laughed, inwardly. Then a bright idea struck him. Grasping the

puppy in one hand he walked across the street to a small and dirty front

yard in which a small and dirty child of four or five was sitting

playing.

"Hullo, kid," said James breezily, "do you want a puppy dog? Here you

are, then. He's a very valuable dog, so be careful of him. Mind you

don't pull his tail now, or he'll bite."

James walked off well pleased with the turn of events, which left Harry

relieved and satisfied and the dog honorably disposed of. As for Harry,

he was profoundly grateful. He would have liked to give some expression

to his gratitude, but the words would not come, and he walked on for

some time without speaking. But he was determined to give some sign of

what he felt.

"Thank you, James," he said at length in a low voice, and blushed to the

roots of his hair.

"What? Oh, that's all right." James' surprise was no affectation; the

matter had really passed from his mind. But he gave to Harry's words the

full meaning that the speaker placed in them. They made him feel

suddenly ashamed of himself; what had Harry done that was wrong? What

had he done but what was right and praiseworthy, when you came to look

at it? Should he not be ashamed himself of not having run in and rescued

the dog before Harry?

And yet, most of the things that Harry did worked out wrong, somehow,

even when they were prompted by the best of motives.

"Poor Harry," thought James, "he's always getting into scrapes, and yet

I suppose, if everything were known, people would see that he was twice

as good as I am, at bottom. I would never have thought of saving that

dog; Harry thinks out such funny things to do.... I can generally do the

right thing, if it's put directly up to me, but Harry goes out and

searches for the right thing to do; I guess that's what it amounts to.

Only, I wish he didn't have to search in such strange places."

As James settled down into his position of mentor to his brother he

found out a curious thing; he was fonder of Harry than formerly. The old

sense of unconscious, taking-it-for-granted companionship gradually

became infused with positive affection which, for the reason that it

found little if any outward expression in the daily round of work and

play, escaped the notice of everybody except James himself.

"Do you think that doing something for a person would ever make you

fonder of that person?" he once asked of his father when they were alone

together. "I mean--I should think, that is, that it would work out the

other way, so that the person you did the thing for would be fonder of

you."

"It's a well known psychological fact," replied his father; "I've often

noticed it. If you merely stop a person in the street and ask him the

way, or what time it is, you can see his expression change from one of

indifference, or even dislike, to interest and cordiality. And if you

ever feel that a man, an acquaintance, doesn't like you, ask him to do

you some slight service, and he'll admire you intensely from that moment

on. And conversely, if you want to make a man your enemy, the best way

of going about it is to do something for him.--Why, what made you think

of it?"

"Thomas," replied James promptly, being prepared for the question. "He

was cross as two sticks the other day when we wanted to build forts in

the haymow, but after I asked him to help me put the chain on my

bicycle," etc., etc. But James was disturbed by his father's development

of the theory. What if his "helping out" Harry should have the effect of

making him hate him, James, the very effect of all others he desired to

avoid? He resolved to keep his new-found feeling to himself, and give

his brother's resentment no foothold; but he could not entirely live it

down, for all that. Unconsciously he found fault less with him,

unconsciously he would take his part in squabbles with the servants or

with his father; and as he noticed no change in Harry's conduct toward

him he congratulated himself on his powers of concealment.

But he need have had no worries on the score of Harry's resenting his

protection. To Harry, James had always appeared to partake somewhat of

the nature of a divinity; if not Apollo or Jupiter, out and out, he was

at least Hercules, say, or Theseus. And though, in the very nature of

things in general and the fraternal relation in particular, he was

obliged outwardly to deny James' superiority in everything and more

especially the right to boss younger brothers, he was acutely, almost

pathetically, sensitive to James' demeanor toward him and was entirely

ready to respond to any increase in good feeling, if James would lead

the way.

James, with all his insight and quickness of perception, failed to count

upon the fact that Harry would be as slow in making a parade of his

feelings as he himself, and was a little surprised that Harry made so

slight a demonstration of sorrow when, about a year after their mother's

death, James was sent off to school. Harry, indeed, sought to cover his

secret conviction that he would really miss his brother very much by

repeated harpings upon the blessings that James' presence had ever kept

from him, and now, the obstacle being removed, would shower copiously on

his deserving, but hitherto officially unrecognized, head. Now he would

get the first go at all dishes at table, now he would always sit on the

box beside Thomas and drive, now people would see whether he could not

be on time for breakfast without his brother's assistance, and so forth.

James smiled tolerantly at all such talk; he knew that it did not amount

to much, though even he failed to realize quite how little.

When the fatal morning came the brothers parted with complete cordiality

and every outward expression of mutual contempt.

"Be very careful about putting on your clothes in the morning, kid,"

said James as the train that was to take him off rolled into the

station. "You put on your undershirt first, remember, then your shirt

and coat. Don't go putting your undershirt over your coat; people might

laugh."

"All right, you dear thoughtful boy, I'll try to remember, but I shall

be pretty busy hoping that those other kids'll lick the tar out of you,

for the first time in your innocent life. You're a good boy at heart,

James; all you need is to have the nonsense knocked out of you!"

James' first letter to his brother from school, written some ten days

after his departure, is still extant, and may be quoted in full as a

document in the story.

St. Barnabas' School.

October 5.

Dear Harry:

I meant to have written you before, but I have been so busy

that there was no time. This certainly is a fine place, and I

like it a lot already. There are 21 new boys this term, which

is fewer than usual, but they say we are an unusually good

crowd. We say so, at any rate! There was a big rough-house in

our corridor Saturday night. A lot of the old boys came down

and turned the new fellows after lights were out, and also made

them run the gauntlet down the hall, standing at the sides and

swatting them with belts and things as they went by. That was

much worse than the turning, which did not amount to much. I

got turned five times, and Brush, the fellow that rooms with

me, six times. That was not much. There was one chap that got

turned 22 times that one night. That was Hawley. They call him

'Stink' Hawley already, because he is so dirty looking. They

say he has not washed his face since he came. Gosh, I wonder

what you will be called when you get here!

"What a filthy lie!" shrieked Harry when he reached this, making up in

vehemence what he lacked in coherence. His alleged aversion to the

wash-basin was a standing joke in the family, and any reference to it

invariably brought a rise.

"Gracious, dear," murmured Aunt Agatha, and smiled.

"Let's hear," said his father, suspending judgment. (The scene took

place at the breakfast table.) Harry read the letter aloud up to the

point in question, and was relieved to observe an exculpatory smile on

his father's lips when he stopped.

"I admit there is an implication in that last remark," said Hilary,

"that might prove irritating. However, that's no excuse for making a

menagerie of yourself. What else does James say?" Harry read on:

There always is a big rough-house the first two or three

Saturday nights every year, and after that they keep pretty

quiet. They say the masters let them do what they like, almost,

those first nights, because they behave better afterwards and

it keeps the new boys from being too fresh. That's what I'll be

doing to you, you see, next year!

I have been playing football every day, and am trying for the

fourth team. Do you remember Roswell Banks, that boy we saw up

at Northeast? He is going to make the first team this year,

probably. They say he tackles better than any one else here.

Kid Leffingwell also plays a peach of a game, but he won't make

the first this year. He is too light, but he has got lots of

nerve.

I must stop now, so good-night.

Your affectionate brother,

JAMES.

The present writer has no quarrel with any one who is unable to detect

in this letter symptoms of any particularly keen brotherly affection. It

is his private opinion, however, that such exist there. He thinks,

_imprimis_, that James, strange as it may appear, laid himself out to be

more agreeable in that letter than he would if he had written it, say, a

year previously. It is longer and fuller than James' letters usually

were. And--though this may be drawing the point too fine--he thinks that

the exclamation point after "that's what I'll be doing to you next year"

would not have been put in under the old regime. An exclamation point

does so much toward toning down and softening a disagreeable remark! And

for the manner of signature, of course James might have signed himself

like that to Harry at any time of his life. Yet the writer, even at the

risk of being called super-sensitive, will not ignore the fact that most

of James' letters to his brother previous to this date are signed, more

casually, "Yours affect'ly," or "Ever yours," or simply

"Good-by,--James," and though he realizes that at best the point is not

an all-important one, he feels he can do no better than give the reader

all the information he has at his command, be it never so trifling, and

let him draw conclusions for himself.

CHAPTER V

BABES IN THE WOOD

One Saturday morning about a year after James went away to school Harry

bounded downstairs for breakfast to find his father just leaving the

dining room.

"Hello, Father," he said, jumping up and kissing him as usual. "You

don't stay in the office this afternoon, do you, Father? Why don't you

take Bugs and me to the game? Or you can take us for a ride in the car,

if you like; we'll meet you downtown for lunch, so as to save time."

(Bugs was for the moment Harry's _fidus Achates_; a sort of vice-James.)

"You will not, I fear," returned Hilary briefly. "I'm going out of town

for the day."

"What, not in the car?"

"In the car."

"_All_ day?"

"All day. Leaving now, as soon as ever the car comes round, and not

getting back till late--perhaps not to-night."

"Dash," remarked Harry. "I wish you'd go by train; Graves told me he'd

give me a lesson in running the machine the next free Saturday."

"Sorry. Next week, perhaps."

"Where are you going, anyway, Father?"

"My business."

"Going to take Graves?"

"No."

"What, all alone? You'll be lonely. Why don't you take Aunt Agatha?"

"No, I shan't be lonely and I'm not going to take Aunt Agatha. I'll tell

you what I am going to do, however; I'm going to send you away to

school, and that next term. You have a pretty glib tongue in your head,

Harry my boy, and I think perhaps young gentlemen of your own age will

be even better able to appreciate it than I am."

But Harry was far too elated by the news to pay much heed to the rebuke.

He became inarticulate with delight, and his father went calmly on with

his preparations for departure.

"Yes, I'll have a talk with Hodgman about the exams.... There's the car,

at last--I must run. Where did I put those water rights, anyway? Oh....

Yes, I think you'll probably have to do extra work in algebra this

term.... Take care of yourself; we'll have a spree next week if I can

arrange it," and so forth, enough to cover sorting a morning's mail,

progress into the front hall, donning a hat and overcoat--no, the dark

one, and where are the gray gloves, dash it?--and a triumphal exit in a

motor car. Harry watched the retreating vehicle with mingled regret and

admiration. Hilary made a striking and debonair picture as he whirled

along in his scarlet chariot--they ran a great deal to bright red paint

in those early days, if you'll remember--and people would run to catch a

glimpse of him as he dashed by and talk about it at length at the next

meal. But it occurred to Harry that he would complete the picture very

nicely, sitting there at his father's side. He wished fervently that he

could ever make his father remember that Saturday was Saturday.

This parting conversation was redeemed from the oblivion of trivial

things and inscribed indelibly on Harry's memory by the fact that it was

the last he ever had with his father.

The day passed like any other day and at its close the household went to

bed as usual, boding no ill. Toward midnight the telephone rang and Aunt

Agatha arose and answered it. The voice at the other end introduced

itself as Police Headquarters and inquired, as an afterthought, if this

was Mr. Wimbourne's house. Yet, it was. Headquarters then expressed a

desire to know if any of the family was there and, without waiting for a

reply, asked with perceptible animation if this was one of the girls

speaking? Aunt Agatha answered, in a tone which in another person would

have been called frigid, that this was Miss Fraile.

Headquarters appeared duly impressed; at least he seemed to have

difficulty in finding words in which to continue. Aunt Agatha's crisp

inquiry of what was it, please? at last moved him to admit there had

been an accident. Yes, to Mr. Wimbourne. The automobile did it; ran into

a telegraph pole down near Port Chester. Pretty bad smash-up; couldn't

say just how bad.... Was Mr. Wimbourne badly hurt? Well, yes, pretty

badly; the machine--Was Mr. Wimbourne killed? Well, yes, he was, if you

put it that way. His body would arrive sometime next morning....

This was the sort of occasion on which Aunt Agatha shone as a perfect

model of efficiency. She spent an hour or more telegraphing and

telephoning, prayed extensively, returned to her bed and slept soundly

till seven. Then she arose and gave directions to the servants. It was

breakfast time before she remembered that she had yet to tell Harry.

Then, as he appeared so cheerfully and ignorantly at the breakfast

table, Aunt Agatha's heart failed her. Her presence of mind also left

her; she blurted out a few words to the effect that his father had had a

bad accident, wished she had let him eat his breakfast in ignorance,

hoped despairingly that he would guess the truth from her perturbation.

But even this was denied her; he asked a great many questions and

refused to eat till she made him, but gave no sign of suspecting

anything beyond what she told him.

She saw that the suspense of waiting for his father's return would tell

on him more than the worst certainty, but still she could not bring

herself to break the truth to him. When at last she nerved herself to do

it, it was too late.

"Come here and sit down by me, Harry," she said gently, but Harry, who

was standing at one of the front windows, listlessly replied:

"Wait, there's something coming up the street."

"Just a minute, dear, I want to talk to you," said Aunt Agatha, going

over and trying to push him gently away from the window. But Harry's

attention was caught and he refused to move.

"I thought it might be Father. Do you think it's Father, Aunt Agatha? It

moves so slowly I can't see.... Yes, it's turning in at the gate. What

sort of a thing is it, anyway?..."

The next moment his own eyes answered the question, and with a little

cry he toppled backward into her arms.

James' reception of the news was characteristically different. His

behavior was generally referred to by the family as "wonderful." He

certainly was very calm throughout. He was informed of his father's

death on the Sunday morning by the headmaster of his school, to whom

Aunt Agatha had telegraphed the night before.

"I suppose I'd better go home," was his first comment.

"I suppose you had," replied the schoolmaster, and he was rather at a

loss for what to say next. He had certainly expected more of a

demonstration than this. "Somebody had better go with you. Whom would

you like to have go?"

James hesitated and blushed. "Do you suppose Marston would come?" he

said at last, in a low voice. Marston, a long-legged sixth former, was

James' idol at present; to ask him to do something for one was like

calling the very gods down from Olympus.

"I am sure he would," said the headmaster, who understood, perfectly. "I

will send for him now and ask him."

So Marston accompanied James on his dreary homeward journey, though his

presence was not in the least necessary, and James sat covertly gazing

at him in mute adoration all the way. His thoughts were actually less on

his father's death during this journey than on the wonderful, incredible

fact that anything like a mere family death could throw him into

intimate intercourse with Marston for a whole day.

But of course he gave no sign of this, and Marston, like a real god,

seemed entirely unconscious of the immensity of the blessing he was

conferring. He spent the night at the Wimbournes', behaving himself in

his really rather trying position with the greatest ease and seemliness,

and even submitted with a becoming grace to the kiss which Aunt Cecilia

impulsively placed on his brow when she bade him farewell next morning.

"You're a dear good boy," she said softly, as she did it; "thank you,

again and again, for what you've done."

James, who was a witness to this episode, nearly sank through the floor

with shame. That a relative of his should kiss--actually, _kiss_

Marston--! He felt like throwing himself on the ground and imploring

Marston's pardon, dedicating himself to his service for life as an

expiation.

Yet Marston only blushed and laughed a little and said he had done

nothing, and bade good-by to James with unimpaired cordiality.

Aunt Cecilia had been the first of the relatives to arrive on the spot

after Hilary's death, and she remained commander-in-chief of the relief

forces throughout. But her command was not a complete or unquestioned

one. Among the relatives that assembled at the Wimbourne house on that

Sunday and Monday for Hilary's funeral was one with whom the story has

hitherto had no dealings, but who was a very important force in the

family, for all that. This was Lady Fletcher, Hilary's younger sister,

by all odds the handsomest and most naturally gifted of her generation.

She was the wife of an English army officer, Sir Giles Fletcher, who,

having won his major-generalship and a K.C.B. by distinguished service

with Kitchener in the Soudan, and being physically incapacitated by that

campaign for further service in the tropics, was now, with the able

assistance of his wife, devoting his declining years to politics. Lady

Fletcher, by the discreet exercise of her social qualities, had

succeeded in making herself in the five years since her husband had

entered Parliament, one of the most important political hostesses in

London. At the time of Hilary's death she was paying one of her flying

autumn visits to the country of her birth, in which her headquarters was

always her brother James' house in New York.

She and James had gone up to New Haven on the Sunday afternoon in a

leisurely fashion several hours in the wake of Aunt Cecilia, who had

rushed off, without so much as packing a bag, the moment she received

Miss Fraile's telegram that morning. Miriam--that was her Christian

name--always felt that she and her brother James understood one another

better than any other members of the family, and it was her private

opinion that they between them possessed more of the rare gift of common

sense than all the other Wimbournes put together, with their wives and

husbands thrown in. During the short two-hour journey from New York to

New Haven neither she nor her brother appeared so overcome by sorrow

over their recent loss that they were not able to discuss the newly

created situation pretty satisfactorily, or, to "be practical" as Lady

Fletcher was fond of putting it.

"You aren't going to smoke, James?" she asked, as her brother, shortly

after the train had started, exhibited preparatory signs of a

restlessness which she knew would culminate in an apologetic exit to the

smoking car. "Please don't; I can't, on the train, and the thought of

your doing it would make me miserable." She stopped for a moment,

reflecting that there was perhaps that in the air which ought to make

her miserable anyway; then went on, with a significantly lowered voice.

"Beside, I want to talk to you; we may not get another chance...."

"Well?" said James at length.

"Don't be irritating, James; you know what I mean, perfectly. Can't you

turn your chair around a little nearer? I don't want to shout.... Tell

me, first, who are to be the guardians? Now don't say you don't know,

because you do."

"I do, as a matter of fact. You and I, jointly. That's the one thing I

do know, for sure."

"I felt sure it would be that, somehow.... Why me, I wonder? and if me

at all, why you? However, it might have been worse, of course."

"Yes, I think he was right, on the whole." So perfect was the unspoken

understanding between these two that, if a third person had interrupted

at this moment and asked, point blank, what they were talking about,

both would have replied, without a moment's hesitation, "Selina," though

her name had not passed their lips.

"Well, what's to be done?" Lady Fletcher exhibited, to James' trained

eye, preliminary symptoms of a "practical" seizure.

"Can't tell anything for certain, till we see the will. I shall see

Raynham in the morning."

"Yes, but haven't you any idea ..."

"Oh, none! You were not a witness, were you?... if that's any comfort to

you."

"Thanks, I have no expectations." This was uttered in Lady Fletcher's

best snubbing tone, impossible to describe. "Please be practical, James.

What is going to become of those two boys?"

"Well, there are several possibilities. First, there's their aunt...."

"Oh, the Fraile woman? I've never met her. Isn't she ... well, a

trifle...."

"Oh, quite. She's a leading candidate for the position of first American

saint. But there'd be no point in keeping on with her, with James away

at school and Harry ready to go."

"Oh, really? I didn't realize."

"No," continued James, raising his eyes to his sister's and smiling

slightly, "what it will come to will be that I shall have six children

instead of four. Or rather, seven instead of five."

"Oh, really?" This in a changed tone from the lady.

"Yes, hasn't she told you? April."

"No." The practical mood seemed to have undergone a setback; there was

something new in that monosyllable, irritation, a twinge of pain,

perhaps. An outside observer might have thought this was due to Miriam's

having been left out of her sister-in-law's confidence, but James knew

better. He felt sorry for his sister; he knew that her childlessness was

the one blight on her career.

"I don't see why you should do it, James." This after a long interval of

silent thought on the part of Miriam, and passive observation of the

rushing autumn landscape on the part of James. "I don't see why, when

I'm equally responsible. It isn't a question of money, so much--I

suppose that will be left all right?"

"Oh, undoubtedly. Though I don't know just how."

"It's more than that; it's the responsibility, the bother. There's no

use in saying that one more, or two more, don't matter, for they do; and

there's no use in saying that they would both be away at school, for,

though that would make a difference, of course, you never can tell what

is going to turn up. No matter what did happen, it would always fall on

you--and Cecilia."

"That's all very true, perhaps, but--"

"And remember this; it's not as if you didn't have four--five already,

and I none."

"What _are_ you driving at, Miriam?"

"Don't you see? I want to take one, or both of them, myself."

"Whee-ew." This was not, strictly speaking, an observation, but rather a

sort of vocalized whistle, the larynx helping out the lips. "You do rush

things so, Miriam! Aside from the consideration of whether it would be

advisable or not, do you realize what opposition there'd be?"

"Why? What, I mean, that could not be properly overcome? You are one

guardian, I the other; I take one boy, you the other. What is there

strange about such a course? Or I could take both together."

"I should be against James leaving the country, myself. He is safely

started in his school; doing well there; striking his _milieu_. Why

disturb him?"

"Well, Harry, then. What sort of a child is he, James? I haven't seen

either of them for three years, but as I remember it, I liked James

best. Rather the manly type, isn't he? Not but what the other seemed a

nice enough child...."

"Harry? Oh, he'll have the brains of his generation, without doubt. Yes,

I'm not surprised at your liking James best. There are plenty of people

who find Harry the more attractive, however. He's got winning ways.

But--are you serious about this, Miriam?"

"Serious? Certainly!"

"Well, what's the point? Do we want to make an Englishman out of the

boy? And do you want to separate them? Wouldn't that smack a little

of--well, of Babes in the Wood? Cruel uncles and things, you know?"

"I don't think so. We wouldn't want to do that, of course. It wouldn't

be for always, anyway. But even if he went to an English public school,

which I should prefer to an American one, particularly for that type ...

they would always have vacations. You are here, and I am there, and we

would keep running across pretty frequently. Besides," here Lady

Fletcher again changed her tone, and generally gave the impression of

preparing to start another maneuver; "besides, there's another element

in it--Giles. He's devoted to children. He would come as near being a

father to the boy, if he liked him, as any one could. And--do you

realize what that might mean for him--for Harry?" Miriam stopped,

significantly, and looked her brother straight in the eye for a moment.

"The Rumbold property is very large, and Giles will certainly come into

it before long...."

"I see," said James, slowly nodding his head; "I see. Though I wouldn't

sacrifice anything definite to that chance. Beside, what about the

Carson family?"

"Oh, yes, I'm not saying there's any certainty; it's just one of the

things to be counted on.... Leaving Harry out of consideration for the

moment, it would be a wonderful thing for Giles. I can't think of

anything Giles would rather have; it would be like giving him a son. And

if you knew how wild English people of a certain class and type are

about children--! Giles has never got on well with the Carson children,

for some reason."

"That's all very fine, Miriam, but we mustn't leave Harry out of

consideration, since it's him we're the guardians of, and not Giles--at

least, I am.... I'm inclined to think there is something in what you

say, though I should be definitely against making an Englishman of

him--you understand that?" Lady Fletcher nodded, and her brother

continued: "It would certainly have an admirably broadening influence,

if all went right. And I'm not sure but what you're right about English

public schools. Even for American boys. But--" here he smiled

quizzically at his sister--"did you ever hear of a person called Selina

Wimbourne?"

Lady Fletcher laughed. "You've hit it this time, I fancy! Honestly,

James--" the practical mood was now in complete abeyance--"though I've

knocked around a good deal with swells and terrifying people and all

that, I have never been so cowed by the mere presence of any individual

as I have been by my sister Selina. Did it ever occur to you, James,

that Selina runs this family--well, as the engineer runs this train?"

"Something very like it--yes."

"At any rate, I have a premonition in the present instance that as

Selina jumps the tree will fall ... fancy Selina jumping out of a tree!

It will have to be most carefully put to her--if it is put."

"If it is put--exactly. We must see how things lie before doing

anything.--What, already?" This to a negro porter, who was exhibiting

willingness to be of service. "We must look alive--the next stop's New

Haven. Mind you don't say anything too soon, now; easy does it."

"Yes, of course.--No, Bridgeport, isn't it?--What, don't we, any

more?... But you are on my side, in the main, aren't you?"

"Conditionally, yes--that is, if all parties seem agreeable. The one

thing I won't stand for is--well, Babes in the Wood business."

"James, what do you think of my taking Harry off to England with me?"

said Aunt Miriam to her elder nephew a day or two later.

"I think it would be fine," was his reply, and then after a pause: "For

how long, though?"

This was going nearer to the heart of the matter than the lady cared to

penetrate, so she merely answered:

"Oh, one can't tell; a few months; perhaps more, if he wants to stay."

Seeing that he swallowed this without apparent effort, she went on:

"What should you say to his going to school in England, when he is able,

for a time?"

James' expression underwent no change, but he only answered stiffly, "I

think he had better come to St. Barnabas, when he is able," and his aunt

let the matter drop there.

It was in Aunt Cecilia, and not Aunt Selina, that Lady Fletcher found

the most formidable opposition. Miss Wimbourne, indeed, quite took to

the idea when her half-sister, very carefully and with not a little

concealed trepidation, suggested it to her. She took it, as Miriam more

vividly put it to her brother, "like milk."

"That is not a bad plan, Miriam, not a bad plan at all," she said in the

quiet voice that could be so firm when it wanted. "I can see why there

are good reasons why neither of the boys should live in New Haven. For

the present, you know. James will be at school, and will spend his

vacations with James' family, and Harry will be with you until he is

ready to do the same. I do not see but what it is a very good

arrangement. I am perfectly willing to do my part in taking care of

them, but I am not nearly so useful in that way as either you or James."

But not so with Mrs. James. Her husband first spoke to her of the scheme

before breakfast on the Monday morning, and she took immediate and

articulate exception to it. The plan was forced, dangerous, artificial,

cruel, unnecessary, short-sighted; in fact, it wouldn't do at all. There

was no telling what Miriam would do with him, once he was over there,

and no telling when she would let him come back to what had been, what

ought to be, and what, if she (Mrs. James) had any say in the matter,

was going to be his Home. It would make her extremely unhappy to think

of that child spending his vacations--or his whole time for that

matter--with any one but his uncle and natural guardian ("Miriam is his

guardian, too," James attempted to say, but no attention was paid to

him), his aunt and his young cousins. As for all that business about

Giles Fletcher, it was Perfect Nonsense. Before she would give an

instant's consideration to such--to such an absurdity, she (Mrs. James)

would give the boy every scrap of money she had, or was ever going to

have, outright, and would end the matter then and there. (This would

have been a really appalling threat, if it was meant seriously, for

Cecilia was due to inherit millions.) As for sending him to an English

public school, she thought it would be the cruelest, most unfeeling,

most ridiculous thing possible, seeing Harry was what he was. If it had

been James, now--!

But the gods fought on Miriam's side. Cecilia went into the library

during the latter part of the morning and discovered young James alone

there. She found him uncommunicative and solemn, which, in the nature of

things, was only to be expected; and he took her completely by surprise

by asking after a few moments, in the most ordinary tone:

"Who is Marcelline Lefebre, Aunt Cecilia?"

Mrs. James stifled a gasp, and waited before replying till she was sure

of her voice.

"Why? How did you ever hear of her?" she said.

"Oh, in this. There's a lot more about it to-day. She was badly hurt,

wasn't she?"

Mrs. James looked up and saw the newspaper lying open on the desk in

front of which James was sitting.

"Oh, yes.... An actress, I think."

"Yes," said James, "it says that here." The words and tone clearly

implied that James expected her to tell him something he did not know

already, but she parried.

"Had you ever heard of her before?"

"No, never. That's just the funny part of it. Why should we never have

heard of a person Father knew well enough to take out to ride? Did you

ever know her?"

"No; merely heard of her. Oh, it's not to be wondered at; he had lots of

acquaintances, of course." This was definite enough to indicate that she

had told him all she intended to, and both were silent for a while. But

presently a new thought occurred to her and she began again:

"Tell me, James, does Harry know anything about Mme. Lefebre?"

"Not that I know of; not unless he heard of her ... before."

"Well, I think it would be a good plan if you didn't mention her name to

him, or talk about her in his presence."

"All right. Why, though--particularly?"

"Never mind about that. At least," she caught herself up, realizing,

perhaps, that this was treating him too much _en enfant_; "at least, I

think it would be just as well for him not to know anything about her.

It might worry him. Particularly in his present state. There is no

reason why he should see the papers, or hear anything."

"I see," said James, quietly, staring out of the window. He saw far too

well, poor boy, was Aunt Cecilia's thought.

But the conversation started her off on a new line of thought in regard

to Harry. Harry was so different from James; if he once smelled a rat he

would go nosing about till he found him, even if he undermined the

foundations of his own happiness in so doing. And Harry was the kind

that smelled rats.... Inevitably her thoughts wandered around to Lady

Fletcher's scheme, and beheld it in a new light. There was a certain

amount of common sense in the plan, so viewed; there would certainly be

fewer rats in London than anywhere in this country. And after all, what

was the danger in his going to England? Miriam would not eat him,

neither would Giles; Miriam must really be fond of him if she wanted to

take him--Miriam would hardly do anything against her own inclination,

she reflected, a little bitterly.

She presented her changed front to her husband that evening, and the

upshot of it all was that Harry was to go to England. The whole family

adjourned to New York after the funeral, and steamship plans and

sailings were in the air. James went with them; it was decided that he

was not to return to school till Harry sailed with his aunt.

Harry himself took most kindly to the scheme; seemed, indeed, to prefer

it to St. Barnabas. He flaunted his superior fortune in the face of his

brother, making comparisons between the British Isles and St. Barnabas,

greatly to the detriment of the latter.

"Oh, yes, I'll write to you," he said airily during one of these

conversations; "that is, if I can find a minute to do it in. Of course I

shall be pretty busy, with pantomimes, and theaters, and parties,

and--and the Zoo, and all that."

"Fudge," said James calmly; "you'll be homesick as a cat before you've

been there a week."

"Then when I get tired of that I may go to school--if I feel like it.

Aunt Miriam says she knows of one that would just do. Not Eton or Rugby,

or anything like that; a school for younger boys. This one is in a

beautiful big house, Aunt Miriam says, with lots of grounds and things

about. Park, you know, like Windsor. And deer in it. And the house was

built in the reign of Charles the First."

"Bet you don't even know when that was. What's the use in having that

kind of place for a school, anyway?"

"St. Barnabas," replied Harry with hauteur, "was built in the reign of

Queen Victoria."

"Queen nothing! Gosh, if you talk rot like this now, what'll you be when

you've been over there a while?"

"Then I may go to Eton, or one of those places, later." This was merely

to bring a rise; Harry had no idea of completing his education anywhere

but at St. Barnabas'.

"Yes, a fine time you'd have there! A fine time you'd have with those

kids. Lords, Dukes, and things. Gosh, wouldn't you be sick of them, and

oh, but they'd be sick of you!"

"Oh, I don't know," said Harry; "good fellows, lords. Some of them, that

is. I might be made one myself, in time, who knows?"

"Yes, you might, mightn't you?" James was laughing now. "Nothing more

likely, I should think. Lord Harry, Earl Harry!"

Harry replied in kind, and hostilities ensued.

This was all more or less as it should be, and the mutual attitude was

maintained up to the actual moment of sailing--after it, indeed, for

when Harry last saw his brother he was standing on the very end of the

dock and shouting "Give my love to the earls!" and similar pleasantries

to the small head that protruded itself out of the great black moving

wall above him; above him now, and now not so much above, but some

distance off, and presently not a great black wall at all, but the side

of a perfectly articulate ship, way out in the river.

Uncle James and his wife, also their eldest child, Ruth, a girl of nine

or thereabouts, all came down to the dock with James to see the

travelers off, and as they arrived hours and hours, as Miriam put it,

before there was any question of sailing, there was a good deal of

standing about in saloons and on decks and talking about nothing in

particular, pending the moment when gongs would be rung and people begin

to talk jocularly about getting left and having to climb down with the

pilot. They all went down to see the staterooms, which adjoined each

other and were pronounced satisfactory. Aunt Cecilia said she was glad

Harry could have his window open at night without a draught blowing on

him, and Aunt Miriam remarked that it was nice to have the ship all to

one's self, practically, which was so different from Coming Over, and

Uncle James added that when he crossed on the _Persia_ in '69 as a mere

kid, there were only fifteen people in the first cabin and none of them

ever appeared in the dining room after the first day except himself and

the captain. After this, conversation rather lagged and there was a

general adjournment to the deck. A few passengers, accompanied by their

stay-at-home friends and relations, wandered about the halls and

stairways, saying that autumn voyages were not always so bad and that

you never could tell about the ocean, at any season; which amounted to

admitting that they probably would be seasick, though they hoped not.

Our friends, the Wimbournes, had little to say on even this

all-absorbing topic, for Harry, who had crossed once before, had proved

himself a qualmless sailor, and Aunt Miriam had crossed so often that

she had got all over that sort of thing, years ago.

Uncle James was presently despatched to see what mischief those boys

were getting that child into, and the two ladies wandered into the main

lounge and sat down.

"Anything more different than the appearance of a steamship saloon while

the ship is in dock from what it looks like when she is careering round

at sea can hardly be imagined," murmured Lady Fletcher, pleasantly, with

no intention of being comprehended or replied to. Mrs. James' polite and

conscientious rejoinder of "What was that, Miriam?"--she had not, of

course, been listening--piqued the other lady ever so slightly. It was

not real annoyance, merely the rather tired feeling that comes over one

when a companion sounds a note out of one's own mood.

"Oh, nothing; merely what a difference it makes, being out on the open

sea."

"Yes, doesn't it?... Harry will--"

"Harry will what?"

"Nothing." Mrs. James blushed a little. She was going to say, "Harry

will have to be looked out for, or he will go climbing over places where

he shouldn't and fall overboard," or something to that effect, but she

decided not to, fearing that her sister-in-law would think her fussy.

Lady Fletcher accepted the omission, and went on to talk of the next

thing that came into her mind, which was Business. There were some

Lackawanna shares, it appeared, part of Harry's property, the dividends

on which James was going to pay regularly to the London banker for

defraying Harry's expenses, and James might have forgotten to do

something, or else not to do something, in connection with these. Lady

Fletcher wandered on to American railroad stock, making several remarks

which, in the absence of brothers, with their satirical smiles, remained

unchallenged. Poor Aunt Cecilia, who could neither keep on nor off her

sister-in-law's line of thought, unluckily broke in on the Union Pacific

with the malapropos remark:

"Miriam, Harry has got to be made to wear woolen stockings in the

winter, no matter what he says ..."

Lady Fletcher was amused. "I declare, Cecilia," she said, "you think I

am no more capable of taking care of that boy than of ruling a state!"

But Mrs. James did not smile in reply; the remark came too near to

describing her actual state of mind.

"Well, Miriam, with four children of one's own, one may be expected to

learn a thing or two; it isn't all as easy as it seems. Beside, I am

fond of the boy; I suppose I may be excused for that ..."

"I can certainly excuse it; I am fond of him myself." Lady Fletcher was

trying to conceal her irritation. Perhaps the suavity of her tone was a

little overdone; at any rate, it only served to make Mrs. James' face a

little rosier and her voice a little harder as she replied:

"I suppose you think, Miriam, that because I have four children of my

own to fuss over, I might be expected to let the others alone, and I

daresay you're right; but all that I know is, my heart isn't made that

way. I have noticed you during these last weeks, and I am sure that you

have felt as I say. But if you think that because I have four of my own

to love, and therefore have less to give to those two motherless boys,

you are mistaken. The more you have to love, the more you love each one

of them, separately--not the less, as you might know if you had children

of your own ..."

She stopped, unable to say any more. Her words were much more cruel than

she intended them to be; that is, they fell much more cruelly than she

meant them to on Lady Fletcher's ears. She had no idea, of course, of

the deep though vain yearning for offspring of her own that filled her

sister-in-law's bosom; Miriam could not possibly have expressed this,

the deepest and most tragic thing in her life, to Cecilia. She was made

that way. The more poignantly she felt what she had missed, the more

determinedly she concealed every trace of her feeling from the outside

world.

So it was now. Every ounce of feeling in her flared for a moment into

hate; the hate of the childless woman for the mother. The flame fell

after a second or two, of course, and she was able to reply, unsmilingly

and coldly:

"I think that Harry will be as well treated by me as you could wish,

Cecilia."

Mother love, nothing else, was responsible for all the hardness and

bitterness in her tone. But Mrs. James knew nothing of this; she only

felt the hardness and bitterness and judged the speaker accordingly.

That was all. The quarrel, if such it could be called, died down as

quickly as it had flared up, for it was impossible for these two

well-bred ladies to fall out and fight like fishwives. Lady Fletcher's

last remark made further discussion of the subject, or any other

subject, for the time being, impossible, and after a minute the two rose

by tacit consent and went out to find the others.

By the time they found them they were both as calm and self-possessed as

usual. When, after a little more standing around, the gongs were rung

and the time for farewell actually arrived, Lady Fletcher kissed her

nephew and niece with neither more nor less than her usual cordiality,

and Mrs. James was exactly as affectionate in her farewells to Harry as

might have been expected. The two ladies also embraced each other with

no sign of ill-feeling. Lady Fletcher's good-humor was unabated in

quantity, if just a little strained in quality.

"Now comes the most amusing part of sailing," she said, "which is,

watching other people cry. Don't tell me people don't love to cry better

than anything else in the world; if not, why do they come down here? You

might think that every one of them was being torn away from his home and

country for life!"

"The time when I always want to cry most," contributed Uncle James, "is

on landing. Everything is so disagreeable then, after the ease and

comfort of the voyage."

That was the general tone of the parting. Even Aunt Cecilia smiled

appreciatively and gave no sign of underlying emotion. But as she

watched the great steamer glide slowly out of her slip her thoughts ran

in such channels as these:

"Miriam is a brilliant woman; she has made a great lady of herself, and

is going to be a still greater one. She has money, position, wit, beauty

and youth. The greatest people come gladly to her house; small people

scheme and plot to get invitations there. Yet what is it all worth, when

the greatest blessing of all, the blessing of children, is denied her?

And the terrible part of it is, she is so utterly unconscious of what

she has missed; her whole heart is eaten up with those worldly and

unsatisfactory things. Poor Miriam, I pity her as it is, but how I could

pity her if it were all a little different!"

And the thoughts of Lady Fletcher, as she stood on the deck and watched

the shores slip away from her, were somewhat as follows:

"I always thought Cecilia was one of the best of women, until this hour.

I don't mind her being a great heiress, I don't mind her never being

able to forget that she was a Van Lorn, I don't mind her subconscious

attitude of having married beneath her when she married James--whose

ancestors were governing colonies when hers were keeping a grocery store

on lower Manhattan Island--! But when it comes to her boasting about

having children, and flaunting them in my face because I haven't got

any, I think I am about justified in saying that she shows a mean and

ignoble nature. I have seen all I want to of Cecilia, for some time to

come!"

CHAPTER VI

ARCADIA AND YANKEEDOM

We have given a more or less detailed account of the misunderstanding

just described because of the fact that the mental relation it

inaugurated was responsible, more than any one other thing, for the

separation of Harry and James Wimbourne for a period of nearly seven

years.

No one, not even Lady Fletcher herself, had any idea that this would

come to pass at the time Harry left the country. One thing led on to

another; Harry was put in a preparatory school for two or three terms

soon after his arrival in England; he was so happy there and the climate

and the school life agreed with him so well that it seemed the most

natural thing, a year or so later, to send him up to Harrow with some of

his youthful contemporaries, with whom he had formed some close

friendships. This was done, be it understood, in accordance with Harry's

own wish. There was an atmosphere, a quality, a historical feeling about

the English schools that after a short time exerted a strong influence

on Harry's adolescent imagination, and made St. Barnabas seem flat and

unprofitable in comparison. It would not have been so with many boys,

but it was with Harry.

Of course James was a strong magnet in the other direction, but not

quite strong enough to pull him against all the forces contending on the

English side. There was a distinct heart-interest there; within a year

after Harry's arrival in the country, the majority of his friends were

English boys. How many vice-Jameses were needed to offset the pull of

one James we don't know, but we do know that there were enough. James at

first objected strenuously to the change in plans, but Harry countered

the objection with the proposal that James should leave St. Barnabas and

go up to Harrow with his brother. This was considered on the American

side as such an inexplicable attitude that further argument was

abandoned and the matter of Harry's schooling given up as a bad job.

The one valid objection to Harrow was that if Harry was to become an

American citizen, the place to educate him was in America. Sir Giles saw

this, and gave the objection its full value.

"If I were to consult my own inclination alone," he said to Harry when

they were talking the matter over, "I should undoubtedly want to make an

Englishman out of you. I think you would make a pretty good Englishman,

Harry. You could go to Oxford, and then make your career here.

Parliament, you know, or the diplomatic. But there seems to be some

feeling against such a course. They want you to be an American. They

seem to think that your having been born and bred an American makes some

difference. Fancy!"

"Fancy!" echoed Harry, as capable as any one of falling in

with the spirit of what Lady Fletcher called Sir Giles'

"arising-out-of-that-reply" manner.

"And I won't say they are wholly wrong. The question is, can we make a

good American of you over here in England? By the time you have gone

through Harrow, won't you be an Englishman of the most confirmed type?

Won't you disappoint everybody and slip from there into Oxford, as it

were, automatically?"

"I am of the opinion," replied Harry judicially, "that the honorable

member's fears on that score are ungrounded. You see, Uncle G.," he went

on, dropping his parliamentary manner, "I shall go back to America to go

to college, anyway. I couldn't possibly go anywhere except to Yale.

We've gone to Yale, you see, for three generations already."

"I thought, when you came over here, that you couldn't possibly go to

school anywhere except at St. Barnabas. It seems to me I remember

something of that kind."

"This is quite different," said Harry firmly, "quite different. I was

brought up in Yale, practically. I'm sure I could never be happy

anywhere but there. Besides, I don't want to become an Englishman.

That's all rot."

"Well," said his uncle, "if that's the case, we'll risk it. And--" he

unconsciously quoted his wife on a former occasion--"there are always

the vacations."

But that is just where the honorable member proved himself mistaken. The

vacations weren't there, after all. And that was where the mutual

misunderstanding between the two ladies came in.

We don't mean to say that this was wholly responsible for the

uninterrupted separation. Other things came into it; coincidence, mere

fortuitous circumstances. Plans were made, on both sides of the

Atlantic, but they were always interrupted, for some reason or another.

James and Cecilia would write cheerfully about coming over next summer

and bringing young James and one or two of their own children with them.

That would be from about October to January. Then, along in the winter,

it would appear that their plans for the summer were not settled, after

all. Ruth was not well enough to travel this year, or James could not

leave his work and Cecilia could not leave him. Or, on the other hand,

Aunt Miriam would talk breezily at times of taking Giles over and

showing him the country--Giles had never been to America except to marry

his wife--and taking Harry too, of course; or she would casually

suggest running over with him for a fortnight at Christmas. But Harry's

summer vacation was so short, only eight weeks, and there were Visits to

be made in September; the kind of visits that implied enormous shooting

parties and full particulars in the _Morning Post_. And when Christmas

drew near either Giles or Miriam would develop a bad bronchial cough and

have to be packed off to Sicily. It is odd how things like that will

crop up when two women are fully determined to have nothing to do with

each other.

And the boys themselves, could they not go over alone and stay with

their relations, at least as soon as they were old enough to make the

voyage unaccompanied? James wanted to do something of that kind very

much at times; wanted to far more than Harry, who thought that he would

have enough of America later on and was meanwhile anxious to get as much

out of the continent of Europe as possible. One reason why James never

did anything of the sort was that he was afraid; actually a little

afraid to go over, unsupported, and find out what they had made of

Harry. James' thoughts were apt to run in fixed channels; after he had

been a year or two at St. Barnabas, the idea that there was another

school in the country, fit for Harry to attend, or in any other country,

never entered his head. Harry's decision in favor of Harrow, and

particularly Harry's lighthearted suggestion that he should come over

and go to Harrow with him, filled his soul with consternation. He,

James, leave St. Barnabas for Harrow!...

And to the receptive mind the mere fact that Aunt Cecilia was at this

time his closest friend and confidante will explain much. She never made

derogatory remarks to him about his Aunt Miriam, nor did she reveal to

him, any more than to any one else, the antagonism of feeling that

existed between them; but in some subtle, unfelt way she imparted her

own attitude to him, which was, in a word, Keep Away. She herself would

have said, if any one asked her point blank, that she had Given Harry

Up. She never approved of his staying over to be educated; she would

have had him back, away from Miriam and Europe (Aunt Cecilia wasted no

love on that Continent) inside two months, if she could have had her own

way. But her opinion was worth nothing; she was not the boy's guardian!

There was a time, two or three years after his arrival in England, when

Harry was consumed by a desire to see his brother again, if only for a

few weeks. He told his Uncle Giles about it--he soon fell into the habit

of confiding in him sooner than in his aunt--and Uncle Giles sympathized

readily with his wish, and promised to run over to America with him the

next summer. But when, a few days before the date of their sailing,

Harry came home from school, his uncle met him in the library with a

grave face and told him that he had been called upon to stand for his

party in a by-election early in September, and could not possibly leave

the country before that. Afterward there would be no time.

"It is quite a compliment to me," explained Sir Giles; "they want me to

go in for them at West Bolton because it is a doubtful and important

borough, and they think I can win it over to the Conservatives if any

one can. Whereas Blackmoor is sure, no matter who runs. It pleases me in

a way, of course, but I hate it for breaking up our trip."

"Oh, dear, I did want to see James," said Harry, leaning his elbows on

the mantelpiece, and burying his face in his hands to hide his tears of

disappointment.

"Poor boy, it is hard on you," said Sir Giles, and impulsively drew

Harry to him and clasped him against his broad bosom. "Do you remember

the man in the play, that always voted at his party's call and never

thought of thinking for himself at all? That's me, and it makes me feel

foolish at times, I can tell you. But if you want so much to see James,

why can't he be brought over here?"

"I don't know," said Harry, "I wish he would come, but I'm sure he

won't. I don't know what's the matter, but I'm certain that if I am to

see him, it will have to be I that makes the journey. I've felt that for

some time."

"Well, what about your going over alone? I could see you off at

Liverpool, and they would meet you at New York."

But that would not do, either. Harry had counted so much on having his

uncle with him and showing him all the interesting things in America

that his uncle's defalcation took all the zest out of the trip for him.

So he remained in England and helped Sir Giles win the by-election,

which interested him very much.

Lady Fletcher was right when she prophesied that Sir Giles would become

fond of Harry. He was just such a boy as Sir Giles would have given his

Parliamentary career, his K. C. B., and his whole fortune to have for

his own son. The two got on famously together. Sir Giles liked to have

Harry with him during all his vacations, and visits during summer

holidays--visits, that is, on which Harry could not be included--were

almost completely given up, as far as Sir Giles was concerned. They

spent blissful days with each other on the golf links, or fishing in a

Scotch stream, or exploring the filthiest and most fascinating corners

of some Continental town, while Aunt Miriam, gently satirical, though

secretly delighted, went her own smart and fashionable way, joining them

at intervals.

No one was prouder or more pleased than Harry when--a year or two after

he came into the Rumbold property, curiously enough--Sir Giles was given

a G. C. B. and a baronetcy by his grateful party; or when, in the

Conservative landslide that followed the Boer War, he rose to real live

ministerial rank, and had to go through a second election by his borough

and became a "Right Honorable." The fly in the ointment was that he saw

less of his uncle than formerly. The Fletchers moved from their smart

but restricted quarters in Mayfair to an enormous place in Belgrave

Square, "so as to be near the House," as Aunt Miriam plausibly but

rather unconvincingly put it, and Sir Giles seemed to be always either

at the House or the Colonial office--have we said that he became

Secretary for the Colonies? However, Harry was treated as though he were

a son of the house, and was given _carte blanche_ in the matter of

asking school friends to stay with him when he came home. This

permission also applied to Rumbold Abbey, the estate in Herefordshire

that formed the chief part of the aforementioned property. There was no

abbey, but there was a late Stuart house of huge proportions; also parks

and woods and streams that offered unlimited opportunities for the

destruction of innocent fauna, of which Harry and a number of his

contemporary Harrovians soon learned to take advantage.

On the whole, Harry led an extremely joyous and entertaining life during

the days of his exile. At school he fared no less well than at home; he

was never a leader among his fellows, but he was good enough at sports

to win their respect and attractive enough in his personality to make

many friends. The natural flexibility of his temperament enabled him to

fit in fairly easily with the hard-and-fast ways of English school life.

He accepted all its conventions and convictions, and never realized, as

long as he remained in England, that they were in any way different from

those of the schools of his own country. He soon got to dress and to

talk like an Englishman, though he never went to extremes in what he

loved to irritate his schoolfellows by calling the "English accent."

While not exactly handsome, he became, as he reached man's estate,

extremely agreeable to look upon. He had a clear pink complexion and

dark hair, always a striking and pleasing combination, and he was tall

and slim and moved with the stiff gracefulness that is the special

characteristic of the British male aristocracy. In general, people liked

him, and he liked other people.

His vacations, as has been said, were usually spent with Sir Giles

either in the British Isles or on the Continent, but there was one

Easter holiday--the second he spent in England--when he was, to quote a

phrase of Aunt Miriam's, thrown on the parish. The Fletchers were booked

to spend the holiday in a Mediterranean cruise on the yacht of a

nautical duke, who was so nautical and so much of a duke that to be

asked to cruise with him was not merely an Engagement; it was an

Experience. In any case, there could be no question of taking Harry, and

Lady Fletcher was in perplexity about what to do with him till Sir Giles

suggested, "Why don't we send him to Mildred?" So to Mildred Harry went,

and spent an important, if not a wildly exciting, month.

Mildred was Sir Giles' only sister, Lady Archibald Carson. She lived in

a little house in the Surrey hills, and though the land that went with

it was restricted, it was fertile and its mistress went in as heavily as

her means would allow for herbaceous borders and rock gardens and

Japanese effects. Her two children, both girls, lived there with her.

Her husband, Lord Archibald, was also, in a sense, living with her, but

the verdant domesticity of the Surrey hills had no charm for him and he

spent practically all of his time in London and other busy haunts of

men, or even more busy haunts of women. He was a younger son of a long

line of marquises who for their combination of breeding and profligacy

probably had no match in the British peerage. Within five years of his

marriage he had with the greatest casualness in the world run through

his own patrimony and all he could lay his hands on of his wife's.

Having bullied and wheedled all that he could out of her he now

consistently let her alone and depended for his income on what he could

bully and wheedle out of his brother, the eleventh marquis, who was

known as a greater rake than Lord Archibald merely because he had

greater facilities for rakishness at his command.

Lady Archibald was a tall, light-haired, pale-eyed woman with a tired

face and a gentle manner. She had no interests in life beyond her

children and her garden, but she had a kind heart and welcomed Harry

cordially on his arrival at the little house in Surrey. He had seen her

once before at the Fletchers' in London, but he had never seen her

children. It was, therefore, with a rather keen sense of curiosity that

he walked through the house into the garden, where he was told that

Beatrice and Jane were to be found. He saw them across the croquet lawn

immediately, and he underwent a mild shock of disappointment on seeing,

as he could, at a glance, that they were just as long of limb, just as

straight of hair and just as angular in build as most English girls of

their age.

The elder girl rose from her seat and sauntered slowly across the lawn,

followed by her sister. She stared coolly at Harry as she walked toward

him, but said nothing, even when she was quite near. He met her gaze

with perfect self-possession, and suddenly realized that she was waiting

to see if he would make the first move. He instantly determined not to

do so, it being her place, after all, to speak first; so he stood still

and stared calmly back at her for a few seconds, till finally the girl,

with a sudden fleeting smile, held out her hand and greeted him.

"You're Harry Wimbourne, aren't you?" she said, cordially enough. "This

is my sister Jane. We are very glad to see you; we've heard such a lot

about you. Come over here and tell us about America."

In that meeting, in her rather rude little aggression and Harry's

reception of it, was started a friendship. She deliberately tested Harry

and found that he came up to the mark. He did not fidget, he did not

blush, he did not stammer; he simply returned her stare, waiting for her

to find her manners. Nothing he could have done would have pleased her

better; she decided she would like him, then and there.

Harry on his side found her conversation, even in the first hour of

their acquaintance, stimulating and agreeable, and like nothing that he

had experienced before in any young girl of thirteen, English or

American.

"You needn't be afraid that we shall ask foolish questions about

America," Beatrice went on. "We know the Indians don't run wild in the

streets of New York, and all that sort of thing. We even know what part

of the country New Haven is in; we looked it up on the map. It's quite

near New York, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Harry, "you're quite right; it is. But how do you pronounce

the name of the state it is in? Can you tell me that?"

"Connecticut," replied the girl, readily enough; but she sounded the

second _c_, after the manner of most English people. Harry explained her

mistake to her, and she took the correction smiling, quite without pique

or resentment.

"Now go on and tell us something about the country. Something really

important, you know; something we don't know already."

"Well," said Harry, "there seems to be more room there; that's about the

most important difference. Except in the largest cities, and there there

seems to be less, and that's why they make the buildings so high. And

nearly all the houses, except in the middle of the towns, are made of

wood."

He went on at some length, the two girls listening attentively.

At last Beatrice interrupted with the question:

"Which do you think you like best, on the whole, England or America?"

"Oh, America of course; but only because it's my own country. I can

imagine liking England best, if one happened to be born here. Some

things are nicer here, and some are nicer there."

"What do you like best in England?"

"Well, the old things. Cathedrals and castles. Also afternoon tea, which

we don't bother about much over there. And the gardens."

"And what do you like best about America?"

"Trolley cars, and soda water fountains, and such things. And the

climate. And the way people act. There's so much less--less formality

over there; less bothering about little things, you know."

"Yes, yes, I know exactly. Silly little things, that don't matter one

way or the other. I know I should like that about America."

"I think you would like America, anyway," said Harry, looking judicially

at his interlocutrix. "You seem to be a free and easy sort of person."

"Well, I wouldn't like trolley cars," interrupted Jane with firmness,

"They go too fast. I don't like to go fast. It musses my hair, and the

dust gets into my eyes."

"Shut up, silly," said her sister; "you've never ridden in one."

"No, but I know what it is to go fast, and I don't like it. I don't

think I should care much for America."

"Well," said Harry, laughing, "we won't make you go there. Or if you do

go there, we won't make you ride on the trolley cars. You can ride in

hacks all the time; they go slow enough for any one."

Beatrice's first impression of Harry underwent no disillusionment as the

days went on. She seemed to find in him a companion after her own heart.

He had plenty of ideas of his own, and he was entirely willing to act on

hers; he never affected to despise them as a girl's notions, nor did he

ever object to her sharing in his amusements because of her misfortune

of sex. They climbed trees and crawled through the underbrush on their

stomachs together with as much zest and _abandon_ as if there were no

such things as frocks and stockings in the world. Harry had never known

this kind of companionship with a girl before, and was delighted with

her.

"Oh, dash, there goes my garter," she exclaimed one day as they were

walking through a country lane together. She had got rather to make a

point of such matters, to over-emphasize their possible embarrassment,

simply in order to see how beautifully he acted.

"Well, tie it up or something," said he, sauntering on a few steps.

Beatrice did what was necessary and ran on and caught up with him.

"I never could see why a garter shouldn't be as freely talked about as

any other article of clothing," said she. "All that sort of modesty is

such rot; people have legs, and legs have to have stockings to cover

them, and stockings have to have garters to keep them up. And women have

legs, just as much as men; there's not a doubt of that. Perhaps that's

news to you, though?"

"No, I knew that."

"You really, honestly aren't shocked at what I'm saying?" asked the

girl, scanning his face intently.

"Not in the least; why should I be? You're not telling me anything

shocking."

Beatrice drew a long breath of pure enjoyment.

"It _is_ a comfort to meet a person like you once in a while," she said.

"Tell me, are women such fools about their legs in America as they are

here?"

"Yes, quite," said Harry fervently; "if not actually worse. That's one

thing that we don't seem to have learned any better about. It always

makes me tired."

The two saw each other, infrequently but fairly regularly, throughout

Harry's stay in England. They never corresponded, both admitting that

they were bad letter writers, but when they met they were always able to

pick up their friendship exactly where they had left it.

When Sir Giles came into the Rumbold property there was naturally a

corresponding change in the circumstances of Lady Archibald and her

daughters. Every penny of the property, which came to Sir Giles through

the death of a maternal uncle, was entailed and inalienable from his

possession; but he was able to alleviate her condition by giving her a

large yearly allowance out of his income; and it was pointed out that

such an arrangement would have the advantage of keeping the money safe

from her husband. Lady Archibald took a small house in South Street and

spent the winter and spring months there, and in the due course of time

Beatrice was brought out into society.

Her undoubted beauty, which was of the dark and haughty type, and her

excellent dancing were enough to make her a social success. This was a

tremendous comfort to her mother, who was never obliged to worry about

her at dances or scheme for invitations at desirable houses, and could

confine her maternal anxiety to merely hoping that Beatrice would make a

better match than she herself had. But Beatrice hated the whole

proceeding, heartily and unaffectedly.

"The dancing men all bore me," she once said to Harry; "and I bore all

the others. Almost all men are dull; at any rate, they appear at their

dullest and worst in society, and the few interesting ones don't want to

be bored by a chit like me, and I can't say that I blame them. As for

the women--when they get into London society they cease to be women at

all; they become fiends incarnate."

"I hope that success is not embittering your youthful heart," said

Harry, smiling.

"Not success, but just being in what they are pleased to call society;

that will make me bitter if I have much more of it. I don't know why it

is; people are nice naturally--most of them, that is. Of course some

people are born brutes, like--well, like my father; but most of them are

nice at bottom. But somehow London makes beasts of them all. If I am

ever Prime Minister--"

"Which, after all, is improbable."

"Well, if I am, the first thing I shall do will be simply to abolish

London. We shall have just the same population, but it will be all

rural. We shall all live in Arcadian simplicity, and while we may not be

perfect, at least we shan't all be the scheming, selfish, merciless

brutes that London makes of us."

"And pending the passage of that bill you want to live in Arcadian

simplicity alone. I see. I quite like the idea myself. I should love to

found Arcadia with you somewhere in rural England, when I have time.

Where shall we have it? I should say Devonshire, shouldn't you? Clotted

cream, you know, and country lanes. It will be like Marie Antoinette's

hamlet at Versailles, only not nearly so silly. We will pay other people

to milk the cows and make the butter, and do all the dirty work, and

just sit around ourselves and be perfectly charming. No one will be

admitted without passing a rigid examination in character, and that will

be the only necessary qualification. Arcadia, Limited, we'll call it; it

sounds like a Gilbert and Sullivan opera, doesn't it?"

"Whom shall we have in it? Uncle Giles--he could pass all right,

couldn't he?"

"Oh, Heavens, yes, _Magna cum_. And Aunt Miriam--perhaps. She would need

some cramming before she went up. What about your mother?"

"I'm afraid Mama could never get in," answered Beatrice, smiling rather

sadly. "I've talked to her before about such things and she never

answers, but just looks at me with that sad tolerant smile of hers that

seems to say 'Arcadian simplicity is all very well, but you'll find the

best way to get it is through a husband with ten thousand a year or so.'

And the dreadful part of it is that she's right, to a certain extent."

Although in matter of years Beatrice was a few weeks Harry's junior, she

was at this time twice as old as he, for all practical purposes. She was

an honored guest at Lady Fletcher's big dinners--almost the only ones

that did not bore her to death--into which Harry would be smuggled at

the last minute to fill up a vacant place, or else calmly omitted from

altogether. Nevertheless, he was her greatest comfort all through her

first season; nothing but his jovial optimism, which saw the worst but

found it no more than amusing, kept the iron from entering into her

soul. Such an occasional conversation as the above-quoted would put

sanity into her world and fortify her for days against the commonplaces

of dancing men and the jealous looks of less attractive maidens. And how

she would pine for him during the intervals! How she would long for the

arrival of the next vacation or mid-term exeat that would bring him up

to town! There was a freshness, a wholesomeness about his way of looking

at things that was soothing to her as a breath of country air.

It is not surprising, then, that Beatrice began to dread the nearing

date of Harry's departure for America and college more than any one

else, even Sir Giles himself, to whom Harry had become by this time

almost as dear as a son. Poor Uncle Giles, though he wanted Harry to

stay in the country more than any other earthly thing, made it a point

of honor never to dissuade the boy from his original project of

returning to his own country when he was ready to go to college and

becoming an American again. Beatrice, however, was bound by no such

restriction and complained bitterly of his desertion.

"What is the point of your going back to some silly American college?"

she would ask. "It isn't as if you didn't have the best universities in

the world right here, under your very nose. Why aren't Oxford and

Cambridge good enough for you, I should like to know? They were good

enough for Milton and Thackeray and Isaac Newton and a few other more or

less prominent people."

"Very true," replied Harry with perfect good-humor. "The only thing is,

those people didn't happen to be Yankees. I am, you know. It's been a

habit in our family for two hundred years or more, and it doesn't do to

break up old family traditions. Must be a Yankee, whatever happens."

"But that doesn't mean that you have to go to a Yankee college,

necessarily," argued Beatrice. "You won't learn nearly as much there as

you would at Oxford. You are as far along in your studies now as the

second year men at Yale; I heard Uncle Giles say so himself."

"Yes, I know, that's very true. I can't argue about it; you've got all

the arguments on your side. I just know that there's only one possible

place on earth where I can go to college, and that is Yale. Better not

talk about it any more, if it makes you peevish."

"Well, we won't. I'll tell you one thing, though; we have got to start a

correspondence. You can spare a few ideas from your Yankees, I hope. I

shall simply die on the wooden pavements if I can't at least hear from

you occasionally."

"Certainly; I should like nothing better. I'll even go so far as to be

the first to write, if you like, and that's a perfectly tremendous

concession, as I'm the worst letter writer that ever lived."

So there the matter was left. Harry left Harrow for good at Easter, and

spent one last golden month in London, seeing Beatrice almost every day

and being an unalloyed joy and comfort to his uncle and aunt. In May he

took a short trip through Spain with Sir Giles; it was a country

neither of them had visited before, and they had planned a trip there

for years. Uncle Giles worked double time for a fortnight in order to be

able to leave with a clear conscience, but he found the reward well

worth the labor.

They parted at Madrid, the plan being for Harry to sail for New York

from Gibraltar, arriving in time to take his final examinations in New

Haven in June.

There were tears in Sir Giles' kind blue eyes as he bade Harry good-by,

and Harry saw them and knew why they were there. Suddenly he felt his

own fill.

"I don't want to go very much, Uncle Giles," he said in a low voice.

"Now that it comes to the point, I don't like it much. You've all been

so wonderful to me.... It's not a question of what I want to do, though.

It's just what's got to be done."

"Yes," said his uncle; "I know. You're quite right about it. It's the

only thing to do. But perhaps you won't mind my saying I'm glad, in a

way, that you find it hard?"

"Thank you; that helps, too. There's more that comes into it, though;

more than what we have talked over together so often.... I mean--"

"James?"

"Yes," said Harry, "that's it."

They clasped hands again and went their separate ways; Sir Giles to the

train that was to take him north to Paris and home, and Harry to the

train that was to take him south to Gibraltar and home.

CHAPTER VII

OMNE IGNOTUM

"Bless us, how the boy has grown!" cried Aunt Cecilia, and kissed him

all over again.

"You'll find your aunt very much changed, I expect," said Uncle James,

clasping his hand and smiling, quite in his old style.

"Not a particle, thank Heaven," said Harry, understanding perfectly;

"nor you either. Nor the U. S. Customs service, either. Can't I just

make them a present of all my luggage and run along? Except that I have

some Toledo work and stuff for you and Aunt C."

"Hush, don't say that out loud; they'll charge you extra duty for it,"

replied Uncle James.

"Oh, was there e'er a Yankee breast which did not feel the moral beauty

of making worldly interest subordinate to sense of duty?" misquoted

Harry. "Bother the duty. Tell me how you all are. How are Ruth and

Oswald and Lucy and Jack and Timothy and the baby? All about eight feet

high, I suppose? And James, where is he?"

"James is in New Haven," said Aunt Cecilia; "he has an examination early

to-morrow morning and could not get away till after that. He'll be here

to-morrow in time for lunch."

It was all very easy and cordial. Harry was in high spirits over

returning to his native land, and was genuinely pleased that both his

uncle and aunt should take the trouble to come down to the dock to meet

his steamer. They, on their side, were most agreeably impressed by him;

agreeably disappointed with him, we almost said. It was a relief, as

well as a pleasure, to find him, so unchanged and unaffected at heart,

though he looked and talked like an Englishman. Mrs. James sat on a

packing case and watched him with unadulterated pleasure as he tended to

the examination of his luggage. The art of his Bond Street tailor served

to accentuate rather than hide the slim, sinewy, businesslike beauty of

his limbs, brought into play as he bent down to lift a trunk tray or tug

at a strap. Though all that was nothing, of course, to the joy of the

discovery that he was unspoiled in character.

"It's turned out all right," she thought and smiled to herself. "I don't

know whether it's chiefly to his credit or theirs, but it has come out

all right, anyway. I wish the boat had not arrived in the evening, so

that I could have brought the children to see him, the first thing.

They'll have plenty of time, though; and how they'll love him! And how

pleased James will be!"

She meant young James, who was now putting the finishing touches on his

sophomore year at Yale. James was never very far from her mind when her

thoughts ran to her own children--which was most of the time. She always

thought of him now more as her own eldest child than as her husband's

nephew.

And Harry's thoughts, beneath all his chatter to his uncle and aunt and

his transactions with the Customs officials, were also on James. All the

way across the Atlantic, on the long dull voyage from Gibraltar--there

are not many passengers traveling westward in June--they continually ran

on that one subject--James, James, James. What would he be like now?

would he be the old James, or changed, somehow--strangely,

disappointingly, unacceptably? Harry hoped not; hoped it with his whole

heart, in which there was nothing but humility and affection when he

thought of what his brother had been to him in the old days. He was so

little able to speak what he felt about James that he was embarrassed

and over-silent about him. That was why he was so debonair with the

Customs officials; that was why he asked after each of his young cousins

by name before he mentioned his brother.

"Every single article of clothing I own was bought abroad," he was

telling the Customs inspector; "so you can just go ahead and do your

worst--That suit cost eight guineas--yes, I know it's too much; I told

them so at the time, but they wouldn't listen.... No, that thing with

the feathers is not a woman's hat; it's a Tyrolean hat, that the men

climb mountains in. I'm going to give it to my Uncle James--that man

there sitting on the woman's trunk that she wants to get into--to wear

to his office, which is on the thirty-fifth floor.... Yes, I have worn

it myself, but don't tell him.... That gold cigarette case is for my

brother, who smokes when he's not playing football, and it cost six

pound fifteen, which is dirt cheap, I say. I'd keep it myself, except

that it's so cheap that I can't afford not to give it away...."

And James, what was he feeling, if he was feeling anything, in regard to

his brother at this time, and why have we said nothing about him during

these seven years? The truth is, his life had been chiefly distinguished

by the blessed uneventfulness that comes of outward happiness and a good

understanding with the world. If you can draw a mental picture for

yourself of a boy of perfect physique and untarnished mind, gradually

attaining the physical and mental development of manhood in comradeship

with a hundred or more others in a like position, dedicating the use of

each gift as it came to him not to his own aggrandizement but to the

glory of God and the service of other men, recognizing his superiority

in certain fields with the same humility with which he beheld his

inferiority in others, equally willing to give help where he was strong

and take help where he was weak, and possessed by the fundamental

conviction that other people were just as good as he if not a little bit

better, you may get some idea of James during the years of his brother's

absence. He was not brilliant, he was not handsome, but there was a

splendid normality about him, both in appearance and in character, that

inspired confidence and affection among his teachers, his relatives, and

friends of his own age.

"He has a good mind and body, and there is no nonsense about him," was

the substance of the opinion of the first-named group. "He is a good boy

and a nice boy, and I'm glad he is one of the family," said the second.

"He is captain of the football team," said the third group, and to one

who knows anything about American boarding schools this last will tell

everything.

If any one is inclined to blame James for his allowing the Atlantic

Ocean to separate him and brother so completely for those seven years it

may interest him to know that James was quite of the same opinion. As he

sat in the train that took him from New Haven to New York on the morning

after Harry's landing, he wondered how the long separation could have

come about. On the whole, after a careful review of the business, he was

inclined to blame himself; not over-severely, but definitely,

nevertheless. He had been timid, indifferent and, above all, lazy.

Looking back over his attitude of the last seven years, he was inclined

to be scornful and a little amused. What had he to fear about Harry?

Weren't Uncle Giles and Aunt Miriam good people, who could be trusted to

bring him up right? What was there to fear, even, in his becoming an

Englishman? And anyway, even if he had feared the worst, ought he not to

have taken the trouble to go over and see with his own eyes? It had

probably turned out all right, for Harry had returned at last with every

intention of living in America for the rest of his life; but if he had

been spoiled or altered for the worse in any way, he, James, must take

his share of the blame for it. There could be no doubt of that.

The root of the matter was, we suspect, that James had been somewhat

lacking in initiative. Thoroughly normal people customarily are; it is

at once their strength and their weakness. A splendid normality, such as

we have described James as enjoying, is a serviceable thing in life, but

it is apt to degenerate, if not sufficiently stimulated by misfortune

and opposition, into commonplaceness and sterile conservatism. But let

us do James justice; he at least saw his fault and blamed himself for

it.

He was devoured with curiosity to see what Harry was like; almost as

much so as Harry in regard to him. James had plenty of friends, but only

one brother, when all was said and done. As the train rushed nearer the

consummation of his curiosity, he felt the old feeling of timidity and

suspicion sweep over him; but that, as he shook it off, only increased

his curiosity; gave it edge. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico est_; every one

knows that, even if he never heard of Virgil, and it is especially true

of such natures as James'. Each little wave of fear and suspicion that

swept over him made him a little more restless and unhappy, though he

smiled at himself for feeling so. It was a relief when the train pulled

into the Grand Central Station and he could grip his bag and start on

the short walk to the house of his uncle, which was situated in the

refined and expensive confines of Murray Hill.

Any one who knows anything about the world will be able to guess pretty

closely the nature of the brothers' meeting. Harry was sitting in the

front room upstairs when his cousin Ruth, who was at the window,

announced: "Here he comes, Harry." In a perfect frenzy of pleasure,

embarrassment, affection and curiosity, the boy made a dash for the

stairs and greeted his brother at the front door with the demonstrative

words:

"Hello, James!"

To which James, who for the last few minutes had been obliged to

restrain himself from throwing his bag into the gutter and breaking into

a run, replied:

"Well, Harry, how's the boy?"

Then they walked upstairs together and began talking rather fast about

the voyage, examinations, Aunt Miriam, Spain, the Yale baseball

team,--anything but what was in their hearts.

"Well, you came back without being made an earl, after all, it seems,"

said James a little later at lunch.

"No, but I came back a sub-freshman, which is the next best thing.

There's no telling what I might have been if I'd stayed, though.

Everybody was so frightfully keen on my staying over there and going to

Oxford, especially Beatrice--Beatrice Carson, you know; I've written you

about her? She would have made me an earl in a minute, if she could, to

make me stay. None of it did any good, though. I would be a Yankee."

"How do you think you'll like being a Yankee again?" asked James. "You

certainly don't look much like one at present."

"No? That'll come, I dare say. My heart's in the right place. Though

that doesn't prevent the Americans from seeming strange, at first. Did

you notice that woman in the chemist's shop this morning, Aunt C.? She

was chewing gum all the time she waited on you, and she never said

'Thank you' or 'Ma'am' once."

"They all are that way," said Aunt Cecilia with a gentle sigh. "I don't

expect anything else."

"Oh, the bloated aristocrat!" said James. "It is an earl, after all.

Only don't blame the poor girl for not calling you 'My lord.' She

couldn't be expected to know; they don't have many of them over here."

"I don't mean that she was rude," said Harry; "she didn't give that

impression, somehow. It was just the way she did things; a sort of

casualness. The Americans are a funny people!"

"Oh, Lord!" groaned James; "hear the prominent foreigner talk. What do

you think of America, my lord? How do you like New York? What do you

think of our climate? To think that that's the thing I used to spank

when he was naughty!"

"That's all very well," retorted Harry, with warmth; "wait till you get

out of this blessed country for a while yourself, and see how other

people act, and then perhaps you'll see that there are differences. You

may even be able to see that they are not all in our favor. And as for

smacking--spanking, if you feel inclined to renew that quaint old custom

now, I'm ready for you. Any time you want!"

"Oh, very well," growled James; "after lunch."

"Yes, and in Central Park, please," observed Uncle James; "not in the

house; I can't afford it. You are right, though, Harry, about the

Americans being a funny people. If you enter the legal profession, or if

you go into public life, you'll be more and more struck by the fact as

time goes on. But there's one thing to remember; it doesn't do to tell

them so. They can't bear to hear it. We have proof of that immediately

before us; you announce your opinion here, _coram familia_, as it were,

and what is the result? Contempt and loathing on the part of the great

American public, represented by James, and a duel to follow--in Central

Park, remember; in Central Park."

"I wonder if that milk of magnesia has come yet," murmured Aunt Cecilia,

who had not gone beyond the beginning of the conversation; and further

hostilities--friendly ones, even--were forgotten in the general laugh

that followed.

Of course James, who conformed to the American type of college boy as

closely as any one could and retain his individuality, was greatly

struck during the first few days by his brother's Anglicisms, which

showed themselves at that time rather in his appearance and speech than

in his point of view. For example, James was indulging one day in a

lengthy plaint against the hardness of one of his instructors, as the

result of which he would probably, to use his own expression, "drop an

hour"; that is, lose an hour's work for the year and be put back

one-sixtieth of his work for his degree. Harry listened attentively

enough to the narrative, but his sole comment when James finished was

the single word "Tiresome." The word was ill chosen for James' peace of

mind. If such expressions were the result of English training he could

not but think the less of English training.

The summer passed off pleasantly enough, the boys living with their

uncle and aunt at Bar Harbor. Harry saw much less of James than he had

expected, for he was away much of the time, visiting classmates and

school friends whom Harry did not know. He was obliged, too, to return

to Yale soon after the first of September for football practise. Harry

spent most of his time playing fairly happily about with his young

cousins and other people of his own age. The most interesting feature of

the summer to him was a visit to Aunt Selina at her summer place in

Vermont. This was the ancestral, ante-Revolution farm of the Wimbournes,

much rebuilt and enlarged and presented to Miss Wimbourne for her life

on the death of her late father. Here Aunt Selina was wont to gather

during the summer months a heterogeneous crowd of friends, and it was a

source of wonder and admiration to the other members of the family that

she was able to attract such a large number of what she referred to as

"amusing people." With these Harry was quite at ease, his English

training having accustomed him to associating with older and cleverer

people than himself, and it gave Aunt Selina quite a thrill of pleasure

to see a boy of eighteen partaking in the staid amusements of his elders

and meeting them on their own ground, and to think that the boy was her

own nephew. She became at length so much taken with him that a bright

idea occurred to her.

"Harry," said she one day; "what do you think of my going to live in New

Haven?"

"I think it's a fine idea," said Harry. "But where?"

"Why, in the old house, of course. That is, if you and James, or your

guardians, are willing to rent it to me. It has stood empty ever since

you left it, and I presume there is no immediate prospect of your

occupying it yourselves for some time."

"As half owner of the establishment," said Harry courteously, "I offer

you the full use of it for as long a time as you wish, free of charge."

"That's sweet of you, but it's not business. I should insist on paying

rent."

"Well, Aunt Selina, you're used to having your own way, so I presume

you will. But what makes you want to come and live in New Haven, all of

a sudden? I thought you could never bear the place."

"I had a great many friends there in the old days, and should like to

see something of them again. Besides, it will be nice to be in the same

town with you and James."

Like most people, she put the real reason last. If Harry failed to

realize from its position that it was the real reason, he learned it

unmistakably enough from what followed. The conversation wandered to a

discussion of changes in the town since Aunt Selina had lived there. She

supposed that everybody had dinner at night there now, though she

remembered the time when it was impossible to reconcile servants to the

custom. She herself would have it late, except on Sundays. Sunday never

did seem like Sunday to her without dinner in the middle of the day and

supper in the evening.

"Well," said Harry, "I hope you'll ask James and me to a Sunday dinner

occasionally."

"Good gracious, yes! Every Sunday, and supper too. That will be a

regular custom; and I want you both to feel at liberty to come up for a

meal at any time. Any time, without even telephoning beforehand. And

bring your friends; there will always be enough to eat. How stupid of me

to forget that. Of course I want you, as often as you'll come."

"We accept," said Harry, "unconditionally. We shall be glad enough to

have a decent meal once in a while, after the food we shall get in

college. James says he even gets tired of the training table, which is a

great admission, for he loves everything connected with football. Even

when we were kids, I remember, he used to love to drink barley water

with his meals; nasty stuff--they used to make me drink it in England."

Harry rattled on purposely about the first thing that came into his

head, for he noticed his aunt seemed slightly embarrassed. She was going

to New Haven to take care of James and himself, and naturally she did

not care to divulge the real reason to him. Well, she was a dear old

thing, certainly; he remembered how she had acted on his mother's death.

He was suddenly sorry that he had seen nothing of her for the last seven

years, and sorry that he had written her so irregularly during his

absence. It was pleasant to think that he would have a chance to make up

for it in the future.

CHAPTER VIII

LIVY AND VICTOR HUGO

On a certain Wednesday evening late in September Harry stood on a

certain street-corner in the city of New Haven. Surging about him were a

thousand or so youths of his own age or a little older, most of them

engaged in making noises expressive of the pleasures of reunion. It was

a merry and turbulent scene. Tall, important-looking seniors, wearing

white sweaters with large blue Y's on their chests, moved through the

crowd with a worried air, apparently trying to organize something that

had no idea whatever of being organized. They were ineffectual, but oh,

so splendid! Harry, who had almost no friends of his own there to talk

to, watched them with undisguised admiration. He reflected that James

would be one of their number a year hence, and wondered if by any chance

he himself would be one three years from now.

Just as he dismissed the probability as negligible, a sort of order

became felt among those who stood immediately about him. Men stopped

talking and appeared to be listening to something which Harry could not

hear. Then they all began shouting a strange, unmeaning succession of

syllables in concert; Harry recognized this as a cheer and lustily

joined in with it. At the end came a number; repeated three times; a

number which no one present had ever before heard bellowed forth from

three or four hundred brazen young throats; a number that had a strange

and unfamiliar sound, even to those who shouted it, and caused the

upperclassmen to break into a derisive jeer.

A new class had officially started its career, and Harry was part of it.

No one flushed more hotly than he at the jeer of the upperclassmen; no

one jeered back with greater spirit when the sophomores cheered for

their own class. No one took part more joyfully in the long and varied

program of events that filled out the rest of the evening. The parade

through the streets of the town was to him a joyous bacchanal, and the

wrestling matches on the Campus a splendid orgy. After these were over

even more enjoyable things happened, for James, with two or three

fellow-juniors--magnificent, Olympian beings!--took him in tow and

escorted him safe and unmolested through the turbulent region of York

Street, where freshmen, who had nothing save honor to fight for, were

pressed into organized hostility against sophomores, who didn't even

have that.

"Well, what did you think of it all?" asked James later.

"Oh, ripping," said Harry, "I never thought it would be anything like

this. We never really saw anything of the real life of the college when

we lived in town here, did we?"

"Not much. It all seems pretty strange to you now, I suppose, but you'll

soon get onto the ropes and feel at home. What sort of a schedule did

you get?"

"Oh, fairly rotten. They all seem to be eight-thirties. Here, you can

see," producing a paper.

"That's not so bad," pronounced James, approvingly. "Nothing on

Wednesday or Saturday afternoons, so that you can get to ball games and

things, and nothing any afternoon till five, so that you'll have plenty

of time for track work."

"Oh, yes, track work; I'd forgotten that."

"Well, you don't want to forget it; you want to go right out and hire a

locker and get to work, to-morrow, if possible. If track's the best

thing for you to go out for, that is, and I guess it is, all right.

You're too light for football, and you don't know anything about

baseball, and you haven't got a crew build."

"What is a crew build?" asked Harry.

"Well, if you put it that way, I don't know that I can tell you. It's a

mysterious thing; I've been trying to find out myself for several years.

I don't see why I haven't got a fairly good crew build myself, but they

always tell me I haven't, when I suggest going out for it. However, you

haven't got one, that's easy. So you'll just have to stick to track."

"Yes," said Harry soberly, "I suppose I shall."

Harry was what is commonly known as a good mixer, and made acquaintances

among his classmates rapidly enough to suit even the nice taste of

James. In general, however, they remained acquaintances and never became

friends. It was not that they were not nice, most of them; "ripping

fellows, all of them," Harry described them to his brother. They were,

in fact, too nice; those who lived near him were all of the best

preparatory school type, the kind that invariably leads the class during

freshman year. Harry found them conventional, quite as much so as the

English type, though in a different way. Intercourse with them failed to

give him stimulus; he found himself always more or less talking down to

them, and intellectual stimulus was what Harry needed above all things

among his friends.

There were exceptions, however. The most brilliant was that of Jack

Trotwood, probably the last man with whom Harry might have been expected

to strike up a friendship. Harry first saw him in a Latin class, one of

the first of the term. Trotwood sat in the same row as Harry, two or

three seats away from him--the acquaintance was not even of the type

that alphabetical propinquity is responsible for. On the day in question

he dropped a fountain pen, and spent some moments in burrowing

ineffectually under seats in search of it. The fugitive chattel at

length turned up directly under Harry's chair, and as he leaned over to

restore it to its owner he noticed something about his face that

appealed to him at once. He never could tell what it was; the flush that

bending over had brought to it, the embarrassment, the dismay at having

made a fuss in public, the smile, containing just the right mixture of

cordiality and formality, yet undeniably sweet withal, with which he

thanked him; perhaps it was any or all of these things. At any rate

after class, on his way back toward York Street, Harry found himself

hurrying to catch up with Trotwood, who was walking a few paces ahead of

him. Trotwood turned as he came up, and smiled again.

"That was sort of a stinking lesson, wasn't it?" he asked.

"Yes," said Harry, "wasn't it, though?"

"I should say! Boned for two hours on it last night before I could make

anything out of it. Gee, but this Livy's dull, isn't he?"

"Yes, awfully dull. Do you use a trot?"

"No, I haven't yet, but I'm going to, after last night. I can't put so

much time on one lesson. Do you?"

"Well, yes. That is, I shall. Do you like Latin?"

"Lord, no, not when it's like this stuff. I only took it because it

comes easier to me than most other things. Do you like it?"

"Not much. Not much good at it, either.... Well, I live here--"

"Oh, do you? so do I. Where are you?"

"Fourth floor, back. Come up, some time."

"Thanks, I will. So long."

"So long."

So started a friendship, one of the sincerest and firmest that either

ever enjoyed. And yet, as Harry pointed out afterward, it was founded on

insincerity and falsehood. Harry's whole part in this first conversation

was no more than a tissue of lies. He was extremely fond of Latin, and

was so good at it that his entire preparation for his recitations

consisted in looking up a few unfamiliar words beforehand; he could

always fit the sentences together when he was called upon to construe.

It had never occurred to him to use a translation. He was rather fond of

Livy, whose flowing and complicated style appealed to him. He gave a

false answer to every question merely for the pleasure of agreeing with

Trotwood, whom he liked already without knowing why.

The two got into the habit of doing their Latin lesson together

regularly, three times a week. Trotwood did not buy a trot, after all;

he found Harry quite as good.

"My, but you're a shark," he said in undisguised admiration one evening,

as Harry brought order and clarity into a difficult passage. "You

certainly didn't learn to do that in this country. You're English,

anyway, aren't you?"

"Lord, no; Yankee. Born in New Haven. I have lived over there for some

years, though."

"Go to school there?"

"Yes; Harrow."

"Gosh." Trotwood stared at him for a few moments in dazed silence. He

stood on the brink of a world that he knew no more of than Balboa did of

the Pacific. "What sort of a place is it?"

"Oh, wonderful."

"You played cricket, I suppose, and--and those things?"

"Rugby football, yes," said Harry, smiling.

"And you liked it, didn't you?"

"Oh, rather! Only--"

"Only what?"

"Oh, nothing. I did like it. It's a wonderful place."

"Only it's different from what you're doing now?" said Trotwood, with a

burst of insight. "Is that what you mean?"

"Yes."

"I see; I see," said Trotwood, and then he kept still. There was

something so comforting, so sympathetic and understanding about his

silence that Harry was inspired to confide in him.

"The truth is, I'm beginning to doubt whether I ought to have gone to an

English school. I'm not sure but what it would have been better for me

to go to school and college in the same country, whatever it was. You

see, after spending five or six years in learning to value certain

things, it's rather a wrench to come here and find the values all

distorted."

"I see," said Trotwood again. He wasn't sure that he did see at all, but

he felt that unquestioning sympathy was his cue.

"It's not merely the different kinds of games," went on Harry; "it's not

that they make so much more of athletics, or rather of the public side

of athletics, than they do over there, though that comes into it a lot.

It's what people do and think about and talk about and--and are, in

short. Last year, I remember, the men I went with, the sixth formers,

used to read the papers a lot and follow the debates in Parliament and

talk about such things a lot, even among themselves. Some of them used

to write Greek and Latin verse just for fun--wonderfully good, too, some

of it. And here--well, how many men in our class, how many men in the

whole college do you suppose could write ten lines of Greek or Latin

verse without making a mess of it?"

"Not too many, I'm afraid."

"Then there's debating. We used to have pretty good house debates

ourselves at school. I used to look forward to them, I remember, from

month to month, as one of the most interesting things that happened. But

of course they were nothing to a thing like the Oxford Union. You've

heard of that, I suppose? Lord, I wish some of these people here could

see one of those meetings! It would be an eye-opener."

"But we have debating here," said Trotwood, doubtfully.

"Yes, but what kind of debating? A few grinds getting up and talking

about the Interstate Commerce Commission, or some rotten, technical, dry

subject, because they think it will give them good practise in public

speaking. Everybody hates it like poison, and they're right, too, for

it's all dull, dead; started on the wrong idea. The best men in the

class won't go out for it. I wouldn't myself, now that I know what it's

like; but I thought of doing it in the summer, and spoke to my brother

about it. He didn't say anything against it, because he didn't dare;

people are always writing to the _News_ and saying what a fine thing

debating is. But he let me see pretty clearly that he didn't think much

of debating and didn't want me to go out for it, because it didn't get

you anywhere in college; _simply wasn't done_. He'd rather see me take a

third place in one track meet and never do another thing in college than

to be the captain of the debating team."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Lord, no; he wouldn't dare. No one would; technically, debating is

supposed to be a fine thing. But it doesn't get you anywhere near a

senior society, so there's an end to it.... But perhaps I'd better not

get started on that."

"No, I should think not! Heavens, a junior fraternity is about the

height of my ambition!"

Harry smiled at his friend and went on: "You see it's this way, Trotty;

you are a sensible person, and look at them in the right way. You play

about with your mandolin clubs and various other little things because

you like them, like a good dutiful boy. When the time comes, you'll be

very glad to take a senior society, if it's offered you. If it isn't,

you won't care."

"But I will, though. I don't believe I have much chance, but I know I

shall be disappointed if I don't make one, just the same."

"For about twenty-four hours, yes. Don't interrupt me, Trotty; this

isn't flattery, it's argument. You are a sensible person, as I have

said; and don't let such considerations worry you. There are lots of

other sensible persons in the class, too. Josh Traill, for one, and

Manxome, and John Fisher and Shep McGee; they're all sensible people,

and don't worry or think much about senior societies, though I suppose

they all have a good chance to make one eventually, if any one has. But

that isn't true of all the class. There is a large and important

section of it that now, in the first term of freshman year, is thinking

and talking nothing except about who will go to a junior fraternity next

year, or a senior society two years hence. It's the one subject of

conversation that seriously competes with professional baseball and

college football, which is all you hear otherwise."

"Oh, no, Harry, you're hard on us. There's automobiles. And guns. And

theaters. But why should you mind if a lot of geesers do talk about

societies?"

"Well, it makes me sick, that's all. And when I say sick, I use the word

in its British, or most vivid sense. It makes me sick, after England and

after Harrow, to see a lot of what ought to be the best fellows in the

class spending their waking hours in wondering about such rubbishy

things.--Do you happen to be aware of an ornament of our class called

Junius Neville LeGrand?"

"Golden locks and blue eyes? Yes, I know him. Acts rather well, they

say."

"Yes; he's the kind I mean. At any rate, I seem to be in his good graces

just at present. All sweetness and light; can't be too particular about

telling me how good I am at French, and that sort of thing. In fact, he

went so far to-day as to suggest that we might go over the French lesson

together, and he's coming here presently to do it."

"But what's the matter with poor Junius? I thought he was as decent as

such a painfully good-looking person could be."

"I'm not denying he's attractive. But if you'll stay for the French

lesson I think I can show you what I'm talking about."

"But I don't take French."

"No, dear boy; you won't have to know French to see what I'm going to

show you. Your role will consist of lying on the window-seat and being

occupied with day before yesterday's _News_. Now listen; I have an idea

that the beautiful Junius has recently made the discovery that I am the

brother of James Wimbourne, of the junior class, pillar of the Yale

football team and more than likely to go Bones, or anything he wants,

next May. Hence this access of cordiality to poor little me, the obscure

Freshman. I'm going to find out that, first."

"But there's no need of finding out that," said Trotwood naively. "I

told him so myself, the other day."

"A week ago Tuesday, to be exact," said Harry reflectively. "I remember

he slobbered all over me at the French class Wednesday, though he didn't

have anything to say to me on Monday. Wasn't that about it?"

"Yes," admitted Trotwood.

"Well, it proves what I was saying, but I'm sorry you did it, for it

spoils my little game with the beautiful Junius. The French lesson will

be a dull one, I fear. I rather think I shall have to end by being rude

to Junius, to keep him from making an infernal little pest of himself."

But the French lesson was not as dull as Harry feared, for the

ingratiating Junius played into Harry's hands and incidentally proved

himself not so good an actor off the stage as on. His behavior for the

first ten or fifteen minutes was all that could be desired; he sat in

Harry's Morris chair and waved a cigarette and put his host and Trotwood

at their ease with the grace and charm of a George IV. At length he and

Harry settled down to their "Notre Dame de Paris," and for a while all

went well. Then of a sudden Junius became strangely silent and

preoccupied.

"'Then they made him sit down on--' oh, Lord, what's a _brancard

bariole_?" said Harry. "You look up _brancard_, Junius, and I'll look up

the other.... Oh, yes; speckled. No; motley--that's probably nearer; it

depends on what _brancard_ means. What does it mean, anyway? Come on,

Junius, do you mean to say you haven't found it yet? What's the matter?"

"I was looking up _asseoir_," said Junius, who had been staring straight

in front of him.

"Sit, of course; you knew that. I translated that, anyway. I'll look up

_brancard_." Harry's glance, as he turned again to his dictionary, fell

upon a letter lying on his desk, waiting to be mailed. It was addressed

in Harry's own legible hand to

Lieut.-Gen. Sir Giles Fletcher, M. P. etc.,

204 Belgrave Square,

London, S. W.,

England.

It immediately occurred to him that this was the probable cause of his

classmate's preoccupation, and the joy of the chase burned anew in his

breast.

"What _are_ you staring at, Junius?" he asked a minute later, with, well

simulated unconsciousness.

"Nothing," replied Junius, returning to his book and blushing. That was

bad already, as Harry pointed out later; it would have been so easy, for

a person who really knew, to pass it off with some such remark as "I was

overcome by the address on that letter. My, but what swells you do

correspond with," etc. But the unfortunate Junius could not even be

consistent to the role of affected ignorance that he had assumed.

"I see you know Sir Giles Fletcher," he said after a while. "I saw that

envelope on the table; I couldn't help seeing the address. Is he a

friend of yours?"

"Yes," said Harry; "my uncle."

"Oh. Well, I heard a good deal about him last summer from some relations

of his ... connections, anyway; the Marquis of Moville ... and his

family. We had a shooting-lodge in Scotland, and he had a moor near

ours. He came over and shot with us once, and said ours was the best

moor in Perthshire. His brother came too; Lord Archibald Carson. He's

the one that's connected with your uncle, isn't he?"

"Yes. Married his sister."

"The Marquis is rather a decent fellow," continued Junius languidly. "Do

you know him?"

"No," said Harry calmly; "no decent person does. Nor Lord Archibald,

either. They're the worst pair of rounders in England. My uncle doesn't

even speak to them in the street."

"Oh." Junius' face was a study, but Harry was sitting so that he could

not see it, and had to be contented with Trotwood's subsequent account

of it. There was silence for a few moments, during which Harry waited

with perfect certainty for Junius' next remark.

"Well, of course we didn't know them _well_, at all. They just came and

shot with us once. That's nothing, in Scotland."

Victor Hugo was resumed after this and the translation finished without

further incident. The beautiful Junius, however, needed no urging to

"stick around" afterward, and sat for an hour or more smoking cigarettes

and chatting pleasantly about his acquaintance, carefully culled from

the New York social register and the British peerage.

"Well, Trotty," said Harry after the incubus had departed, dropping a

perfect shower of invitations to New York, Newport, Palm Beach, the

Adirondacks and the Scottish moors; "what about it? Is the beautiful

Junius, friend of dukes and scion of Crusaders, an obnoxious, unhealthy

little vermin, or isn't he?"

"I suppose he is. My, but he was fun, though! But he's going to make the

Dramatic Association after Christmas, for all that."

"Oh, yes. He'll make whatever he sets out to make, straight through.

Nobody here will ever see through him. He doesn't often give himself

away as he did to-night, of course. He talks up to each person on what

he thinks they'll like; to Josh Traill, for instance, he'll talk about

football, and to an aesthetic type, like Morton Miniver, on Japanese

prints and Maeterlinck's plays; and to you on the Glee and Mandolin

Clubs.... He has already, hasn't he? Don't attempt to deny it; your

blush betrays you! That's the way his type gets on here; talk to the

right people, and don't talk to any one else, and in addition do a

little acting or whatever you can, and it'll go hard if you don't make a

senior society before you're through.... He's clever, too; he'll make

it, all right. You see, he only gave himself away to me because he

talked on a subject where breeding counts, as well as knowledge.... It

was rash of him to try the duke and duchess stuff; he'd much better have

stuck to track, or something safe."

"See here, Harry," said Trotwood, rising to go, "I grant you that Junius

has given himself away and that he's a repulsive little beast, and all

the rest of it, but don't you think that you are taking the incident

just a little too seriously? It's an obnoxious type, all right, but it's

a common one. There are bound to be a few Juniuses in every bunch of

three or four hundred fellows wherever you take them; Oxford, or

anywhere else. Why bother about them? Let them blather on; they won't

hurt you, as long as you know them for what they are. And if Junius, or

one of his kind, gets too aggressive and unpleasant, all you have to do

is reach out your foot and stamp on him. But don't let him worry you!"

"How wise, how uplifting, how Browningesque!" breathed Harry in

satirical admiration. Trotty winced slightly and made for the door.

"Don't be a fool," Harry added, running after his retreating friend and

grabbing him. "You're dead right about all that, of course, as you

always are when you take the trouble to use your bean. There's just one

thing, though, when all is said and done, that irritates me. Junius at

Yale ends by making his senior society, in spite of all. Junius at

Oxford doesn't! Do you know why? Because there aren't any senior

societies there!"

CHAPTER IX

A LONG CHEER FOR WIMBOURNE

Harry did eventually bestir himself to the extent of hiring a locker in

the track house and going out and "exercising," as he called it, three

or four afternoons a week. He enjoyed it, but he obviously did not take

it very seriously. He was neither good enough nor enthusiastic enough to

attract the attention of the coach and captain, and it was something of

a surprise to all concerned when he took a first place in the low

hurdles in the fall meet and became entitled to wear his class numerals.

"Fine work," said the captain, a small and insignificant-looking senior,

who could pole vault to incredible heights without apparent effort.

"Macgrath tells me you haven't come within two seconds of your time

to-day in practise."

"No," said Harry; "I've been working more at the jumps."

"Well, you'd better stick to the hurdles from now on. We're weakest

there. You practise and train regularly this year and next year you'll

probably be the best man on the hurdles we have. Except Popham, of

course. But we never can depend on Popham for a meet; he's always on

pro, or something."

That evening after dinner Harry strolled into Trotwood's room.

"Say, you're the hell of a fine hurdler, you are," growled the latter,

from the depths of a Morris chair. Harry was somewhat taken aback till

his friend suddenly clutched at his hand and began swinging it up and

down like a pump handle. Then he realized that objurgation was merely

Trotwood's gentle method of expressing pleasure and affection. Delight

shone in his face; not delight in his triumph but in the thought that it

meant something to Trotwood and that he understood Trotwood's peculiar

way of showing it.

"That's all right, Trotty dear," he said. "Never mind about giving me

back my hand; I shall have no further use for it."

"I suppose you think you're quite a man now, don't you?" continued

Trotwood in the same vein. "Just because you won a damned race against

people that can't run anyway."

"Sweet as the evening dew upon the fields of Enna fall thy words, O

sage," said Harry. "You're really quite a wonderful person at bottom,

aren't you, Trotty? How did you know that the last thing I'd want was to

be slathered over with congratulations by you? Good Lord, you ought to

have heard Junius LeGrand on the subject!"

"Never mind about LeGrand. Speaking seriously, it's a great thing for

you, Harry. I don't suppose you realize that, bar that unspeakable

rounder Popham, you're the coming man in the hurdles from now on? Why,

you've got your Y absolutely cinched for next year, with him going on

the way he does!"

"So it seems," said Harry dryly. "I seem to have heard the name of

Popham before. Suppose we talk about something else.... Look, Trotty;

will you room with me next year?"

"Yes," answered Trotwood, blushing deeply, and continued, after a pause:

"I've wanted to arrange that for some time, but I thought you'd better

be the one to mention the subject first."

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know; I thought if I asked you, you'd accept out of plain

good nature, for fear of throwing me down, and I didn't want that."

"Well, as it happened, I was determined to let the first advances come

from you, for very much the same reason. Until just now, when I was so

afraid you'd room with some one else that I couldn't wait another

minute. I've lost all sense of maidenliness, you see."

"Maidenliness be hanged. You don't have to be maidenly when you've won

your numerals at track."

That was on a Saturday. James had been out of town with the football

team and did not return till late that evening. The next day he and

Harry walked out to their old home together for their regular Sunday

dinner with Aunt Selina. On the way they discussed at length the fine

points of the game of the day before, in which James had played right

half with great distinction. Presently he inquired:

"By the way, how about the fall meet yesterday? How did you come out?"

"Oh, fairly well. I only entered in the low hurdles, but I came out all

right."

"All right?"

"Yes--first."

"What? Do you mean to say that you got first place in the hurdles?"

"Substantially that, yes."

"Good Lord. I hadn't heard a thing. Went straight to bed when I got home

last night and only got up this morning in time for Chapel. Why, it's

the best ever, Harry! You get your numerals. You must be about the first

man in your class to do that. What was your time?"

"Pretty rotten. Twenty-five two."

"Not so bad. Gee, but that's fine for you, child!"

"I'm glad you're pleased, James."

"It isn't merely the getting of your numerals in the fall meet, either.

It means that you'll be one of the main gazabes in the track world from

now on, if you work. There's no one here that can make better time than

you in the hurdles, bar Popham, who makes such a fool of himself they

can't use him, mostly."

"Oh, damn," said Harry softly and slowly.

"What's the matter? Forgotten something?"

"No. I can't forget something, that's the trouble."

"Well, what _is_ biting you?"

"Only that if I hear the name of Popham much more, I believe I shall go

mad on the spot."

"Oh, don't take it so hard as that. Most likely you'll be able to beat

him out anyway, if you make progress, and he's likely to drink himself

out of college anyway before--"

"Shut up, James, for Heaven's sake!" There was real anger in Harry's

tone, and James turned and looked at him with surprise. "You're as bad

as every one else--worse! Don't _you_ know me better than to suppose

that all my chances of happiness in college, in this world, in the next,

depend on Popham's drinking himself to death? Do you think it's pleasant

for me to know that every one considers my--my success, I suppose you'd

call it, dependent on whether that rounder stays off probation or not?

You make me sick, James."

James remained silent a moment. "No offense meant," he said gently. "I'm

sure I'm sorry if--"

"Oh, rot!" Harry disclaimed offense by slipping his hand through his

brother's arm. "Only you don't seem to _see_, James. That's what bothers

me."

"Well, no; I'm afraid I don't. It will be a great thing for you if you

get your Y next year. Do you think it's low of me to wish that Popham,

who is no good anyway, should get out of your way?"

"No; the wish is kindly meant, of course.... But this idea that my whole

worldly happiness is tied up with Popham takes the pleasure out of it

all, somehow. I don't give a continental whether I get my Y or not,

now."

"Oh, come on. Don't be morbid."

"No. I've a good mind not to go out for track any more."

James made no answer to this, and the two walked on in silence till they

had reached the house. As they walked up the front steps James said:

"You must tell Aunt Selina all about this. She'll be awfully glad to

hear about it."

"Including Popham," said Harry in a low voice. James made no reply to

this, for it scarcely called for a reply, but his lips were ever so

slightly compressed as he walked through the front door.

During the idle months that followed Harry used his spare time for

efforts in another and wholly different direction--a literary one. He

became what is known in the parlance of the college as a "_Lit._

heeler"; that is, he contributed regularly to the _Yale Literary

Magazine_. For the most part his contributions were accepted, and in the

course of a few months his literary reputation in his class equaled his

athletic fame. His verses, written chiefly in the Calverly vein, were

equally sought for by both the _Lit._ and the _Record_, the humorous

publication, and his prose, which generally took the form of short

stories with a great deal of very pithy, rapid-fire dialogue in them,

was looked upon favorably even by the reverend dons whose duty it was to

review the undergraduates' monthly offerings to the muses.

"Has a cinder track been laid to the top of Parnassus?" wrote one who

rather prided himself on his quaint and whimsical fancy. "Do poets

hurdle and sprint where once they painfully climbed? Do the joyous Nine

now stand at the top holding a measuring tape and wet sponges, instead

of laurel wreaths, as of old? Assuredly we shall have to answer in the

affirmative after reading the story 'Quest and Question' which appeared

in the last issue of the _Lit._, for not only is the writer of this, the

best and brightest offering of the month, a mere freshman, but a

freshman who, it seems, has distinguished himself so far for physical

rather than mental agility. The 'question' about Mr. Wimbourne appears,

indeed, to be whether the fleetness of his metrical feet can equal that

of his material ones," etc.

All this amused Harry, who, it is to be feared, sometimes laughed at

rather than with his reviewers; and it gave him something to think about

outside of his studies and his classmates, both of which palled upon him

heavily at times. But he was irritated from time to time by the way in

which even literary recreation was looked upon, by the undergraduate

body. A casual and kindly remark of a classmate, "Hullo, I see you're

ahead in the _Lit._ competition," would often throw him into a state of

restless depression from which only the soothing presence of Trotwood

could reclaim him.

"Isn't it awful, Trotty," he once complained; "Euterpe (she's the lyric

muse, you know), has deserted me. I haven't been able to write a line

for a month. Of course the loss to the world of letters is almost

irreparable, but that's not the worst of it. You see, if I can't write,

I shan't do well in the _Lit._ competition, and if I don't do well I

shan't make the chairmanship, and if I don't make the chairmanship in

the competition, I shan't make a senior society, and wouldn't that be

terrible, Trotty?"

"Cheer up, old cow; you probably won't make one anyway," suggested

Trotty reassuringly, and Harry laughed.

* * * * *

The football game with Harvard was played in New Haven that year, and

Harry took Aunt Selina to it. Aunt Selina had never seen James play, and

was anxious to go on that account, though she had not been to a game for

many years, and even the last one she had seen was baseball.

"You must explain the fine points of the game to me, my dear," she told

him as they drove grandly out to the field in her victoria. "You see, I

have not been to a game since the seventies, and I daresay the rules

have changed somewhat since then. I used to take a great interest in it,

but I've forgotten all about it, now."

They were obliged to abandon the victoria at some distance from the

stands, rather to Aunt Selina's consternation, for she had secretly

supposed that they would watch the play from the carriage, as of old.

She was consequently somewhat bewildered when, after fifteen or twenty

minutes of such shoving and shouldering as she had never experienced,

she found herself in a vast amphitheater which forty thousand people

were trying to convert into pandemonium, with very fair success. As they

wormed their way along the sidelines toward their seats, a deafening

roar suddenly burst from the stands on the other side of the field,

which caused Aunt Selina to clutch her nephew's arm in affright.

"Harry, what _is_ it?" she asked. "_What_ are they making that frightful

noise about?"

"That's the Harvard cheer," replied Harry calmly. "You'll hear the Yale

people answering with theirs in just a minute."

The Yale people did answer, but it would be too much to say that Aunt

Selina heard. She was vaguely conscious of going up some steps and being

propelled past a line of people to what Harry told her were their seats,

though she could see nothing but a narrow bit of board. Nevertheless she

sat down, and tried to accustom her ears and eyes to chaos; just such a

chaos, she thought, as Satan fell into, only larger and noisier.

"Here we are," Harry was saying cheerfully, "just in time, too. The

teams will be coming on in a minute or two. What splendid seats James

has got us, bang on the forty yard line. Why, we're practically in the

cheering section! Do you know the Yale cheer, Aunt Selina? You must

cheer too, you know; it's expected of you.... Here comes the Yale

team...."

Aunt Selina lost the rest, as chaos broke forth with redoubled vigor.

She saw a group of blue-sweatered figures run diagonally across the

field, and thought the game had begun.

"Which is James?" she asked feverishly, feeling chaos work its way into

her own bosom. "Do you think he'll win, Harry? Oh, I do hope he'll

win!"

When the team lined up for its short preliminary practise Harry pointed

James out to her in his place at right halfback.

"I see," she said, gazing intently through her field glasses, "he's one

of those three little ones at the back. Does that mean that he'll be the

one to kick the ball? I'd rather he kicked it than be in the middle of

all that tearing about. Poor boy, how pale he looks!"

"He won't look pale long," said Harry grimly.

Aunt Selina by this time felt every drop of sporting blood in her course

through her veins. "Which is the pitcher, Harry?" she inquired

knowingly, and was not in the least abashed when her nephew informed her

that there was no pitcher in football.

"Well, well," said she indulgently, "isn't there really? Things do

change so; I can't pretend to keep up with them. I remember there used

to be a pitcher in my time, and Loring Ainsworth used to be it."

Just then the teams set to in deadly earnest, and conversation died. In

bewildered silence Aunt Selina watched the twenty-two players as they

ran madly and inexplicably up and down the field, pursued by the

fiendish yells of the spectators, and wondered if in truth, she were

dead and this--well, purgatory.

She made no attempt to understand anything that was going on down on the

field, or even to watch it. She turned her attention to Harry; he seemed

to be the most familiar and explicable object in sight, though she

wondered why he should leap to his feet from time to time shouting such

nonsense as "Block it, you ass!" or "Nail him, Sammy, nail him!" or

"First down! Yay-y-y!" Presently she became aware of a growing intensity

in the excitement. The players seemed to be moving gradually down toward

one end of the field, and short periods of breathless silence in the

audience punctuated the shouts. She heard cries of "Touchdown!

Touchdown!" emanate from all directions, but they meant nothing to her.

The players moved further and further away, till they were all huddled

into one little corner of the field. Every time they tumbled over

together in that awful human scrap-heap she shut her eyes, and did not

open them again till she was sure it was all right. Finally, after one

of those painful moments, there was a relapse of chaos, fifty times more

severe than any of the previous attacks. Women, as well as men,

shrieked like maniacs, and threw things into the air. Trumpets bellowed

and rattles rattled; somewhere in the background was a sound of a brass

band, of an organized cheer. Hats and straw mats flew through the air in

swarms.

"What is it?" shrieked Aunt Selina. "Who won? Who won?"

"It's a touchdown!" Harry shouted in her ear. "For Yale! It counts

five!" (It did, then.) "And James did it! James has made a touchdown!"

And in a moment Aunt Selina had the unusual pleasure of hearing her own

name shouted in concert by ten or fifteen thousand people at the top of

their voices.

"--rah rah rah Wimbourne! Wimbourne! Wimbourne!" shouted the crowd, at

the end of the long Yale cheer, and they went on shouting it, nine

times; then another long cheer, and nine more Wimbournes, and so on.

It was a great moment. Is it to be wondered that Aunt Selina, who did

not know a touchdown from a nose-guard, shrieked with the others and

wept like a baby? Is it strange that Harry, to whom the event meant more

than to any other person among the forty thousand, should have forgotten

himself in the expression of his natural joy; should have forgotten

where and what and who he was, everything but the one absorbing fact

that James had made a touchdown? We think not, and we have reason to

believe that every man jack out of the forty thousand would have agreed

with us. One did, we know. She thought it was the most natural thing in

the world, though it did set her coughing and disarranged her hat and

veil beyond all hope of recovery without the assistance of a mirror, not

to mention a comb and hairbrush. And Harry needn't apologize any more,

for she wouldn't hear of it; and the way she had behaved herself, in the

first excruciating moment, was a Perfect Disgrace. So they were quits on

that matter, and might she introduce Mr. Carruthers? Mr. Wimbourne. Was

Harry surprised that she knew who he was? Well, she would explain, and

also tell him who she was herself, if she could ever get the hair out of

her mouth and eyes.

For it must be explained that Harry, in his transports of exultation,

had behaved in a very unseemly manner toward his next-door neighbor on

the right hand. Aunt Selina, who sat on his left, had sunk, exhausted

with joy and excitement, to her seat as soon as she was told that James

had made a touchdown, and Harry, whose feelings were of a nature that

demanded immediate physical expression, had unconsciously relieved them

on the person of his other neighbor, who still remained standing; never

noticing who or what she was, even that she happened to be a young and

attractive woman. Harry never could remember what he had done in those

hectic seconds that immediately preceded his awareness of her existence;

according to her own subsequent account he had slapped her violently

several times on the back, put his arm around her, shaken her by the

scruff of her neck and shouted inarticulate and impossible things in her

ear.

The interval of hair-recovery was tactfully designed to give Harry a

moment's grace in which to recall, if possible, his neighbor's identity;

she was perfectly able to tell who she was with the hair in her mouth

and eyes, proof of which was that she had been talking in that condition

for the past few minutes. Harry was grateful for the intermission.

"Why of course I know you!" he exclaimed, as soon as the dying away of

the last nine Wimbournes made conversation feasible. "It was stupid of

me not to remember before. Do you remember; dancing school?.... It must

have been ten years ago, though; and you _have_ changed!"

"Yes, I suppose I have changed--thank Heaven!" The exclamation given

with a smile through a now unimpeachably neat veil, seemed in some

subtle, curious way to vindicate Harry, to emphasize his innocence in

failing to recognize her. "I know what I looked like then, all long

black legs and stringy yellow hair--"

"Not stringy," said Harry, recognizing his cue; "silky. I remember the

long black--the stockings, too. And lots of white fluffy stuff in

between; lace, and all that.... And we used to dance a good deal

together, because we were the two youngest there, and you were so nice

about it, too, when you wanted to dance with the older boys. But how did

you know me? Haven't I changed, too?"

"Oh, yes; but not so much. Boys don't. Beside, I knew your aunt by

sight...."

"I'm sorry, I forgot," said Harry. "Aunt Selina, do you know Miss

Elliston? And Mr. Carruthers, my aunt."

"Madge Elliston," corrected the girl, smiling, "you know my mother, I

think, Miss Wimbourne."

"Indeed I do, my dear; I am delighted to meet her daughter," said Aunt

Selina, who had had time to recover her customary _grande dame_ air, "I

knew her when she was Margaret Seymour; we used to be great friends."

And so forth, through the brief but blessed respite that follows a

touchdown. There is no need to quote the conversation in full, for it

degenerated immediately into the polite and commonplace. If we could

give you a picture of Madge Elliston during it, if we could do justice

to the sweetness and deference of her manner toward Aunt Selina, her

occasional smile, and the easy way she managed to bring both Harry and

Mr. Carruthers into the conversation, that would be a different thing.

The next kick-off brought it to an end, and all parties concerned turned

their attention once more to the field. Harry attempted to explain some

of the rudiments of the game to Aunt Selina, who confessed that her

recollections of the rules of the seventies were not of material

assistance to her enjoyment. And so passed the first half.

"Do you know, I believe I know exactly what you're thinking of?" was the

next thing Harry heard from his right. It was between the halves; Miss

Elliston was in an intermission of Mr. Carruthers, and Harry was

listening in silence to "Fair Harvard," which was being rendered across

the field.

"Do you?" he replied. "Well, I'll tell you if you're right."

"You were thinking of 'Forty Years On.'"

The smile died from Harry's face, and he paused a moment before

replying, almost gruffly:

"Yes, I was, as a matter of fact. How did you guess it?"

"Oh, I know all about you, you see." She stopped, and her silence seemed

to Harry to mean "I'm sorry if I've hurt you; but I wish you'd go on and

talk to me, and not be absurd." So he threw off his pique and went on:

"I don't know how you know about my going to Harrow, nor how you know

anything about 'Forty Years On,' and I don't care much; but I put it to

you, as man to man, isn't it a song that's worth thinking about?"

"It is! There never was such a song."

"Not even 'Fair Harvard'?"

"No."

"Not even 'Bright College Years,' to which you will shortly be treated?"

"Not even that." They exchanged smiles, and Harry continued, with

pleasure in his voice:

"Well, it is a relief to hear some one say that, in a place where 'For

God, for country, and for Yale' is considered the greatest line in the

whole range of English poetry. But of course I'm a heretic."

"You like being a heretic?" The question took him by surprise; it was

out of keeping, both in substance and in the way it was asked, with Miss

Elliston's behavior up to this point. He gathered his wits and replied:

"Oh, yes; who doesn't? Is there any satisfaction like that of knowing

that every one else is wrong and you alone are right?"

"I suppose not! That's the main danger of heresy, don't you think?

Subjective, not objective. Being burned at the stake doesn't matter,

much; it's good for one rather than otherwise. But thinking differently

from other people merely for the pleasure of being different, and above

them--there's danger in that, isn't there?"

"Then there is no such thing as honest heresy?"

"That was not what I said." This remark, spoken gently and with a

quizzical little smile, had none of the sharpness that cold type seems

to give it. Adopting something of her manner, Harry pursued:

"But I am not an honest heretic?"

"I didn't say that, either." Again the smile, which seemed to be

directed as much toward herself as toward him, softened the words. "And

aren't you rather trespassing on female methods of argument?"

"I don't understand."

"Applying abstract remarks to one's own case; that's what women are

conventionally supposed to do. But don't let's get metaphysical. What I

want to say is that, though I think 'Forty Years On' is incomparably

finer, as a song, than 'Bright College Years,' I wouldn't have it

changed if I could. The 'For God, for country, and for Yale' part, I

mean; and 'the earth is green or white with snow,'--a woefully

under-appreciated line.... There is something priceless, to me, in the

thought of a great crowd of men, young and old, getting up and bellowing

things like that together, never doubting but that it's the greatest

poetry ever written. That's worth a great deal more, to me, than good

poetry.... They're all such dears, too; the absurdity never hurts them a

bit!"

"By George," said Harry slowly, "you're right. I never thought of that

before. It is rather a priceless thought."

"Yes, isn't it? It's the full seriousness of it that makes it so good.

'For God, for country, and for Yale'--it's no anti-climax to them; it's

the way they really feel. It's absurd, it's ridiculous. But I love it,

for some reason."

"That's it. You make me see it all differently.... You mean, I suppose,

that if we could start from the beginning with a clean slate, we would

choose 'Forty Years On,' or something like it, every time. But now that

we've got the other, and they sing it like that, it seems just as good,

in its way ... so that we wouldn't like to change it...."

He wanted to add something like "What an extraordinary young person you

must be, to talk of such things to me, a stranger, under such

conventional circumstances," but a simultaneous recurrence of Mr.

Carruthers and the game prevented him. It is doubtful if he would have

dared, anyway.

He spoke no more to her that day, except to say good-by and ask if he

might call. Nor did he think much more of her. We would not give a false

impression on this point; he was really much more interested in the game

than in Miss Elliston, and after the second half was fairly started

scarcely gave her another thought. But in the moment that intervened

between the end of their conversation and the absorbing scurry of the

kick-off it did occur to him that Madge Elliston had grown up into an

unusual girl, a girl whom he would like to know better. Their short

conversation had been as different from the ordinary run of football

game civilities between young men and maidens as champagne from water.

Harry liked girls well enough, and got on well with them, but in general

they bored him. He had never met one, except Beatrice Carson, with whom

he was able to conduct anything approaching an intellectual

give-and-take, and even Beatrice was no more than an able follower in

his lead. Madge Elliston was a bird of a very different feather; she had

undeniably led him during every moment of their conversation. It was a

new sensation; he wondered if it would always be like that, in future

conversations.

But football was uppermost in his mind for the remainder of that day, at

least. He was proud and pleased beyond all expression about James, and

longed to grasp his hand in congratulation. But he had to go all the way

home with Aunt Selina after the game was over, and when at last he

reached Berkeley Oval he met James hurrying away somewhere and could

give him only the briefest and vaguest expressions of pleasure. On

returning to York Street he learned that the team was to have a banquet

that evening, in the course of which they would elect their captain for

the next year. It occurred to him that it would be nice if James were

elected, and it gave him pleasure to hear Trotwood and others say that

his chance was as good as any one's.

He stayed up to hear the result of the election, which when it came was

disappointing. James had missed the honor, less, apparently, because he

was not good enough, than because some one else was considered even

better. Harry was sorry, though he lost no sleep over it. When he saw

James next morning, he spoke first of what was uppermost in his heart.

"James," he said impulsively, seizing his brother's hand and hanging on

to it as he spoke; "I want to say a whole lot more about yesterday. I

don't mind saying you're the greatest thing that ever came down the

pike, and I'm proud to own you!" and more in the same vein, which James

received with smiling protests and remarks of a self-depreciatory

nature. But when Harry ended up "And I'm sorry as heck about the

captaincy," his manner changed.

"Oh, that's all right," he said. His face became grave, his whole

attitude seemed to add: "And we won't talk any more about that, please;

it's a sore subject."

Harry's easy flow of talk stopped short, and a new feeling filled his

mind. "Good Heavens, James cares, actually cares about the confounded

thing," he thought, and dropped his brother's hand.

CHAPTER X

RUMBLINGS

"Please, sir, could you give me any dope for the _News_ about your

coming back to coach the football team?" asked a timid voice from the

doorway.

"No, heeler, no; I've already said I wouldn't give anything about that

till I made up my mind, and I haven't yet." Thus James, more petulantly

than was his wont, from his chair below the green-shaded lamp. The

heeler, obviously a freshman, blinked disappointedly through the

half-gloom for a few seconds and then moved to go.

"Wait a bit," said James, his good-humor restored; "I'm sorry, heeler.

But when I tell you that you're the thirteenth person that has come in

at that door since seven o'clock, and that I've got a hundred pages of

economics to read for to-morrow, perhaps you'll understand why I'm a

little snappy about being interrupted."

"That's all right," murmured the heeler vaguely. He was used to being

snapped at by prominent seniors, but he was not used to being apologized

to by them, and was not sure how he liked it.

"I tell you what I'll do, though," went on James. "I'll give you a

locker notice that ought to have been put in long ago. Here." He reached

for the heeler's notebook and wrote in it: "All senior members of the

football squad are requested to remove their clothes from their lockers

as the space will be wanted for spring practice." "There, that'll put

you fifty words to the good, anyway," he said brightly, and the heeler

went his way in peace.

James had conducted himself most creditably during his college course,

and in the course of a few months would graduate if not exactly in a

blaze of glory, at least in a very comfortable radiance. His standard of

values had been a simple but satisfactory one; first, Football; second,

Curriculum; third, Other Things. Any number of the steadier and worthier

portion of the college world make this their creed, and find it works

out extremely well. In the case of James, at least, such a standard

gave a sane and well-balanced view of life. He took football with the

most deathly seriousness, it is true, but only in its season, and its

season, owing to the rigors of the New England climate, lasts hardly

more than two months out of the twelve. During that time James

practically hibernated when not actually on the football field, lived

mainly on boiled rice and barley water, indulged in no amusements or

vices, went about thoughtful and preoccupied, scarcely spoke even to his

most intimate friends, studied only just enough to keep his stand above

the danger mark and slept, as Harry rather vividly put it, "anywhere

from thirty to forty hours out of the twenty-four." Out of the football

season he was cheerful, cordial, loved the society of his fellows,

smoked, drank in moderation, went to the theater, played cards, ate

every kind of food he could lay his hands on and studied with a very

faithful and intelligent interest. His classmates admired him during the

football season, and loved him the rest of the year. Generally speaking,

he conformed closely to his type; but his type was one of the best the

college evolved.

After the _News_ heeler left him on the evening in question he read

economics uninterruptedly for about half an hour; then he took a

cigarette from his case and lit it. The case was the gold one that Harry

had brought him from Europe. He thought of Harry as he lay back in his

chair after lighting the cigarette, and it is not too much to say that

the thought of him impaired the pleasure of the first few puffs. Harry

was, indeed, the chief, the only cloud on the horizon. It was too bad;

he had begun so well. No one could have desired a more brilliant

freshman year for him, what with his track work and his literary success

and the excellent stand he maintained in his studies. And yet now, at

about the middle of his sophomore year, he seemed to be going in any

direction but that of fulfilling the promise of his first year. James

could see for himself, and he had heard things.... Perhaps, after all,

though, it was merely that he had begun too well; that his promise was

fulfilled before it was fairly given. Many men graduated from college

high in the esteem of their classmates without having distinguished

themselves as much as Harry had in one year. Perhaps he was really going

on exactly as well as before, only people were just beginning to find

out that he was only an American boy of nineteen, not Apollo and Hermes

rolled into one. That was what James hoped; but it occurred to him that

if such had been the case the idea would have come to him as a

certainty, not as a hope.

Harry himself sauntered into the room before the cigarette was smoked

out. Well, his outward appearance had not suffered, at any rate, was

James' first thought. The slimness of his figure was unimpaired; his

features retained their clear-cut lines of youth and innocence; his

complexion shone with the glow of health, nothing else.

"Give me a cigarette, and hurry up about it, too," were his first words.

"I've just been under a severe mental strain.... It will probably be the

last one for many moons, too, if I start in training to-morrow, like a

good little boy."

"Oh, of course; you've been to the call for track candidates," replied

his brother, handing over the desired commodities. "Well, was it a good

meeting?"

"Inspiring. Don't you see what a glow of enthusiasm I'm in? First

Dimmock got up and opened his mouth. 'Fellows,' he said, 'I'm darned

glad to see you all here to-night, but I wish there were more of you. I

see fewer men out than usual, and we need more than ever this year, and

I'll tell you why. We want to do better in the intercollegiates. We

think we are strong enough for the dual meets, but we want to make a

better show in the intercollegiates. But we've got plenty of good

material here, and with that we ought to get together and work hard and

show lots of the old Yale spirit, for we'll need it all in the

intercollegiates.'

"Well, Dimmock is a good soul, if he has got a face like a boiled cod,

and we cheered and clapped and patted him on the back. Then Macgrath

took the floor. He said he thought we were going to have a good year,

for there was plenty of material in sight, though he was sorry to see so

few there to-night. He hoped we weren't forgetting what the Yale spirit

was, because we particularly wanted to do well in the intercollegiates.

He spoke of the new cinder track and the lengthening of the two-twenty

yard straight-away, and ended with a hope that we would all get together

and do Yale credit in the intercollegiates.

"Then McCullen, who as perhaps you know, is manager, got up. As he is a

particular friend of yours I won't try to give an exact account of what

he said. His main points, however, were the fewness of the candidates

present, the probable wealth of good material in hand, the new cinder

track and the desirability of doing well in the intercollegiates.

Lastly, a man called Hodgman, or Hodgson, or something, who was captain

back in the eighties somewhere, was introduced. He spoke first of the

new cinder track and straight-away, from which he lightly and gracefully

went on to congratulating the team on having so much good material this

year--though he saw fewer there to-night than he had expected. He closed

with a touching peroration in which he intimated that the track team had

in general come off well in regard to Harvard and Princeton, and what

was wanted now was a little better showing against the other

universities in the intercollegiates.... Oh, it was a glorious meeting!"

James fully appreciated the humor of this narrative, as the sympathetic

twinkle in his eye betrayed, but he merely observed after Harry had

finished:

"Well, that's true; they ought to do better in the intercollegiates.

There's a good deal of feeling about it among the graduates, too, I

believe."

"Oh, it's _true_ enough." Harry, who felt the heat of the room, opened

the window and lay down at full length on the window-seat, directly in

the draught. "I'd take the word of those four noble, strapping,

true-hearted men for it any day in the year. Only--only--oh, heck! Why

should I have to sit up and listen to those boobs spend an hour in

telling me that one thing? And what the devil do I care about it anyway,

if it's the truest thing that ever happened?"

"Well, I care about it, though I'm no good at track and not a member of

the team," commented James.

"Perhaps if you were on it you wouldn't care quite so much.--Well, I'll

train and I'll practise regularly, not because I want Yale to win the

intercollegiates, but because I think it's good for me. It is good for

the figure, and I'd rather have my muscles hard than soft."

"Well, it comes to the same thing, if you keep to it, and don't go

gassing to the track people about your reasons."

"I shall go gassing to every human being I've a mind to.--And I'll tell

you one thing there's going to be trouble about, if they try to use

coercion, or the Yale spirit gag. That's about the Easter vacation;

there's some talk of making the track people stay here and train. I have

other plans for Easter."

"What are they?--For Heaven's sake, shut that window! What a fool you

are, lying in a draught like that, with the track season beginning."

"James, you are every bit as bad as any of them, at heart," said Harry,

shutting the window. "You wouldn't give a continental if I caught

pneumonia and died in frightful agony, except for its cutting the

university of a possible place in the intercollegiates.--Why, I'm going

down to the Trotwoods' place in North Carolina. Trotty's going to have a

large and brilliant house-party. Beatrice is going; he met her in New

York not long ago and took a great shine to her." For Beatrice, in the

company of Aunt Miriam, was paying a visit to the country of her dreams.

"What?" said James, pricking up his ears. "Beatrice going? Why hasn't

Trotty asked me?"

"Didn't dare, I suppose," said Harry indifferently. "I'll make him,

though, if you like. That's the way the King's visits are arranged; he

says he'd like to visit some distinguished subject, and a third party

tells the distinguished subject, who asks the King, who accepts. It's

complicated, but it gets there in the end."

James did not seem particularly interested in points of etiquette in

royal households.

"What do you make out of this business of the Carsons?" he asked.

"What business?"

"Hadn't you heard? Aunt C. told me about it when I was there last

Sunday. Beatrice's mother has made up her mind to sue for a divorce, and

Beatrice has quarreled with her about it."

"Good Lord! No, I hadn't heard a thing. I knew what the father was, of

course.... Has anything in particular happened?"

"Apparently, yes. Aunt C. can tell you more exactly than I. Beatrice has

confided the whole thing to her--they're thick as thieves already; she

gets on better with her than with Aunt Miriam, even. It seems that the

husband, Lord Archibald, is on to the fact that his wife has had a good

deal of money to spend lately; Uncle Giles having given her a lot since

he got that--"

"Yes, I know. Go on."

"Well, that's about the whole thing. He's been bullying her, making her

give it up to him ... and one thing and another, till she got desperate,

and decided to try for a complete divorce. There's plenty of ground,

even for English law ... but Beatrice's idea is that there's no need. Of

course, it will mean a lot of scandal. She says that if she had been

there to deal with him there would have been no talk about it, and that,

at worst, a separation would have been all that was necessary."

"Poor Lady Archie! She has had a tough time; I shall be glad to see her

well out of it. A divorce--! Well, she has more sense than I gave her

credit for."

"It seems to me that Beatrice is quite right," said James, a trifle

stiffly. "I should have thought that a divorce was the thing most to be

avoided. It's not like an American divorce.... I understand her point

very well."

Harry did not reply to this; he simply growled--made a curious sound in

the bottom of his throat. It amounted to a polite way of saying

"Nonsense!" Apparently James accepted the implied rebuke, for he said no

more on the subject. His brother also was silent for some time and gazed

thoughtfully out on the lights of the Campus. "I've got troubles of my

own, James," he said presently. "Have you heard anything about last

night yet?"

"Last night? No; what?"

"Well, you've heard of Junius LeGrand, in our class?"

"The actress? Yes."

"Well, he's become rather a power in the class; not only he is making

straight for the Dramat. presidency, but he's more or less the center of

a certain clique; the social register, monogrammed cigarettes,

champagne-every-night and abroad-every-summer type; the worst of it,

that is. Well, I had a dreadful scene with him last night. I got a

thrill and called him names, and he didn't like it."

"What happened?"

"There was a whole bunch of us sitting round at Mory's, and I was

talking partly in French, as I usually do when--when mildly excited, and

referred to him as a 'petite ordure.' Of course that isn't a pretty

thing to call a person, even in French, and I probably shouldn't have

said it if I hadn't been drinking. I meant it all, though, and was

willing to stand by it, so when he got mad I called him other and worse

things, in English. He wasn't tight, but he was pretty furious by that

time, and there'd have been a free fight if people hadn't held us

apart."

"That's pretty poor, Harry," said James gravely, after a moment's

consideration. "I don't mean your hating LeGrand--though you needn't

have actually come to quarreling with him. But your being tight and he

not puts you in the wrong right off.--What's all this about your

drinking, anyway?"

"I don't, so you could notice it.... That was the first time I ever got

carried beyond myself, except about once--or twice. I'm not fond of the

stuff; I only drink when I want to be cheered up."

"That's bad, too; it's much worse to drink when you're in bad spirits

than when you're in good," said James, with a wisdom beyond his

experience.

"After I've drunk, the good spirits are in me," retorted Harry, with

rather savage humor.

"It's no joking matter. Harry, will you cut it out entirely, if I ask

you to?"

"You'll have to do some tall asking, I'm afraid.--I don't like you much

when you preach, James. I came here for sympathy, not sermons."

"You won't get me to sympathize with your making a beast of yourself."

"James, you know perfectly well you were tight as a tick at the football

banquet in Boston last fall."

"I'm no paragon, I admit."

"You say that as if you thought you were, and expected me to say so. No,

you're right--you're not. There!"

James' humor suddenly changed. His grave face relaxed into a smile, he

rose from his chair and wandered to the end of the room and back to the

window-seat.

"All right, we'll leave it at that; I'm not." He stood for a moment

hands in pockets, smiling down at his brother. "It's nice to find one

point we can agree on, anyway.... I won't bother you. After all, I

suppose there's not much danger."

"No ... I don't think I should ever really get to like the stuff." But

Harry did not smile and fall in with his brother's mood; he had too much

on his mind still. "I haven't told you the most disagreeable part of

it," he went on. "Something happened to-day that made me sorry I had

made a fool of myself. Shep McGee came to me to-day and said that he'd

heard about our little _coup de theatre_, and that he was sorry, but

being one of Junius' particular friends he couldn't be friendly with me

any more unless I apologized. I was sorry, because I've always liked

Shep and got on very well with him."

"What did you say?"

"Oh, of course I was pretty peeved, and I messed it up still further. I

told him I was glad he'd spoken, because henceforth my acquaintance

would not be recruited conspicuously from Junius' special friends. I

said that, strange as it might seem, I felt myself able to hand him,

Shep, over to Junius' complete possession without a tear. I added that I

thought he would find it safer in the future to choose his friends

exclusively from the cause of Christ, and suggested that he might try to

convert Junius to the same august organization...."

Some explanation may be necessary to show why this remark outraged

James' feelings to the extent it did. The organization to which Harry

referred was Dwight Hall, the college home of the Y. M. C. A., Bible

study classes, city and foreign mission work, in all of which branches

of religious and semi-religious activity many of the worthiest

undergraduates interest themselves. James particularly admired the

organization and those who worked in it; he would have gone in for some

department of its work himself had he possessed the qualities of a

religious leader. Most of his best friends were Dwight Hall workers; the

senior society to which he belonged was notorious for taking many of

them into its fold yearly--so much so, indeed, that it has become a

popular myth that an underground passage exists between Dwight Hall and

the society hall.

Consequently, Harry's contemptuous epithet, together with the tone in

which he uttered it was quite enough to shock and pain James very much.

But what put him out even more was the thought that Harry had said this

to Shep McGee. The latter was one of the most respected men in Harry's

class, and James had happened to take a particular fancy to him. He

rather wondered at McGee's making a friend of such a person as LeGrand,

but he did not stop to think about that now.

"Harry," said he in a sharp, dry voice, "I think that's the rottenest

remark I ever heard you or any one else make--if you used that

expression to McGee."

"I did."

"I never thought you were capable of saying such a rotten thing, and I

don't mind your knowing what I think of it. Are you going to apologize

to McGee?"

"No."

"Well, I shall. If I can't apologize on your behalf, at least I can

apologize for being your brother! What the devil do you mean by saying

such a thing, in cold blood, to such a man? If you don't believe in the

work yourself, can't you let other people believe in it? What do you

believe in, anyway? Do you call yourself a Christian? Do you call

yourself a gentleman? Do you flatter yourself that McGee isn't a hundred

times a better man than you are?"

"Rumblings from the underground passage." This remark, given with a

cold, hard little smile, in which there was no geniality, no humor, even

of a mistaken nature, amounted to a direct insult. Any reference made to

a Yale man about his senior society by an outsider, be it a brother or

any one else, is looked upon as a breach of etiquette--was at that time,

at any rate. Harry's remark was worse than that; it was a rather

cowardly thrust, for he was insulting a thing that James, by reason of

the secrecy to which he was bound, could not defend.

James did not reply; he simply grabbed up a hat and flung himself out of

the room. Harry listened to his footsteps retreating down the stairs

with a sinking heart; all his anger, all his resentment ebbed with them,

and by the time they had died away there was nothing left but hopeless,

repentant wretchedness. In the last twenty-four hours he had made a

public disgrace of himself, he had fallen out with one of his best

friends, and he had wounded the feelings of the last person on earth he

wanted to hurt. And all because of his asinine convictions, because he

thought his ideals were a little higher than other men's, his honesty a

little more impeccable than theirs.

He got up and left the room, cursing himself for a fool, cursing the

fate that had brought him to this pass, cursing Dwight Hall, the senior

societies, the university that harbored them, the school, the country

that had put ideas into his head. But chiefest of all he cursed Junius

LeGrand....

But that did not do any good.

The next morning he wrote and posted a note of apology to James:--

Dear James--I am sorry about last night--really, I am. I will

try not to make such an ass of myself again.

HARRY.

The same evening he received an answer, also through the mail. It was

simply a post-card bearing the words:

All right. JAMES.

Its curt, businesslike goodwill and the promptness of its arrival

comforted him somewhat. He wisely determined to keep away from his

brother for the present and let time exert what healing effect it could.

When they did meet again, after some ten days' interval, no reference

was made to the episode. James was cordial, very cordial. Far, far too

cordial....

"Trotty," said Harry mournfully that evening; "I don't think you'd

better room with me again next year. You can't afford to, Trotty. I'm a

pariah, an outcast. Half the decent people in the class don't speak to

me any more. You simply can't afford to know me. It'll ruin your

chances."

"I wish you'd shut up," said Trotwood. "I'm trying to study."

"I mean it, Trotty. Don't pretend you don't hear, or understand. I'm

giving you warning."

"Rot," said Trotty, beginning to blush. "Damned, infernal rot."

Harry sighed. "You're a good soul, Trotty. But it's true. You'll be

known as the only man in the class that speaks to me, if you keep it

up."

"Will you shut up, you infernal idiot?"

"No. I tell you, I'm going straight to the devil."

Trotty rose from his chair and went to where Harry stood. He gently

pushed him back to the wall, and pinning him to it looked him straight

in the eyes. Harry was surprised to see that his face was set and

serious.

"Now," said Trotwood, "I'm going to talk about this business this once,

and if you ever mention the subject again I'll break your damned head

open. I'm going to room with you next year. I'm going to room with you

the year after that, if you'll have me. If we ever split up, it'll have

to be because you're tired of me--not afraid I'm tired of you, but

actually tired of me. You're not going to the devil. If you do, I don't

give a damn. What does friendship mean, anyway? Answer me that, damn

you!--damn you!--damn you--" His voice failed, but his eyes still spoke.

"All right, Trotty, we won't say any more about it, if you feel like

that." Harry smiled as he spoke the words, but he felt more like

crying.

CHAPTER XI

AUNT SELINA'S BEAUX YEUX

As Harry had anticipated, an issue arose between himself and the powers

in the track world concerning the Easter vacation. The edict went forth

that members of the 'varsity squad were to remain in New Haven, in

strict training, through the holidays, and it was assumed that he was to

be of their number. None of the powers asked him what he was going to

do, and he did not think it worth while to inform them of his plans.

One day, about a week before the vacation began, he did mention the

subject casually to Judy Dimmock, the captain, as they walked in from

practice together. Dimmock's consternation, as Harry said afterward, was

pitiful to see.

"But do you think you can get Macgrath's permission?" he asked,

stupefied.

"Why in the world should I bother about asking Macgrath's permission?"

answered Harry. "Of course he wouldn't give it to me."

"Do you mean to say that you're going without it?"

"Of course I'm going without it."

Dimmock was bewildered rather than irritated, though Harry's course of

action defied his authority quite as much as the coach's. "You'll have

to be dropped from the squad, then, I'm afraid."

"So I supposed."

"Harry, do you mean to say this work means no more to you than that?"

stammered Dimmock, all his convictions seething in his brain. "Haven't

you got any more respect for your college and traditions than that?

Don't you see what good discipline it is to buckle down to work and keep

at it, whether you like it or not?"

Harry waited a moment before replying, wondering how he could silence

Dimmock without angering him.

"That would all sound very well, if it were the dean and not the track

captain that said it," he ventured.

"I'm afraid I don't understand you, Harry." There was such a complete

absence of anger in the other's tone that Harry felt a momentary

outburst of sympathy for this honest, good-tempered creature.

"I'm sorry, Judy," he said. "The fact is, you take track deadly

seriously, and I don't. That's all there is to it. So we're bound to

disagree."

So Harry went to the North Carolina mountains and shot quail and rode

horseback and played bridge and carried on generally with James and

Beatrice and Trotty and eight or ten others of his age. When he returned

to New Haven he went out to the track field and jumped and ran about as

before, but nobody paid any attention to him. Nor was he asked to rejoin

the training table.

"It'll do him good to let his heels cool for a while," observed Dimmock

to Macgrath.

"That's all very well, but you'd better not let them cool too long, if

you want to get a place in the hurdles with Harvard," granted the coach.

"I was afraid all along we'd have to take him on again," said the other.

"He gets better and better on the track all the time, and queerer and

queerer every other way. I don't trust him."

"He's a second Popham," said Macgrath.

About a week before the Harvard meet Dimmock approached the second

Popham and with very commendable absence of anything like false pride

asked him if he would please put himself under Macgrath's orders for the

next few days and run in the meet. Harry graciously consented. He

hurdled abominably badly for a week, showing neither form nor speed;

then he hurdled against Harvard and beat their best men by a safe

margin. He won a first place, and his Y.

But that did not make him any more popular in the track world.

Later in the spring Beatrice came on for a visit, anxious to see the

university that Harry had preferred to Oxford. She and Lady Fletcher

stayed with Aunt Selina; presently Aunt Miriam went on and left Beatrice

alone there. She and Aunt Selina struck up one of those unaccountable

intimacies that occasionally arise between people of widely different

ages.

"I do like your relations," she once told Harry; "I like your country

and your university and your friends well enough, but I like your people

even better. I like your Uncle James, though I'm scared to death of him,

and Aunt Cecilia of course is a dear; but I like Aunt Selina best. I

never saw such a person! I didn't know you had her type in America. She

makes Aunt Miriam look like a vulgar, blatant little upstart!"

"I know," said Harry, laughing. "Did you tell Aunt Miriam that?"

"Something to that effect, yes. She laughed, and said that she had

always felt that way in her presence, too.--There's more about Aunt

Selina than that, though; there's something wonderfully human about her,

at bottom. I have an idea she could get nearer to me, if she wanted to,

than almost any one else, just because her true self is so rare and

remote."

Both Harry and James saw a good deal of Beatrice during her visit. Harry

was supposed to be in training again, and it was his interesting custom

to dine discreetly at the training table at six o'clock and then dash

out to his aunt's and eat another and much more sumptuous meal at seven.

James was scandalized when he heard of this proceeding, but he carefully

refrained from saying anything to Harry about it; he merely smiled

non-committally when Harry, with a desire of drawing him out, rather

flauntingly referred to it.

"A few weeks ago he would have cursed me out," he thought; "lectured me

up and down about it. Now he won't say anything because he's afraid it

would bring on another scrap." The thought made him feel lonely and

miserable.

James was greatly taken with Beatrice; that was quite clear from the

first. He was attracted by her beauty, and still more by her apparent

indifference to it. He found her more frank and sensible than American

girls, whose debutante conventionalities and mannerisms bored and

irritated him. He could not conceive of Beatrice "guying" or "kidding

him along" on slight acquaintance, as most of his American friends did,

or of Beatrice openly dazzling him with her beauty, or using her

prerogative of sex by making him "stand around" before other people.

One evening after dinner Beatrice, accompanied by both the brothers, was

walking down one drive and up the other, as the family were in the

habit of doing on warm spring evenings.

"Are you both prepared to hear something funny?" she asked.

"Fire away," they answered, and she continued:

"Well, I'm probably going to come back here next winter and live with

Aunt Selina!"

Harry gave a long whistle.

"This from you! Are you actually going to turn Yankee, too?"

"I'm going to give the Yankees a chance, at any rate! You see, there are

reasons why life for me wouldn't be particularly pleasant at home next

year.... I'm going back with Aunt Miriam after Commencement, as we had

planned, to try to patch it up with Mama, and then, if all parties are

agreeable, as I'm pretty sure they will be, I shall come back in the

autumn. The idea is for me to keep house for Aunt Selina and be her

companion generally. I shall receive a stipend for my valuable services,

so that I shall have the comfortable feeling of earning something. Aunt

Miriam thinks it's a fine plan. What do you think about it?"

"I think it's simply top-hole, to use the expression of your native

land. But won't you find New Haven a trifle dull, after London, and all

that?"

"I rather think I shall, but in a different way. I shall be quite busy,

and I thought I'd go to some lectures and things in the university and

learn something.--Why don't you say something, James?"

"I think it's a wonderful idea." James had been thinking so hard he had

forgotten to speak. Did he perhaps regret his lately-made decision not

to come back and coach the football team, but to take advantage of a

business opening in the Middle West? At any rate, he was startled to

observe what a leap his heart gave when Beatrice said she was coming

back. Was it possible, he asked himself, that he was really going to

care for this girl, with her dark brown eyes and her aloof,

aristocratic, unchallenging ways?...

But he was undeniably glad she was coming back, and found occasion to

tell her so more fully another time, when they were alone.

"I'm particularly glad," he added, "on Harry's account. He needs some

one to keep an eye on him; do you think you can do it?"

"I've done that for some years," said Beatrice, smiling. "I've been more

of a brother to him than you have, really. Why on earth did you never

come over and see him all that time, James?"

"Heaven knows.... I was lazy; I got in a rut. I wish I had, now."

"Why, nothing's going wrong, I hope?"

"Oh, damnably!--I beg your pardon. When he first came back he did

certain things that used to get on my nerves, and I, like a fool, let it

go on that way, thinking that he was all wrong and I was all right. It's

only lately that I've come to see better ... and now, when he

particularly needs some steadying influence, I can't give it to him. You

see, he gets on other people's nerves, too; he and his ideas--"

"Ideas?"

"Yes; fool notions he got about the way things are done in England--"

"Isn't that a trifle hard?"

"Oh, the ideas may be all right, but not the way he applies them.... At

any rate, they, or something else, are playing the deuce with his

college course. He's getting in Dutch, all around--"

"In Dutch," murmured Beatrice. "Oh, I do like that!" But James did not

notice the interruption.

"And while I see all this going on I have to stand aside and let it go

on, because when I say anything it doesn't do any good, but only

irritates him and makes him worse."

"I see. Well, I'm always willing to do what I can for Harry, but I'm

afraid I haven't any real influence over him, either."

"Oh, yes, you have. He has the greatest respect for you."

"Not nearly as much as you think." Her usually calm expression was

clouded; she seemed disturbed about something. Why did James feel a

momentary sinking of the heart when he noticed the seriousness of her

face and manner? It was nothing, though; gone again in a second.

Beatrice continued, in a more optimistic tone:

"But I honestly don't think, James, that there's much to worry about. I

don't mean that he mayn't get into scrapes, but I don't think that

there's anything seriously wrong.... I have always had the greatest

faith in him--not only in his intellect, but in his character. So has

Uncle G.; he expects great things of him, says he has just that

combination of intellect and balance that results in statues in public

places."

"The genius in the family is all confined to him; I'm glad you realize

that!" James could not help being a little rasped by her harping on the

good qualities of his brother, nor could he help showing it a little. He

immediately felt rather ashamed of himself, however, for Beatrice

replied, in a gently startled tone:

"Why, James, how bitter! You don't expect me to fling bouquets at your

very face, surely! I throw them at you when I'm talking to Harry!"

"You must throw a good lot of them, then, for you see him alone often

enough," was the somewhat gruff reply. Beatrice must have considered it

rather a foolish remark, for she paid no attention to it.

Harry's attitude toward her decision, as expressed in his next

_tete-a-tete_ with her, was rather different from that of his brother.

"Beatrice," said he, "of course I'm pleased as Punch about your coming

here next year, both on my own account and on Aunt Selina's, and all

that sort of thing; but I hope you won't think it rude of me if I ask

why on earth you're doing it. Of course, I know there are family

unpleasantnesses, and that you aren't particularly interested in London

balls, but that doesn't explain to me why, when you really do occupy an

enviable position over there, get asked everywhere worth going, in

season and out, and all that, you should choose to be the paid companion

of an old woman in a small New England town. And I don't believe it's

Aunt Selina's _beaux yeux_!"

"No!" said Beatrice, laughing; "I don't believe it's quite all that,

either!"

"What will people think about it over there?" went on Harry. "What'll

your mother say?"

"I'm afraid Mama will be perfectly delighted, even if she doesn't say

so," replied Beatrice, serious again. "The truth is, Harry, poor Mama

and I don't gee very well, somehow.... Jane is a great comfort to her--a

perfect daughter--she came out this year, you know."

"Is she as much of a social success as you?" asked Harry with that

frankness that was characteristic of their relation.

"Much more so--in a way. She uses her gifts to much more effect."

"She's not nearly as good-looking as you," persisted Harry.

It was a remark thoroughly in keeping with the spirit of their

comradeship, the kind of remark, expressive of a plain truth, nothing

more, that they prided themselves on making and taking between

themselves without the least affectation or self-consciousness. Yet

Beatrice simply could not keep pleasure from sounding in her voice as

she replied:

"Well, no; I suppose not. It's the only thing in which I have the better

of her, though. I'm very--"

She began her reply in the old spirit, but could not keep it up. She had

started to say, "I'm very glad you think that," then stopped herself,

then wished she had gone on. It would have been perfectly consistent

with their old "man-to-man" attitude, if she could have said it in the

right way!

Harry noticed her halting, and looked up at her quickly. He saw that she

was blushing. "Good Heavens!" he thought; "I hope Beatrice doesn't think

I'm paying her compliments!" The incident was slight, but it brought a

new and disturbing element into their relation. Indeed, in that one

little moment they ceased to remain boy and girl in their attitude

toward one another, and became man and woman. They met often enough on

the old terms of frankness and intimacy, but sex interest and suspicion

always lurked in the background, ready to burst out and break up things

at any moment.

The spring wore on; Commencement arrived; James was graduated. Aunt

Miriam, the James Wimbournes and numerous youthful James Wimbournes came

to stay with Aunt Selina and see him graduate. Beatrice was also there

and Harry was of course on hand. He took little part in the graduation

festivities and amused himself chiefly by showing his two eldest male

cousins, Oswald and Jack, the sights of the university and incidentally

making them look forward with a healthy dread to the day when as

freshmen first they would come to Yale.

"This is the swimming-pool," he would tell them; "it doesn't look very

big now, does it? Perhaps not! But it _seems_ pretty big, I can tell

you, when the sophomores dump you in there, in the pitch dark, and tell

you it's half a mile to shore and you've got to swim! And you have to

scramble out as best you can. _They_ won't help you!"

"They don't do that to _every_ freshman, though, do they?" hopefully

inquired Oswald, a nice, plump, yellow-haired, wide-eyed youth of

fourteen or so, the image of his mother.

"Yes, Muffins, indeed they do, every one, whether they can swim or not,"

replied Harry seriously. (Oswald was called Muffins because he was

considered by his playmates to look like one. This reason usually did

not satisfy older people, but after all, they did not know him as well

as those of his own age, and had no kick coming, at all.)

"I say, Harry, it's awfully decent of you to tell us all these things

beforehand, so that we shall be warned when the time comes!" This from

Jack, who was twelve and dark and looked like his father.

"Harold Wimbourne, what on earth have you been telling those children

about Yale College?" was Aunt Cecilia's indignant comment on his powers

of fiction. "Neither of them slept a wink last night, for thinking about

what the sophomores would do to them; and Jack asked me quite seriously

if he thought his father would mind much if he went to Harvard instead,

because he didn't think he could ever swim well enough to live through

his freshman year! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

Harry laughed unfeelingly, and refused to abate one jot of the horrors

of hazing. He even wished it were all true, that these innocent and

happy boys might have to go through with it all, that some one would

ever be miserable in college beside himself. He scarcely spoke to James

during the last few days, though James remained cordial and cheery

enough toward him. But he was unnaturally cordial and forbearing, and

that drove Harry into despair, especially as there was copious reason

why James, under normal conditions, should be neither cordial nor

forbearing. Harry had, a fortnight or so before Commencement, just after

training was broken up, taken part in one of those engagements with the

forces of law and order with which undergraduates are wont to relieve

the monotony of their humdrum existence. First there had been strong

drink, and plenty of it, after which came a period of vague but

delightful irresponsibility, culminating in much broken glass, a clash

with policemen and two or three arrests.

Harry had escaped this latter ignominy, but as his name enjoyed equal

publicity with those of the more unfortunate revelers, it did him little

good. Nothing could possibly be less to the liking of such a person as

James, as Harry realized perfectly at the time. He participated in the

affair neither because he liked strong drink nor because he disliked

policemen, but chiefly with a sort of desperate desire to force James'

hand, to make his brother take him severely to task and end their mutual

coolness in one rousing scene of recrimination and forgiveness.

But no such thing happened; James did not make the slightest reference

to the business! Harry also remained silent on the subject, at first

because of his amazement, then out of obstinacy, and finally because he

was genuinely hurt. If James preferred that they should be strangers to

each other, strangers they should be. Meanwhile James remained silent,

of course, not because he did not take enough interest in his brother,

but because he took too much. He refrained from mentioning the row

because he was afraid that a discussion of it would merely bring on

another quarrel, which he wished of all things to avoid.

So the two brothers bade good-by to each other for the summer in

misunderstanding and mistrust, though their outward behavior was cordial

and brotherly enough. James, who was starting almost immediately for the

West, smiled as he shook the hand of his brother, who was going abroad

for the holidays and said, "Well, so long; look out for yourself and

don't take any wooden money." Harry, also smiling, replied in the same

vein; but the smile died on his lips and the words turned to gall in his

mouth as he thought what a bitter travesty this was of former partings,

when their gaiety was either natural or intended to hide the sorrow of

parting, and not, as now, wholly forced and affected to conceal the

relief that each could not but feel in being far from the other.

CHAPTER XII

AN ACT OF GOD

It was five o'clock in the afternoon and five degrees above zero. It was

also very windy, which made it seem colder to everybody except the

thermometer; and as the thermometer alone exhibited signs of being able

to stand a temperature of twenty or thirty or even forty degrees colder

without suffering disagreeable consequences, that seemed rather unfair.

For the wind, which was blowing not in hysterical gusts but in the calm,

relentless, all-day-and-all-night, forty-to sixty-mile gale that you

only get west of the Great Lakes, _did_ make it colder; there was no

doubt about that. Else why did every one keep out of it as much as

possible; walk on the protected side of the street, seek shelter in

doorways while waiting for trolley cars, and so forth? Of course the

wind made you colder; so much colder that when you were sheltered from

it, if only for a moment, you felt comparatively warm, though it was

still five degrees above zero. Unless, that is, you happened to be

standing over one of those grated openings in the sidewalk that belched

forth their welcome though inexplicable gusts of warm air into the outer

world; if you could get a place over one of those--gee, but you were the

lucky guy!

That was the way you phrased it, at any rate, if you happened to be

twelve years old and a newsboy with an income of--well, say thirty

dollars a year, if that sounds sufficiently insufficient to provide

anything approaching decent clothes, decent food and a decent place to

live. If not, make it as little as you like. The point is that the

annual income of a certain ten-year-old newsboy, by name of Stodger

McClintock, was preeminently, magnificently insufficient to provide any

of those commodities. As a consequence of which, Stodger was cold. As

another consequence of which Stodger, the gay, the debonair, the

unemotional, the anything but tearfully inclined, was very nearly in

tears. People do actually suffer from the cold occasionally, even in

this effete and over-protected age, and Stodger was suffering. The

volcanic opening was all very well, but he could not stay there long.

And the prospects for the night were bad, and bad even for supper....

There were tears in James' eyes also as he hurried along from work, but

they were entirely due to the wind. As soon as he perceived Stodger,

however, who dashed out at him with the customary "Here's yer paper,

mister!" at an unexpected place in the side street instead of at the

corner as per custom, he realized that his (Stodger's) tears were not

entirely due to the wind.

"Well, Stodger! What are you doing down here?" he cried cheerfully.

"Trine t' git woim." Stodger's diction at best was imperfect and it was

now further impeded by a certain nasal fluency, the joint result of the

cold and contemplation of domestic imperfections. But James understood,

perfectly well.

"Well, Stodger, it is cold, I'll have to grant you that!" he rejoined,

and instituted fumbling operations into the pocket where he kept his

loose silver. "Give me a _Star_ and a _Sun_ and a _Mercury_, too, will

you? This is no time for economy; the announcement of the all-American

football team is out to-night. Give me one of every paper you have!"

Pecuniary transaction ensued, parallel with conversation.

"And how do _you_ like this weather, Stodger?"

"Me? Oh, _I_ don't mind."

"Don't you? Well, I do, I'm afraid. This is just a little too cold for

my pleasure. But then I'm not a husk, like you."

"Well--" there was concession in Stodger's voice--"it's loike this. Some

guys minds it, 'n' then they don't like t' unbutton their coats 'n' fork

out a penny fer a paper. 'N' that makes bum bizniss. See?" Print is

miserably inadequate to give an idea of Stodger's consonants.

"I see. Stodger, did you ever hear of an act of God?"

"Huh?"

"Well, never mind. A cold snap like this is an act of God. Some natural

cataclysm, something that can't be prevented or even foreseen. Well,

sir, opposed as I am to indiscriminate giving, I'm going to break a rule

this time. All bets are off when an act of God comes along. Here's half

a dollar. Can you get something to eat and keep yourself warm over night

with that?"

"Sure I kin." Stodger grinned broadly for a second or two; then his face

clouded. "Aw, naw. Not off you. I couldn't take that off you." He meant

that only fools gave away money, and he did not want to put James in

that category.

"Why not?" James' smile, his unruffled good-humor, had their effect.

Surely a god that smiled and looked like that could not be quite a fool,

even if he gave away money. "Now stop your guff; take the cash and cut

along. So long!... That was my trolley, dash it; you and your confounded

scruples have made me miss my car, Stodger!... Well, let's take a look

at the all-American football team. Stoddard of Harvard, Brown of the

Army, Steele of Michigan...." He ran his eye down the list till

interrupted by a sharp exclamation from his friend.

"Gee, but he's a bum choice!"

"Who?"

"Steele."

"Steele? Oh, I'm not so sure. He's death on running back punts...."

"Aw, he _is_ not! I tell yer, he couldn't hang onto a punt if 'twas

handed to him on flypaper by a dago in a dress suit, let alone run with

it! My ole gran'mudder c'n run better'n him, any day!" Domestic troubles

being for the nonce in abeyance Stodger was in a mood to let his tongue

run free on a favorite topic.

"Well, we'll have to put your grandmother in at all-America left half

next year." Stodger knew as well as anybody when he was being laughed

at, and held his peace. "I didn't know you were such a football fan,

Stodger."

"Aw, yes. I'm some fan." This without enthusiasm, in the bored tone in

which one agrees to the statement of a self-evident fact.

"Well, I wonder. Stodger, do you think you could recognize any

all-America player if you saw him on the street, in ordinary togs?"

"Sure I could."

"How many years back?"

"T'ree years ... oh, more; four, five years, mebbe!"

"Well, I'm afraid you lose, Stodger!"

"Aw, gwawn! Try me an' see!"

"You've lost already, I tell you. You've been talking to an all-America

player for the last ten minutes and never knew it!"

"Aw, wotcha trine t' hand me! Run along 'n' tell it to the cop on the

corner! Tell it to me gran'mudder, if you like; _she_'ll believe yer!

You can't slip one like that on _me_, I tell yer!" Stodger's contempt

was magnificent, but he rather marred the effect of it by adding

suspiciously "Wotcheer?" which amounted to a confession that he might be

wrong, after all.

"Two years ago. Take a good look now, Stodger; see if you can't

recognize me." James turned so that the sunset glow fell more strongly

on his face. Stodger looked with all his eyes, but remained unconvinced.

"Line, er back?" he inquired.

"Back."

"I gotcha now! Wimboine! Wimboine! Right half! Yale!" But experience had

taught him that such dreams usually fade, and he went on, disappointed:

"Aw, naw. Can't slip _that_ on me. You're not that Wimboine. You look a

little bit like him, but you're not _that_ Wimboine. Brudder, p'raps.

_You're_ no football player."

"Why not?"

"Too thin. _You_ c'd never tear through the line th' way _that_ feller

did."

"Oh, rot; we'll end this, here and now." James fumbled at length beneath

his fur coat and produced the end of a watch-chain on which dangled a

little gold football with his name, that of his college and the date of

his achievement on it. Stodger, convinced, simply stared. It was as

though Jupiter had stepped right down from Olympus. James, with a smile

at his consternation, resumed his paper for the last minute or two

before his car arrived.

"Say, mister! Mister Wimboine! You got my tail twisted that time, all

right! I'm a goat, I'm a simp, I'm a boob! You got my number! Call me

wotch like!"

"All right, Stodger, I will." James spoke and smiled through his

reading. He had almost ceased to think of Stodger, who was more

entertaining when incredulous, and was reading merely to kill time till

his car arrived. Stodger's tongue was still wagging:--

"Say, dey was a guy useter live down Chicago called Schmidt--Slugger

Schmidt, that was a cracker jack--middle-weight--ever hear of him? I

knew him, oncet ... he had a little practise bout wid Riley th' other

night--you know, Hurrican Riley?--and laid him out in t'ree roun's....

Say, mister, there goes yer car! That's the Poik Street car went!"

"What? Oh, did it? Never mind; I'm going to walk." James was off; off

almost before the words were out of his mouth, and Stodger, struck by

the sudden curtness of his tone was afraid he had outraged the feelings

of the god. Mister Wimboine had clearly been deeply displeased about

something, and Stodger was sure it must have been something more than

the all-America football team.

Of course Stodger was not really responsible for James' displeasure and

his sudden determination to walk the three miles that lay between him

and his club and dinner, any more than was the composition of the

all-America football team. It was something much more serious; something

that made bodily exercise imperative lest cerebration around and around

one little particular point should make him dizzy. For it was a very

small thing that cerebration was busy on, even if it did represent a

great deal to James; only a tiny paragraph at the bottom of the first

page of one of the evening papers. The single headline had first caught

his eye:--"Rates Heartache at $40,000," and then with unbelieving eyes

he read on: "New Haven, Conn., Dec. 8. Myrtle Mowbray, a manicure living

in this city, has filed a suit of breach of promise of marriage for

$40,000 in the Superior Court here against Harold Wimbourne, a student

in Yale University. Mr. Wimbourne is a member of an old and prominent

New Haven family. He is a senior in the academic department."

A sort of mental and emotional nausea overcame James as the meaning of

those lines sank into his brain. The vulgar, degrading cynicism of the

headline! Breach of promise, scandal, newspaper publicity--that was the

sort of thing that happened to other people, not to one's self. Such

things simply did not occur in families one knew, much less in families

by the name of Wimbourne. James had always thought of that name as

apart, aloof from such things, exempt from all undesirable publicity.

His family pride was none the less strong for being so unconscious, so

dormant; now that it was outraged it flamed forth in a scorching blaze.

So loathing gave way to anger, and anger lasted a full mile and a half.

It would have lasted longer if it had been concentrated on one person or

thing, instead of directed against several persons, several things,

several sets of circumstances, the order of things in general. For James

was not angry at Harry alone; even he realized that before the mile and

a half were up. He was angry at him at first, but that soon passed off

somewhat; his anger seemed even to be seeking other objects,

unconsciously--the Mowbray woman, Uncle James, himself, Yale University,

the whole nature of man.

But cerebration had a chance to get in a good deal of its fell work

during those three miles. As he swung open the front door of the club

and passed into the main lobby, with its teeming confusion of electric

lights and bellboys, he was conscious of nothing but a quiet, deep,

corroding disgust that seemed to be as old as all time. It seemed as if

he had known of this disgrace for years; had almost had time to outlive

it, in fact. His first impulse was to go into the bar and annex himself

to one of the cheerful groups that would be congregating there at this

hour, and turn his mind to something else. But almost immediately he

remembered that practically every one there would also have read the

evening paper, and he shuddered at the thought of their pitying glances.

Automatically following his daily custom he cheeked his coat and hat at

the cloak room and collected his mail from his post-box. Then he went

straight to the one room in the club where he thought he was likely to

be alone; a small reading-room usually popular in the afternoon but

deserted by early evening. He found it empty, as he had expected. With a

sigh of relief he turned out all the electric lights and threw himself

on a couch in front of the open wood fire--a graceful though unnecessary

compliment on the part of the club management to meteorological

conditions.

But unluckily his glance fell on the unopened letters he still held in

his hand, and immediately his trouble was on him again. One of them he

recognized as coming from his Uncle James and the other, bearing the

post-mark of New Haven, was from Beatrice. With a slight groan of

combined resignation and disgust he tore open his uncle's letter and

read it by the flickering light of the fire.

Dear James:

Your young brother has made more of a mess of it than we hoped

would be the case. The Mowbray woman has brought suit for

$40,000, and is likely to get it, or a good part of it,

according to Raynham, whom I saw about the business yesterday.

She has letters and a spoken promise in the presence of

witnesses. We have nothing except the knowledge that Harry was

drunk when he wrote the letters and drunk when he spoke the

words, which is not much comfort. Still, Raynham thinks she can

be made to settle out of court, especially if we take our time.

We have got to show her first that the world will not come to

an end because a Wimbourne has been mixed up with a

woman--which it won't. It will be a matter, Raynham thinks, of

$15,000 at least; probably more.

What is going to become of the boy? Have you any influence

over him? If not, who has? It is about time somebody exerted

some on him, other than bad. He has much to fight against.

"Your aunt sends her love. Your affect. uncle,

JAMES WIMBOURNE.

In spite of his fatigue and his disgust, James smiled as he finished the

letter. It was so characteristic of Uncle James; the most conventional

sentences, the ones that seemed to mean least, really meant the most.

"Your aunt sends her love"; only a person who knew Uncle James could

appreciate the consciously suppressed humor of that phrase. As if Aunt

Cecilia were not in such a vortex of conflicting emotions over the

affair that such a conventional message would not be as far from her as

Bagdad! "He has much to fight against"; Harry had much to fight against;

Uncle James knew what, and he knew that James also knew. Connotative

meanings like these more than atoned for the unflinching frankness of

certain other phrases.

On the whole, James felt better for having read the letter, and opened

Beatrice's with a lighter heart.

Dear James; (he read)

Jack Trotwood has just been here and told me that that

unspeakable woman is actually going to sue Harry for breach of

promise. I tried to get him to tell more, but he said that

that was all he had been able to get out of Harry. It's too

awful! You can imagine what a time I've been through, seeing

him at least once a week and not being able to say a word about

the whole business. I've had to depend on Jack Trotwood for all

my information, and naturally he hasn't wanted to say much. Do

you mean to say Harry hasn't written you all this term? I

cannot understand it at all.

Aunt Selina seems quite cut up about it, and wishes you were

here. 'Tell James to come,' she said when I told her I would

write you. I must confess, though, that I don't see what good

you could do--now. Of course, terrible as this suit is, it does

relieve things in one way, at least. Once we're quite sure it's

merely money she's after, it doesn't seem quite so bad. I even

think it is better now than it was early in the autumn, when we

thought he was actually fond of her.

There is no other news to give you; as you can imagine, we

have not been thinking of much else. Poor Harry, how sorry I am

for him! How much I wish I could help him, and how little I can

do!

As ever yours,

BEATRICE.

This letter was less comforting than the other. Beatrice's words seemed

to James to carry a veiled reproach with them; to implicate him much

more closely in Harry's disgrace than he had as yet thought of

implicating himself. "I don't see what good you could do--now;" "better

now than it was in the early autumn--" such sentences could not but have

their sting for the sensitive mind, and James was sensitive when Harry

was concerned, and even more so when Beatrice was.

Had he been negligent in regard to Harry? Oh, yes, he was perfectly

willing to admit that he had, now that he came to think it over, though

he would rather have had anybody other than Beatrice point out the fact

to him--and that, doubtless, was because a comment from Beatrice would

have twice the force of the same comment uttered by any one else. He had

never really put himself out for Harry in any way, since the days when

England seemed too far for him to venture to discover what the years

were making of him. In the critical period of his senior and Harry's

sophomore year he had shown himself entirely incapable of giving the

friendship and sympathy and guidance that were needed. Jack Trotwood,

and not he himself, had been Harry's best friend, in every sense of the

phrase, for three years and more. And after graduation, he had come to

Minneapolis.

Then this degrading affair with the manicure. James had heard of that

first through Beatrice, for Harry's letters, which had arrived at

regular, though rather long, intervals, had ceased abruptly in

September, at the beginning of the college year. That had been almost a

relief to James. Harry's letters had been calculated to widen rather

than bridge the gulf between them. They had been amusing and always

cleverly written. A letter written on the previous Tap Day, dated

conspicuously "Thursday, May 18, 7 P.M." (two hours after Harry had

failed to receive an election to any senior society) had been a perfect

masterpiece of omission. It ran pleasantly along on the weather, the

outward appearance of the university, sundry little incidents

of no importance or interest, the economic condition of the

country--everything except Tap Day, himself, anything that would

interest James. This letter had irritated James beyond all expression,

yet at the same time he admired it for what it was worth, and hated

himself for admiring it.

And so, as he was obliged to learn from other sources of Harry's missing

a senior society, so he was dependent on others for all his information

_in re_ Myrtle Mowbray. In October Beatrice had written him that Harry

had been seen much in the society of the woman, who conducted her

business in connection with a barber shop situated conveniently for the

patronage of the student body. Jack Trotwood had also written, somewhat

timidly, to the same effect, evidently much perplexed about where his

truest duty to Harry lay. Apparently there had been motor parties to

neighboring country inns, more or less conspicuous carryings-on in

restaurants about town, and so forth. Such tidings became more and more

acute for a month, and then ceased. There was reason for hoping that the

nonsense was all over. Then the thunderbolt of to-day.

James had not really been much worried, before to-day. He had caught a

glimpse of "the Mowbray woman," as he always thought of her, one day in

the previous June, while in New Haven for Commencement. He had been

strolling along Chapel Street with a group of classmates, and one of

them called his attention to a female form emerging from a shop door,

giving in a discreet undertone a brief explanation of her celebrity,

ending with a vivid word of commendation--"Some fluff." James looked,

and saw a pretty face. It had been but a fraction of a second, and the

face was turned away from him; but it was enough to leave quite a

lasting impression on his mind--an impression that had not been without

its effect on his reception of the news of Harry's infatuation. A pretty

face! Well, when all was said and done, Harry had not been the first man

of his acquaintance to become enamored of a pretty face--and get over

it. He did not approve of the alleged infatuation; the thought of it

gave him considerable uneasiness. But, helped out by the impression, his

optimistic temperament had battled with the uneasiness and in the end

overcome it; prevented it, certainly, from growing into anything like

anxiety, anything that would necessitate drastic and disturbing

measures, such as pulling up stakes, for instance, and hurrying New

Haven-ward.... Oh, how loathsomely lazy and indifferent he had been, now

that he looked back on it all!

A pretty face! The memory of it was still sharply out-lined on the back

of James' brain and drove introspection and self-recrimination into

momentary abeyance. A clear, slightly olive complexion, rising to a

faint pink on the cheeks--artificial? Not as he remembered it; there was

no suggestion of the chorus-girl--sharply-drawn eyebrows and dark hair.

Above, a hat of some sort; below, a suit, preferably of dark blue serge.

The impression had been recurrent in James' mind during these past

months; not soon after it was received, in the summer; since then. There

was something irritating and tantalizing about this circumstance; it was

as though the impression had been strengthened by a second view. Where

had he seen that face again, if at all? Yes, he had seen it, somewhere;

he was almost certain of it. He was absolutely certain of it; he could

remember everything--except the time and place. Which after all were

important adjuncts to definite recollection--! No, he would not laugh

himself out of it; he was sure. He would remember all about it some time

when he least expected it.

He left it at that, and listlessly lay at full length watching the fire

and allowing his thoughts to wander from the all-absorbing topic and its

octopus-like ramifications. The fire was fascinating to watch; he loved

open fires and wished they would have one in this room every evening. It

would be almost like a home to come back to, after work. It was

particularly pleasant to watch, like this, in an otherwise dark room, as

it cast its intermittent flare on the walls and furniture. It brought

out the rich warm tones in the brown leather of the chairs and the oak

of the wainscot, and picked out small particles of gilt here and there

in the ceiling decoration, and set them twinkling back in a cheerful,

drowsy way. From the dim outside world beyond the open door came

occasional sounds of club life; the distant clatter of crockery, the

swish of a passing elevator, a voice finding fault with a club servant.

James listened to them at first, in a half-amused, idle sort of way;

then gradually they faded from his consciousness and he was aware of

nothing but the fire and its flickering yellow light.

He watched the fire intently, absorbedly, with the lazy concentration

with which a tired brain often fastens itself on some physical object,

as though to crowd out other thoughts clamoring for admittance. The fire

was beginning to burn low now, with flames that never rose more than a

few inches above the logs. Every few moments a small quantity of

half-burnt wood dropped off and fell to the glowing bed of coals

beneath, and the flames broke out afresh in the place it fell from.

James watched this process with a growing sense of expectancy; he seemed

to be always waiting, waiting for the next fall; yet when the next fall

came he was still waiting.... Was it only the fall of the coals that he

was waiting for? It must be something else, something that had nothing

to do with the fire at all; something much more important; something

that he longed not to have come, yet, and at the same time wished were

over.... He seemed now not to be lying at full length, but sitting on

the broad arm of a chair. The fire-light's glow fell no longer on

leather and oak, but on old flowered chintz and mahogany.... Now he was

sitting no longer; he was bending over--bending low over something

white; turning his ear so as to catch certain words that some one was

uttering in a whisper; words that were indelibly burnt on his brain;

words that were as inseparable from his being as life....

Then in an instant the room, the fire, everything vanished; and in their

place, filling his whole consciousness--that face! He knew it perfectly

now, exactly when, where, all about it; no room for mistake or doubt any

more! He started upright on the couch; his whole world seemed suddenly

illumined by a blinding flash of light. In another instant he was aware

that somebody had turned on the electric light, and of a face staring

quizzically into his. He heard a voice.

"Hello, you all alone in here, Wimbourne? You must be fond of the

dark!--What are you looking so all-fired pleased about, I wonder?"

"Oh--Laffan! How are you?... Nothing much; I just thought of something,

that's all."

"Congratulations on your thoughts. I'm looking for some one to dine

with; I suppose you've eaten? It's late--"

"Whew--nearly eight! No, I've not eaten; shall we go up together?"

They started to leave the room, but James stopped abruptly in the

doorway, suddenly practical, master of himself, of the whole situation.

"I say, Laffan, you're a lawyer, aren't you?"

"I attempt to be."

"Well, I want to consult you, professionally, if you'll let me. Consider

me a client! Now, what I want to know is this; suppose a--"

"Oh, rot, man--not on an empty stomach! Come along upstairs; you can

tell me all about it while you eat!"

CHAPTER XIII

SARDOU

About a week later James went to the head of his firm, the classmate's

father who had offered him his position, and asked for a few days' leave

of absence.

"Why didn't you go to Smith?" said his employer, naming the head of the

department in which James was working.

"I didn't think he'd let me off without your leave, sir."

"Hm.... You must go, must you?"

"I'm afraid I must. Indeed, I'm bound to say, sir, that I shall go,

leave or no leave."

"Hm. Well, you can go; but if you take more than half a week it'll have

to come off your annual vacation."

"Thank you, sir, I shan't need more than that," said James and the

interview was closed. No word was spoken of the reason for James'

departure. Jonathan McClellan, founder and owner of the McClellan

Automobile Company, knew a thing or two beside how to run an automobile

business. He also read the papers.

That was on a Thursday. In the course of the evening James conducted an

interview with his friend Laffan and at midnight or thereabouts he took

train for Chicago. He proceeded next day to New York, and thence, on

Saturday, to New Haven, arriving there early in the afternoon.

He went straight from the station to the law offices of Messrs. Raynham

and Rummidge and remained there upwards of half an hour. Every sign of

satisfaction was visible on his face as he emerged, but Raynham, who

escorted him to the outer door, seemed not nearly so well pleased.

"I wish you'd change your mind, even now, and leave it to us," he said,

just loud enough for the stenographer in the outer office not to hear.

"Plain enough sailing, now," replied James, smiling encouragingly. "I

don't think you need to worry."

"Well, if you get into trouble, don't lose your head or your temper, or

try to bluff. Just say you'll leave the rest to your lawyers, and get

out!"

James proceeded up Chapel Street in excellent spirits. A light snow was

falling, melting on the pavements but covering the grassy expanse of the

Green with a soft white blanket, and bringing each gaunt black branch of

the elm trees into strong relief. James walked on the Green side of the

street, so as to avoid the greetings of possible acquaintances, and kept

his eyes on the broad square. He noticed that some elm trees had been

clipped and others felled since he had last been in town; he was sorry

to see them go and wished the authorities could find some way of

preserving them better....

He walked unhesitatingly into the shop and, disregarding the obsequious

gestures of the line of barbers, went straight to the very end, where he

knew he would find her, with her glass-topped table and her instruments

and her disgusting little basin.... She was there, but a broad black

back obtruded itself in front of her.

"One moment," she said, looking up and smiling.

James retreated a few steps to a row of chairs placed there for the use

of the expectant. He sat down, and cursed himself for a fool. What

business had he here? Why hadn't he left it all to Raynham, like a

sensible person? He knew he would mess it all now, in spite of

everything; he remembered stories of commanders who had been ousted out

of impregnable positions by the mere confident attitude of their

opponents. It was her appearance, her manner, her faultless smile, that

unnerved him. It was, as he mentally phrased it to himself, because she

looked "so damned refined." Never had he dreamed it would be as bad as

this.

The black back shuffled inchoately out of his vision; his moment had

come. He walked forward.

"You are Miss Mowbray, are you not?" he asked, speaking slowly and

steadying his voice with difficulty.

"Yes?"

"My name is Wimbourne. I think you know my brother.... I would like to

talk to you, if I might. When will you be at liberty?"

"Why shouldn't we talk right here?" she said cheerfully. "If you'll sit

down there.... You had better let me tend to your nails--they need it."

"Very well." James sat down. He felt his courage returning; her

self-possession stimulated him. Not one shadow of a change of expression

had passed over her face when he told her he was Harry's brother; her

manner remained the perfection of professional cordiality. Well, if she

could show nerve, he could, too.

She filled her bowl with warm water and arranged her instruments with

perfect composure. When she was ready James surrendered his right hand.

"Miss Mowbray," he began at length, "as I understand the matter, you are

suing my brother for breach of promise. Is that right?"

"It is."

"Well, I'm sorry. It's a bad business. Bad for you as well as for him,

because you can't possibly win. Now, Miss Mowbray, I will be frank with

you. You are not going to get that forty thousand dollars--your suit

will not even get into court. I know that, but I don't want to have to

go into the reasons why. I don't want scenes, I hate them; I want to

make this interview as easy and as short as possible, so I will open it

with an offer. I will give you five hundred dollars if you will agree to

withdraw your suit and clear out of town, within a week. Do you accept?"

"I do not." Her smile was more than cordial now, there was pity in it.

"Why do you suppose I took the trouble to sue for forty thousand

dollars, if I would be content with five hundred, Mr. Wimbourne?"

"Oh, must we go into arguments? Why can't you simply take my word for it

that your suit is impossible, and close with me? Five hundred

dollars--think what it means! It would pay all your costs and leave you

enough to start in with somewhere else."

"The sum is just eighty times too small."

"You won't, then? Think it over a little! I'll leave the offer open for

five minutes; you needn't answer definitely till then."

James was thoroughly sure of himself and at ease now; he smiled to

himself with a certain grim pleasure at his little touch of melodrama,

reminiscent of--what? Sardou? A common trick, of course, but never

without its effect. He ceased thinking about it, and watched the clock.

Presently he was aware that his companion, always busy with her scraping

and cleaning and rubbing, was speaking in a low, calm voice.

"No, Mr. Wimbourne, I am not quite the fool you take me for, I'm afraid.

You may not know it, but your brother has treated me very badly. He

deserves to be punished. A man cannot make a fool of a woman, as he has

of me, and get off scot free. There is such a thing as law and justice

for those that are abused, and I have been abused. I should be very

silly now if I did not go on and take all that is coming to me. I shall

only be taking my right, Mr. Wimbourne; remember that. Fun is all very

well if it is innocent fun; but when it hurts other people it has to be

paid for."

"The five minutes are up," said James; "but I will willingly extend the

time if there is any chance of your reconsidering. What do you think?"

No answer. James watched her calm face, with its pleasing and

well-chiseled features, enlivened now by only the merest suggestion of a

smile that was not really there, but still seemed latent, ready for

instant use if called upon. About the mouth hung a shade of impatience,

of obstinacy; anything else? No, assuredly no, search as he would. She

was extraordinary!

"Oh, dear," he said with a gentle sigh, "you will go in for all the

unpleasantness, I'm afraid.... Miss Mowbray, you have no right to sue my

brother for breach of promise. You have been acting under false

pretenses to him from the first. You were married to a man called Edward

Jennings, in the city of Minneapolis, on the 3rd of last September."

"You have proofs, no doubt?" The tone was sharp and defiant, the smile

scornful and satirical, but she did blench--no doubt of it. James' heart

leaped within him.

"Oh, yes--lots, right here in my breast pocket. Tiresome things, but

lawyers love them. If you will release my right hand for a moment--" He

chose to smile ingratiatingly at her, and it gave him a little thrill of

revenge to observe how obviously forced her answering smile was. She was

not proof against her own weapons. But his triumph faded almost

immediately, and pity took its place. Poor thing, what a ridiculous game

she had been playing! How could it possibly succeed? Could she not have

known that some one who knew of her marriage would be sure to turn up at

the wrong moment and spoil the whole affair? She looked so small, so

defenseless, so crumpled as she sat there, waiting for him to produce

his proofs; surely she was never made for this sort of a career! Then

her smiles of a little while ago came back to him, and he reflected that

perhaps she was, after all.

"First, here is a little history of your career. You were born in

Minneapolis, June 16, 188-. At the age of sixteen you went to New York

City, where you entered the theatrical profession. For some years you

were on the vaudeville stage, playing occasionally in New York, but

mostly on the road. Your stage name was Rosa Montagu. You left the

profession about three years ago, and have been engaged in this place as

manicure for a little less than two years. You resumed the name of

Myrtle Mowbray, which as far as I can make out is your own, on leaving

the stage, but you were married, last September, under your stage name.

Here is a copy of your marriage lines, sworn to by the Minneapolis

License Bureau. Here is a photograph of you as Rosa Montagu...."

"Suppose you let me finish manicuring your hands, Mr. Wimbourne." James

replaced the papers in his pocket and his hand on the glass-topped

table, and professional duties were resumed. They continued in silence

for some time; neither party really had much to say now. It occurred to

James that even now she might be trying to take him in by her

indifference, to "bluff" him; but a careful study of her face dispelled

the idea. He admired her nerve now no less than before.

"Are you satisfied, Miss Mowbray?" he asked at length.

"No. I'm beaten, though." James liked the reply immensely; liked, also,

the manner in which it was given--hardly betraying anything more than

good-humored disgust.

"When can I see you again to-day or to-morrow?" he asked again after a

short pause. "There will be papers to sign, and that sort of thing."

"Is it possible that Mr. Raynham sent you out without a written

statement for me to sign in your pocket?" she rejoined, looking

fearlessly up at him.

"No--that is--yes, he did." Of course he had not, but James was already

planning a little _coup_ of his own not included in Mr. Raynham's

arrangements.

"Well, could you come back here this evening? Toward ten? We close then,

on Saturdays."

"Very well."

Both were silent for some time. At last, when the manicuring was almost

completed, James said with a sudden burst of friendly curiosity:

"Honestly, Miss Mowbray, why did you do it? Get married to him first, I

mean."

She looked coldly up at him. "I really don't see why I should answer

that question, Mr. Wimbourne."

"Of course not. There's not the slightest reason why you should answer

it, if you don't want to."

She was not proof against his candor or his smile. She smiled back, in

spite of herself, without rancor or affectation.

"I have an idea that you are quite an unusual young man, Mr. Wimbourne.

You are, without doubt, the worst enemy I have in the world, and yet you

give me the impression of being a friend. I think I like you better than

your brother."

James made no reply to this, but only reddened slightly, and she went

on:

"I married him because I lacked the courage not to. I was afraid to burn

my bridges behind me. He had been wanting me to for a long time, and at

the last he became very impatient.... It was the only way I could keep

him, and I dared not let him go. Things had not been going well here....

So I went back and married him, on condition that it was to be kept an

absolute secret. I was determined to come out here and try my luck for

one more year.... Of course I was very sorry that I did it, this fall.

But I determined to go through with ... the business, for there was a

big prize at stake."

"And you never knew he had a brother in Minneapolis?"

"No--he simply told me he had an elder brother in the West. I had no

suspicion of anything; it seemed perfectly safe. How did you find out,

anyway, if I may ask?"

"I happened to see you--perhaps a minute after you were married, coming

out of the marriage license office, with a man. Compromising! You had

been pointed out to me before, here, so I knew what you looked like. But

what made you so keen to go through with--with the business? You don't

look like that kind, somehow...."

She gave the last finishing touch to his hand and started to gather up

her belongings before replying. "You don't know what it is not to have

plenty of money, Mr. Wimbourne, or you would not ask that question. You

don't know what it is to watch other people sailing by in sixty

horsepower limousines and realize that you would look every bit as well

there as any of them, and better than most, and to realize, above all,

that you could make so much more out of your wealth than most of them. I

am under no delusions about myself; I know perfectly well that I'm not a

manicure type. I have brains, I have good looks, I have social

possibilities. Only, I happened to be born without money or social

position, and the handicap is too great.... Well, it's all up now.

There's no hope for anything better now."

The tone in which she spoke these words was so perfectly quiet and

resigned, so utterly lacking in vulgar desire to advertise her woes,

that James felt deeply moved. He could not think of anything to say to

reassure or encourage her. Presently he blurted out, desperately:

"You've got a good husband in Edward Jennings, anyway. He's a good chap,

according to all accounts...."

She smiled, deprecatorily. "He's a nice boy. But he'll never make any

money."

James made up an excuse to consult Mr. Raynham again, and after that

walked the snow-covered streets till dinner time. His first impulse was

to look up Harry, but he discarded the idea; he would not see him, Aunt

Selina, any one, till his task was done, every detail completed. He

dined alone in an obscure restaurant and with some difficulty succeeded

in frittering away the time till ten o'clock, at which hour he returned

to the barber shop on Chapel Street.

He proceeded at once to business, taking out two papers which he gave to

Miss Mowbray to sign. She read and signed without comment. When she had

finished he said: "Would you mind delivering this for me?" and handed

her an unsealed envelope bearing the simple superscription "Mr. Edward

Jennings."

Miss Mowbray fingered the envelope indecisively a moment; then she

opened it and took out the contents.

She rose from her seat and glanced apprehensively at James. "I

can't--we--thank you, but I simply can't accept this," she whispered.

"Nobody asked you to do anything, except deliver the letter," replied

James cheerfully. "I'd like to know what business you have opening

other people's letters, anyway. It isn't nice.--Wedding present, you

know," he went on, with a change of voice; "I'm rather hoping to have

the honor of giving you your first. Please try to make him accept it

from me, won't you? Good-by!"

He shook her hand quickly and was actually off before she had time to

offer another word of objection.

He made his way straight across the snowy street to Harry's rooms in

Vanderbilt Hall. There was no answer to his knock, but the door yielded

to a turn of the knob--how like Harry to leave it unlocked! The room was

dark and empty, but he went in and found the embers of a fire dying on

the hearth. He threw off his hat and overcoat, struck a light and looked

about for materials with which to rebuild the fire.

In a few minutes the logs were blazing merrily before him. He turned out

the gas, drew up an armchair and sat down in front of the fire to wait

for Harry.

CHAPTER XIV

UN-ANGLO-SAXON

He came in before long, stamping the snow from his boots. In the second

or two that passed before he spoke, James saw that though he looked

haggard and depressed, there was no trace of weakness of dissipation

about his eyes or mouth. Nor did he slink; he blundered in with the

impetuosity of a schoolboy for whom the world has no terrors. For which,

though he was shocked to see how badly he looked, James was profoundly

thankful.

He was aware of Harry's eyes trying to pierce the half-gloom; there was

a touch of pathos, to James, in his momentary bewilderment.

"Hullo, Harry," he said gently.

"James!" The immediate, unconscious look of delight that came over

Harry's face--even though it faded to something else within the

second--pleased James more than anything had pleased him yet. Harry was

glad to see him; that mattered much more than his almost instant

recovery of his self-possession, his continuing, in the manner of the

Harry of two years ago, the Harry of the previous Commencement:

"Whatever are you doing here now, James?"

"I've got good news for you, Harry," he replied, rising and taking hold

of the other's hand. "The Mowbray woman has withdrawn her suit. It's all

right; she's signed things, and you have no more to fear from her." He

dropped Harry's hand and moved off a step, as though to give him a

chance to take in the news.

There was something rather fine in the simplicity, the humility, even of

his manner as he did this, that did not escape Harry. He was deeply

moved; self-possession and all it implied fell from him again.

"James, have you done this? What has happened? Tell me all about it! You

haven't paid her all that money, James--don't tell me you've done that!"

"No, of course I haven't--there was no need for it. She was married out

in Minneapolis last September, and I happened to get onto the

fact--that's all. She had no business to be suing at all."

"And you--"

"I came here and told her so, to-day."

James sat down again where he had been sitting, as though to close the

incident. Harry stood and gasped; he tried to speak but could not; his

eyes filled with tears. Then he dropped at James' feet, clasping his

knees in the manner of a suppliant of old. He buried his face in James'

lap and gave a few deep sobs of joy and relief.

The Anglo-Saxon race being what it is, a good deal of courage is needed

to go on with the relation of what occurred next. However, there is no

help for it; history is history, and we can only tell it as it actually

occurred, regardless of whether the undemonstrative are outraged or not.

After Harry had thrown himself at his feet James took his brother's head

gently between his hands, and then, with the greatest simplicity and

naturalness in the world, bent forward and kissed it.

"Poor old thing," he said softly; "you have been having sort of a hard

time of it, haven't you?"

* * * * *

"I wish you would tell me, James," said Harry somewhat later, as they

sat gazing into the fire, James in the armchair and Harry on the floor,

leaning back against James' legs, "I wish you would tell me just how you

found out about her being married, and all about it. It seems so

incredible--both that she should have been married and that you, of all

people, should have been on the spot to discover it."

"Well, I just saw her, coming out of the marriage office with a man;

that was all there was to it. I thought she probably wouldn't have been

there unless she had just been married to him, so I had the register

looked up, and there she was. She was under the name of Rosa

Montagu--that gave us some trouble at first, because of course I didn't

know that was her stage name. I put a fellow called Laffan, a young

lawyer, onto the business, and he messed about with the register and the

detective bureau and communicated with Raynham till he wormed it all

out. Finally he got hold of a photograph of Rosa Montagu and showed it

to me, and after that it was easy enough--Of course, it was a most

God-given chance that I stumbled on her just at that compromising

moment. She really wasn't as foolish as she sounds; she hadn't lived in

Minneapolis for years and knew almost nobody there except her young man.

It was a long chance, what with using her stage name and all, that any

one would ever find her out."

"Yes. But I don't quite see--You say she was married in September?"

"Yes--the third."

"Well, if you knew she was married then, I don't quite see why you

didn't make use of your knowledge before. When I was playing round with

her, I mean--of course I, like the brazen idiot I was, didn't write you,

but you must have heard--"

"Oh, yes. Well, it was a very funny thing. I didn't remember about

having seen her in that place till months afterward; not till the night

I heard about the breach of promise business. You see, it was only the

barest, vaguest glimpse, there in the City Hall; she didn't even see me

and I didn't even remember where I had seen her face before, then. I

scarcely thought about it at all, at the time; I was in a great hurry to

get to a hearing before some commission or other, and the thing went

bang out of my mind. Then, when I read of the breach of promise, it all

came back, in one flash! Funny!"

"Yes. It's the kind of humor that appeals to me, I can tell you."

"The man, Jennings, curiously enough, happened to be in McClellan's for

a while, once, in the counting department. He left there to become a

clerk in some bank. We worked up his end too, a little....

"Harry, I wish you'd tell me one thing," went on James, after a pause.

"Anything I can, James."

"Why on earth, when you found you were getting in deep with that woman,

didn't you call on me to do something? You couldn't be so far gone as to

think that I wouldn't--"

"Oh, couldn't I? You have no idea of what depths of idiocy I can descend

to, if I want.--I don't know--at the time, the more I wanted help the

less I could talk of it to any one, and you least of all. The person

that gave me the most comfort was Trotty, and he never once mentioned

the subject to me, except when I introduced it myself! Yet even so, all

through that time, it was you that I really wanted.--Look here, James,

if you don't believe me, see what I've been carrying around with me all

this time, as a sort of talisman!"

He took his wallet from his pocket and after a short search produced an

old and dirty postal card bearing on its face the blurred but still

readable legend "All right. James." He handed it to his brother.

"Gosh," said James, when he had read it, "do you mean to say you've kept

that old thing ever since?"

"Ever since the day I got it. There was something about it that was

comforting and optimistic and--well, like you; and I used to take it out

and look at it occasionally when I got particularly down in the mouth.

And I used to persuade myself, after a while, that it all would come out

right, in the end; that somehow James would make it all right--you see

how the prophecy has come true!... And the extraordinary part of it is

that even while I thought that way about you, I simply couldn't break

the ice and tell you about it all. I don't know why--I just couldn't!"

"I know," said James; "I know the feeling."

"Isn't it incredible, James, that what seemed perfectly natural and

reasonable--inevitable, even--a few weeks, or days, or even an hour ago,

should appear so utterly asinine now!... Pride, vainglory and

hypocrisy--all of them, and a lot more! Sometimes I can't believe it

possible for one person to assemble in himself all the vices that I do."

"Well, you don't, either," said James seriously. "That's one thing I

want to clear up. Harry, don't you see that the blame for all this lies

with me just as much as with you--more than with you--entirely with

me?--"

"No, I don't," began Harry stoutly, but James continued:

"And that the real reason you didn't call on me was because I had

steadily shut myself away from you? Oh, Harry, I've behaved like the

devil during the last three years! It's just as you say; a course of

action you never even question at one time, a little later seems so

silly, so criminally silly, that you can't believe you seriously thought

of following it!... I know perfectly well that a lot of the things I

thought were horribly important a few years ago really aren't worth the

paper they're printed on. The perspective changes so, even with these

two years--less than two years--out of college! Good Lord, if a man is

really the right sort, if he has a good, warm-hearted nature at the

bottom of him, thinks good thoughts, does nice things, uses to the best

of his judgment what gifts and talents Providence is pleased to give

him, what in Heaven's name does it matter whether he manages the crew or

goes Bones, in the end?... I've been a fool, Harry. I've set the

greatest value on the most worthless things; I've worshiped stone gods;

I've let things irritate me that no sane man has any business to be

irritated by. Worst of all, I've let these silly, worthless things come

between you and me and spoil--well, one of the best things that ever

came into my life!... All this estrangement business has been mainly my

fault. I'm older, and have had more experience, and, I always thought,

more common sense--though I haven't really--and I was the one that ought

to have kept things straight. Harry, I'm sorry for it all!"

Harry was more moved than he would have liked to show by this

confession. He was still enough of an undergraduate to be much impressed

by his brother's casual mention of his senior society--the first time

since he had been tapped the name had ever passed James' lips in his

presence.

"It's a pleasure to hear you talk, James," he said, "but I hope you

won't misunderstand me when I say that there's not one word of truth in

all you've said--the last part of it, I mean. It's only convinced me

more thoroughly of my own fault. Before, there might have been a shadow

of doubt in my mind about my being entirely to blame. Now there is

absolutely none.--Funny, that a person you like blaming himself should

really be blaming you! It always seems that way, somehow...."

"James," he went on, a little later; "it makes you feel as if you were

getting on, doesn't it?"

"How? In years?"

"Yes! I don't know about you, but I feel as old as Methusaleh to-night,

and a whole lot wiser! And I must say I rather enjoy it!"

"Yes," said James reflectively, "it does seem a good deal that way."

"There are lots of questions you haven't asked me yet, James," continued

Harry, after another interval.

"Are there? Well, tell me what they are and I'll ask them, if you're so

crazy to answer them."

"The first is, What on earth could you ever have seen in That Woman?"

"There was no need to ask that question," replied James, laughing; "not

after I saw her to-day, at any rate."

"She was so damned refined," sighed Harry. James laughed again at the

coincidence of Harry's hitting on the very words of his own mental

description of her. "I was most horribly depressed, and she looked so

kind and sympathetic, and was, too, when I got to telling her my

woes.... And she never used a particle of rouge, or anything of that

kind.... Once I kissed her, and after that she managed, in that

diabolical refined manner of hers, to convince me that she wouldn't have

any more of that sort of thing without marriage. That made me respect

her all the more, of course, as she knew it would. At one time, for a

whole week, I should say, I was perfectly willing to marry her, whenever

she wanted, and I didn't care whom I said it to, either.... Do you know,

James, she would have been in for the devil of a time if I had gone on

and pressed her to? I wonder what little plans she had for making me

cease to care for her and back out at the right time.... There was no

need for that, though; one day she called me 'kid,' and things like that

before people, and I began to see."

"That was part of her little plan, of course," said James.

"Well, well--I shouldn't wonder if it was! You always were a clever

child, James!..."

"What are some more of the things I've got to ask?" inquired the clever

child after a brief silence.

"What? Oh--yes! Why don't you ask me to cut out the lick?" (He meant,

abstain from alcoholic beverages.)

"Well, do you want me to?"

"Well, yes, I think I do, rather!"

"Well, will you?"

"Well--yes!"

Both laughed, and then Harry went on: "It strikes me that we are both

talking a prodigious lot of nonsense, James. We've been making a regular

scene, in fact--"

"I rather like scenes, myself," interrupted James, just for the pleasure

of their being how he had expressed exactly the opposite opinion to some

one else a few hours before.

"And no doubt we shall be heartily ashamed when we look back on it all

in the cold gray light of to-morrow morning. One always is."

"I don't know," objected James, serious again, "I don't think that I

shall be sorry for anything I've said or done."

"Well, as a matter of strict truth, I don't know that I shall either. I

suppose one needn't necessarily be making a fool of oneself just because

it's twelve o'clock at night; that is--oh, you know what I mean--!"

So they sat and talked on far into the night, loath to break up the

enjoyment of the rediscovery of each other. They both seemed to bask in

a sort of wonderful clarity and peace--do you know these rare times when

life loses its complexity and uncertainty and becomes for the moment

wholly sane and enjoyable and inspiring? When a person is actually able

to live, if only for a little time, entirely in his better self, without

being troubled by even a recollection of his worser? That was,

substantially, the condition of those two boys as they sat there, at

first talking, then thinking, and at last, as drowsiness slowly asserted

itself over them, simply sitting.

"Well," said James at last; "unless you intend taking permanent

possession of my legs, I suppose we'd better go to bed. Am I sleeping

here, somewhere?"

"Yes," said Harry; "in my bed; I shall sleep on the sofa," and he

forthwith embarked on a search for extra sheets and blankets.

They both slept uninterruptedly till nearly ten, at which hour they

sallied forth in search of breakfast. During the night the snow had

changed to rain, which still fell out of a leaden sky, turning the

earth's white covering to dirty gray and clogging the gutters with

slush. Everything looked sordid, prosaic, ugly, especially Chapel

Street, which they crossed on their way to the nearest "dog"; especially

the "dog" itself as they approached it, with its yellow electric lights

still shining out of its windows. It was an unattractive world.

"Well, how does it look this morning?" James asked, studying his

brother's face.

Harry shuffled along several steps through the slush before he answered:

"Just the same, James, and I for one, don't mind saying so." Then they

looked at each other and smiled slightly.

CHAPTER XV

CHIEFLY CARDIAC

Life appeared, nevertheless, to have recovered all its normal complexity

and variety. Things change with the return of daylight, even if they do

not deteriorate, and though the two boys were still, in a manner of

speaking, happy in each other's proximity, the thoughts of each were

already busy on matters in which the other had no direct share. Harry

was already foreseeing unpleasantnesses in the way of the restoration of

cordial relations with the world. Exile has its palliations; he had

taken a sort of grim pleasure in the state of semi-warfare in which he

had lived. But that sort of thing was now over; he wanted to be right

with the whole world--he even looked forward to astonishing people with

the thoroughness of his conservatism. And he would have to make all the

first advances. Thoughts of apologies, unreciprocated nods, suppressed

sneers, incredulous glances and all the rest did not dismay him, but

they might be said to bother him. At least, they were there.

As for James, he had thought so much about Harry during the last ten

days that it is easy to understand why, the affair Harry having been

satisfactorily cleared up, his mind should be busy with other things.

James' control over his mind was singularly perfect and methodical; its

ease of concentration suggested that of an experienced lawyer examining

the contents of several scraps of papers and returning each one again to

its proper pigeon-hole, neatly docketed. The papers bearing the label of

"Harry," neatly tied up in red tape, were again reposing comfortably in

their pigeon-hole; the bundle that now absorbed his attention was marked

"Beatrice."

Outside of his work, to which he had conscientiously devoted the best of

his mental powers, Beatrice had occupied the most prominent place in his

thoughts for over a year and a half. For six days in the week, between

the hours of nine and five, she had not been conspicuous in his mind;

but how often, outside that time, had his attention wandered from a

book, a conversation, a play, and fastened itself on the recollection of

that softly aquiline profile of hers, the poise of her head on her

beautifully modeled shoulders, her unsmiling yet cordial manner of

greeting, and which she somehow managed to convey the impression of

being unaffectedly glad to see him! It would probably be too much to say

that James had been in love with her during that time, but James was not

the sort of person who would easily be carried off his feet in an affair

of the heart. Often, as the memory of her face obtruded itself on his

day-dreams--or still oftener, his night-dreams--he had calmly put to

himself, for open mental debate, the question "Am I really in love with

her?" and had never been able to answer it entirely satisfactorily.

On the whole, in view of the fact that the memory of her showed no

tendency to fade in proportion to the time he was absent from her

presence, he had become rather inclined to the opinion that the answer

must be in the affirmative. Yet even now he could not be sure. He might

be only cherishing an agreeable memory. He had not seen her since the

previous June, and could not be absolutely certain, he knew, till he saw

her again. He was anxious to see her!--Not that mere friendship would

not account for that, of course.

Harry had to attend Sunday Chapel, and it was arranged that James should

not go with him, but should proceed directly to the house. Harry himself

would turn up at dinner-time--Aunt Selina, it will be remembered, had

dinner in the middle of the day on Sundays. Harry was naturally anxious

to have all news-breaking over before he came, and James--well, on the

whole James was entirely willing to take the burden of news-breaking on

himself.

He found Aunt Selina at home; a slight cold in the head and the

inclemency of the weather had been sufficient to make her forego church

for this Sunday. Beatrice had proved herself of stauncher religious

metal--"Though I am sure she would not have gone, if she had known you

were in town," as Aunt Selina told James.

Aunt Selina took the good news much as a duchess of the old regime might

have learned that the Committee of Public Safety had decided not to chop

off her husband's head. It was agreeable news, but it was nothing to

make one forget oneself. Her manner of saying "This is splendid news,

James; I am proud of you" indicated a profound belief in the sanctity of

the Wimbourne destiny and an unshakable faith in the ultimate triumph of

the Wimbourne character rather than unbecoming thankfulness for

something she ought not to have had to be thankful about. James advised

her that Harry would talk much more freely and relations in general

would be much more agreeable if she refrained from mention of the

subject till he introduced it himself. Aunt Selina calmly agreed. She

had great faith in James' judgment.

After an hour's chat with his aunt James exhibited visible signs of

restlessness. Half-past twelve; it was time Beatrice returned. He rose

from his chair and stood watching in front of the window. Soon he saw

her; she alighted from a trolley car and started to walk up the path.

There was something rather fine, something high-bred and gently proud

about the way she grasped her umbrella and embarked on the long slushy

ascent to the house. Her manner rather suggested a daughter of the

Crusaders; it was as though she hated the wind and rain and slush, but

disdained to give other recognition of their existence than a silent

contempt.

As he beheld her distant figure turn in at the gate and plod

unflinchingly up the walk a curious sensation came over James. He

suddenly found himself wanting to wreak an immediate and violent

vengeance on the elements that dared to make things so unpleasant for

her, and that almost immediately passed into an intense desire to seize

upon that small figure and clasp it to him, sheltering her from the

rain, the wind, the slush, every evil in this world that could ever

befall her.... In that moment he felt all the beauty of man's first

love. All the worries of doubt and introspection fell from him; he felt

the full glow of love shining in his heart like a star, giving

significance, sanctity, even, to those moments of wondering, fearing,

hoping, doubting that had filled so many months. He was in love with

her!... He came into the realization of the fact in a spirit of humility

and prayer, like a worshiper entering a temple.

Of course he gave no outward sign of all this. He merely said, as soon

as he could trust himself to be articulate, in a perfectly ordinary tone

of voice:

"There's Beatrice, now. She's walking."

"Yes," answered his aunt; "I tried to make her stay at home, but she

would go." Then after a moment she gently added, as though in answer to

James' unspoken reproach: "I would have let her take the carriage, but

of course I could not ask Thomas to go out in such weather."

James entirely failed to see why not. He would willingly have condemned

Thomas and the horses to perpetual driving through something much more

disagreeable than rain and slush if it could have saved Beatrice one

particle of her present discomfort.

But being, in fact as well as in appearance, a daughter of Crusaders,

and consequently well used to climatic rigors in the country from which

her ancestors had marched to meet the Paynim foe, Beatrice was really

not suffering nearly as much as James' lover-like anxiety supposed her

to be. She had thick boots, a mackintosh, an umbrella and a thick tweed

skirt to protect her from the weather, and could have walked miles

without so much as wetting her feet. If she had got wet, she certainly

would have changed her garments immediately on reaching home, and even

if she had not changed then she probably would not have caught cold,

having a strong constitution. Nevertheless James stood at the window and

silently worried about her, and his first words as he met her at the

front door were expressive of this mood.

"Beatrice!" he cried eagerly, as he threw the door open, "I do hope

you're not wet through!"

She had not seen him standing at the window, so his appearance at the

door was consequently a complete surprise to her, and the expression

that came over her face as she saw him was one of pure pleasure. James'

heart leaped within him at her unaccustomed smile, and then fell again

as he saw it change to an expression of ever so slight and

well-restrained surprise, not at his being there, but at the manner and

words of his greeting. He realized in a second that he had allowed his

tongue to betray his heart.

Beatrice paid no immediate attention to the remark, and her welcoming

words "James, of all people in the world!" gave no sign of anything more

than a friendly pleasure. She was entirely at her ease. James found

himself running on, quite easily:

"Yes--just got a day or two off and came on to say Howdy-do to you all.

Got to start back this afternoon, worse luck. How well you're looking!"

By this time they were practically in the library, in the restraining

presence of Aunt Selina, and Beatrice had no more chance to introduce

the topic clamoring for discussion in the minds of both than the

question "You've seen Harry?" uttered in an undertone as they went

through the door, allowed her. Church, the weather and the unexpected

pleasure of James' arrival were politely discussed for a few moments,

and then Aunt Selina withdrew to prepare for dinner.

"James," Beatrice burst out, "tell me about Harry. I know you've come on

about that; tell me all about it! Has anything been done? Can anything

be done?"

"It can," said James, smiling at her impetuosity. "Like-wise, it has. In

fact, it's all over!"

"What do you mean?... Have you paid her off?"

"No; she withdrew of her own accord."

"James, don't be irritating! Tell me about it. You've done something, I

know you have!"

"Well--possibly!" He smiled tantalizingly at her--so like a man!

"What?"

"Well, I'll tell you--on one condition."

"What's that?"

"That you'll promise not to thank me when you've found out!" James

considered this rather a masterly piece of deceptive strategy, more than

making up for his indiscretion at the front door.

Beatrice dropped her eyes and drew down the corners of her mouth, with

an expression half humorous, half contemptuous. "Go ahead," said she.

James went ahead and told her the whole affair at some length. His

position during this narrative was a not unenviable one; it is not often

that one gets a chance to recount to one's lady-love a story in which

one is so obviously the hero. Nor did he lose anything by being the

narrator of his own prowess; his omissions spoke louder in his favor

than the most laudatory comments of a third person could have.

"So, he is free!" she said at last, when she had cross-questioned the

whole thing out of him. "He is free again!..."

What was there about these words that seemed to blast James' feeling of

triumph, to chill the very marrow in his bones? Was it only the words;

was it not rather the extraordinary intensity of the pleasure on her

face; a pleasure which did not fade with her smile, but lived on in the

dreamy expression of the eyes, gazing sightlessly out of the window?...

She spoke again in a moment or two, asking a question about some detail

in the case, and the feeling left him again. He answered her question

with perfect composure. Such hysterical vapors must be incidental to

love, he supposed. He was not troubled about it at all, unless, very

vaguely, by the fleeting memory of a similar experience, occurring--oh,

a long time ago. Nothing to worry about.

He did not say much after he had completed his narrative. He was content

simply to sit and look at her, drinking in her smiles, her comments, her

little ejaculations of pleasure and answering her stray questions about

the great affair. The joy of discovery was not yet even tinged with the

thirst for possession. It was enough to watch her as she talked and

laughed and moved about; to watch her, the living original, and think

how much more glorious she was than the most vivid of his recollections

of her. Oh, how wonderful she was!

Presently he was aware of her making remarks laudatory of himself, and

primed his ears to listen.

"But how clever it was of you, James," she was saying, "to work out the

whole thing, just from that one little glimpse--and so quickly, too! Of

course it was just a Heaven-sent chance, your seeing her at that moment,

but I can see how much more there was to it than that. What a

frightfully clever person you are, James--a regular detective! You

really must give up making motor cars and be another Sherlock Holmes!"

All this fell very pleasantly on his ears, though he could have wished,

if he had taken the time to, that she could have employed some other

adjective than "clever." But there was no time for such minor

considerations. Just at that moment they heard the rattle of the front

door latch, and Beatrice, knowing that none but Harry ever entered the

house without first ringing, jumped from her chair and started towards

the hall, the words "There he is now!" glowing on her lips....

And then the universe crumbled about James' ears. Had his father's early

readings extended into the minor Elizabethan Drama, he might have

remembered the words of Beaumont--

This earth of mine doth tremble, and I feel

A stark affrighted motion in my blood

and applied them quite aptly to his present state. For a moment the

earth literally seemed to reel; he staggered slightly, unnoticed, and

caught hold of the back of a chair. Then, while Beatrice went out to

meet Harry, he stood there and wished he had never been born to live

through such a moment.

Beatrice was in love with Harry--that was the long and the short of it.

There was no mistaking the import of the look of utter glorification

that came over her face as she heard his hand on the doorknob; such an

expression on the face of a human being could mean but one thing.... He

wondered, despairingly, if his face had borne such a look a little while

ago, when he caught sight of Beatrice....

Whether or not Harry was on similar terms with Beatrice he could not

say. He rather thought that he was, or if not, it was only a question of

time till he would be. He was not a witness of the actual moment of

meeting; that occurred in the hall, and all he got of it was Harry's

initial remark: "Well, Beatrice, have you heard the good news? James has

made a respectable woman of me!" drowned in a sort of flutter from

Beatrice, in which he could distinguish nothing articulate--nor needed

to. The character of the remark--flippant to the verge of good

taste!--might at another time have excited his disgust; but now it made

as little impression on him as it did on Beatrice.

Harry himself might not have made it at another time; it was the result

of his embarrassment. So, also, was the expression which he wore when he

came into the room with Beatrice a moment later--a very unusual look,

due to a very unusual cause. Beatrice had, in fact, all but given

herself away to him. He followed her into the room embarrassed and

flustered. It was incomparably the worst of the series of strained

moments in his intercourse with Beatrice, and it gave point and

coherency to the others in a way he hated to think of.... Once in the

library he found himself leading conversation, or what passed for

conversation among the three for the next few moments. The others

appeared conversationally extinct; Beatrice--he hardly dared look toward

her--trying to recover her composure; James preternaturally grave and

silent, for some unknown reason. The atmosphere seemed surcharged with

an unexpected and, to him, inappropriate gravity. He felt like a

schoolboy among grown-ups.

Presently Aunt Selina returned and dinner was announced.

* * * * *

Poor James--he had won Paradise only to lose it the next instant! No one

could have guessed anything from his behavior--he was not the sort of

person to make an exhibition of his emotional crises; but he really

lived very hard during the meal that followed. His state of mind was at

first nothing but a ghastly chaos, from which but one thing emerged into

certainty--he must not betray himself or Beatrice; he must go on exactly

as if nothing unusual had occurred. It never paid to make a fool of

oneself, and--this was the next thought, the next plank that floated to

him from the wreck of his happiness--he had not, that he knew of, given

himself away. That was a tremendous thing to be thankful for; what a

blessing that he had got wind of Beatrice's true feelings before he had

the chance to blunder into making love to her and so precipitate a

series of horrors which he could not even bear to contemplate! Now, he

told himself reassuringly, as he tried desperately to contribute his

fourth to the none too spontaneous conversation, he had only to keep

himself in check, keep his mouth shut, keep from making of himself the

most unthinkable ass that ever walked God's earth--and it would all come

out right!

By the time the roast beef made its appearance he saw there was only one

thing to do and without a moment's hesitation he embarked on the doing

of it. Beatrice sat on his right; he raised his eyes to her and passed

them over each enthralling feature of her, her soft dark hair; her eyes,

brown almost to black, gentle yet fearless in their gaze, and at the

same time, quite calmly and unemotionally, told himself that she could

never be his. She was Harry's. These two were intended for each other

all along, made for each other. Could he not have seen that in the

beginning, if he had kept his eyes open? Could he not have seen that

their childish companionship, dating from Harry's English days, their

being placed again, as though by a divine sort of accident, in the same

town, and above all their obvious fitness for each other, was going to

lead to love?

Well--thus he found himself to his one substantial comfortable

support--he had hurt no one but himself. He had only to put Beatrice

resolutely out of his mind and all would be well. She was Harry's; was

that not the next best thing to her being his?--better, even? No longer

ago than last night he had convinced himself that Harry was, when all

was said and done, a better man than he was. Was it not perfectly just

that the prize should go to him?

The thought helped him through the meal astonishingly. Unselfishness is

a great stimulus. Once he saw that he could do something definite toward

the happiness of those he loved best, he seemed, rather to his own

surprise, perfectly willing and able to do it, at no matter what

sacrifice to himself. His righteousness supported him not only through

the meal, but well through that part of the afternoon that he spent in

the house--up, indeed, to the very moment of parting.

James' plan was to take a five-o'clock train to New York, whence he

would take a night train to Chicago and arrive in Minneapolis early

Tuesday morning, having missed only three working days at the office. It

was still raining at four o'clock and a cab was telephoned for. As it

was plodding up the slushy drive, James, overcoated and hatted, stood on

the porch ready to get into it. Harry, who was to go to the station with

him, was "having a word" with Aunt Selina--or, more exactly, being had a

word with by her--in the hall. Beatrice, by some fiendish chance,

determined to do the same by James.

"James," she said, "I want you to know how perfectly splendid I think it

was of you--all this about Harry, I mean. You may say it was no more

than your duty, and all that; but it was fine of you, nevertheless.

Thank you, James, and good-by."

It really was rather awful. It amounted to his being rewarded and

dismissed like a faithful servant. And her tacit, unconscious assumption

of her right to thank people for favors conferred upon Harry--that was

turning the knife in the wound. Of course she could have no idea of the

pain she was giving, and James shook her hand and said good-by trying to

give no sign of the pain he felt. All the comfortable stability of his

logic faded from him as she spoke those words. All the way to the

station, sitting by Harry's side in the smelly cab, he found himself

crying inwardly, like a child, for what he could not have; wondering if,

by the exercise of tact and patience, Beatrice could possibly be brought

to love him; overcome at moments by an insane desire to throw himself on

Harry's neck and beg him to let him have her--for surely, surely Harry

could not be as fond of her as he! Oh, was it going to be as hard as

this right along?...

"James," said Harry suddenly as the two paced the dreary platform in

silence, waiting for the train to pull in; "it's sometimes awfully hard

to say what you want without talking mawkish rot, but there's something

I've simply got to say, rot or no rot, or drop dead on the asphalt.--I'm

pretty young, of course, and haven't seen much of anything of life; but

a person doesn't have to live long to get the general idea that it's

rather a chaotic mess. Well, occasionally out of it there emerges a

thing that appears to bring out all that's best in your nature and gives

a certain coherence to the other things...."

"Yes?" said James, wondering what was to follow.

"Well, it seems to me that one of those things is--you and me. Since

last night, I mean ... James, I don't know how you feel about it, but

since then I've had a sense of nearness to you, such as I've never begun

to have with any other human being--such as doesn't occur often in one

lifetime, I imagine ... I really think very highly of you, James!" He

broke off here with a smile, half embarrassed at his brother's slowness

of response, ready to retreat into the everyday and the trivial if the

response did not come.

But he need not have worried; James was merely choosing his words; every

nerve in him was thrilling in answer to Harry's advance. He returned the

smile, but replied, in full seriousness: "You've hit it exactly; I

should even say it couldn't be duplicated in one lifetime.... You're

unique, Harry!"

"That's it--unique," said Harry, joining in with his mood. "You've

mastered the art of uniquity, James."

"And what's more," went on the other, "it always has been that

way--really. Even during these last few years. With me, I mean."

"With me, too. James"--he stood still and looked his brother full in the

face--"do you know, such a relation as ours is one of the few positive

good things that makes life worth while? If we were both struck dead as

we stand here, life would have been well worth living--just for this!"

"Yes, that's true," said James slowly; "that's perfectly true."

"And one thing more--for Heaven's sake, James, don't let's either of us

mess up this thing in the future, if we can help it! It may be broken up

by outside causes--well and good; we can't prevent that; but can't we

have the sense not to let silly, conventional things come between us?

Let's not be afraid, above all, of plain talk--at any rate, you need

never be afraid to say anything to me. I may be narrow and obstinate to

other people, but I don't think I could ever be so to you again. I'd

take anything from you, James, anything!--" He smiled at the

unintentional double meaning of his words, adding, "And there's nothing

I wouldn't give you, either."

It would not be too much to say that James was literally inspired by

Harry's words. They seemed to bring out every vestige of what was good

and noble and unselfish in his nature, lifting him high above his

everyday, weak, commonplace self--such as he had shown it in the cab,

for instance--making life as clear, as sensible, as inspiring as it had

seemed last night. His "sacrifice" now appeared nothing; he scarcely

thought of it at all, but its nature, when it did appear in the back of

his brain, was that of an obvious, pleasant, easy duty; a service that

was a joy, a denial that was a self-gratification.

"All right, I'll remember. And if I telegraph you to dye your face

pea-green, I shall expect you to do it!" He spoke with a lightness of

spirit wholly unfeigned. Then he continued, somewhat more seriously:

"I'll tell you what it is; each of us has got to behave so well that

it'll be the fault of the other if we do fall out. There's a poem Father

used to read that says something of the kind; something about there

being none but you--'there is none, oh, none but you--'"

"'That from me estrange your sight,'" finished Harry. "I

remember--Campion, I think."

"That's it--that from me estrange your sight. It's funny how those

things come back sometimes...." The train pulled noisily in at that

moment and made further discussion impossible, but enough had been said

to start the same thoughts running in the minds of both and give them

both the feeling, as they clasped hands in parting, that the future had

the blessing of the past.

CHAPTER XVI

THE SADDEST TALE

With the beginning of the next term Harry embarked on the task of

setting himself right with the world. He found it on the whole easier

than he had expected. He had only to make a few formal apologies, as in

the cases of Shep McGee and Junius LeGrand, and let it become generally

known that he had definitely given up drinking, et cetera, to make the

cohorts of the commonplace glad to receive him in their ranks once more.

Reinstatement in the social life of New Haven followed quite

easily--almost as a matter of course, for he had not actively offended

any members of what might be described as the entertaining classes. The

female element, practically all of whom knew him, or at least of him,

through his family connection, had evolved a mythical but interesting

conception of him as "rather a fast young man"; and that, alas! served

to endear him to their hearts rather than otherwise.

So the last months of his college course passed in a sort of sunset haze

of enjoyment, marred only by one thing, indecision as to his subsequent

career. His friends were inclined to look rather askance at this; one or

two, in a tactful way, pointed out to him the danger of "drifting." In

reality there was small danger of this; although his inherited income

would make him independent of his own efforts for livelihood during the

rest of his natural life, Harry would never "drift" very far. His brain

was too active, his ambition too lively, his sense of the seriousness of

life too deep to allow that. He could never be content doing nothing. He

wanted, in turn, to do very nearly everything; the professions of

lawyer, doctor, "business man," engineer, clergyman, soldier,

sailor--tinker and tailor, even were considered and rejected in turn.

"It's not that I don't want to do all these things," he explained to

Trotty, who sometimes showed impatience at his vagueness; "the trouble

is that I can't do any of them. I'm not fitted for them--I'm not worthy

of them, if you like to put it that way. If I were a conscienceless

wretch, now, it would be different!"

One Sunday afternoon in June, rather saddened by the feeling of his

apparent uselessness in the world, he went to call on Madge Elliston.

"Well, what are you going to do this summer?" she began. "That seems to

be the one topic of conversation at this time of year."

"This summer? Oh, I'm going to walk, with the rest of my class, in the

more mountainous portions of Europe. At present I am under engagement to

walk through the hilly parts of England, Scotland and Wales, the Black

Forest, the Alps, the Tyrol, the Dolomites and some of the cooler

portions of the Apennines; but the Cevennes and the Caucasus are still

open, if you care to engage them.... In between times I expect to

roister, shamelessly, in some of the livelier resorts of the Continent.

That's all quite simple; what I'm worrying about is what I'm going to do

next winter."

"Why don't you write, if I may be pardoned for asking so obvious a

question?" asked Madge.

"One simple but sufficient reason--I haven't got anything to write

about," answered Harry, smiling. "That's what everybody asks, and the

answer is always the same. This prevalent belief in my literary ability

is flattering, but unfortunately it's wholly unfounded."

"I shouldn't say so. I've read most of what you've written in college,

and it seems to me extremely clever."

"Clever--that's just it! Nothing more! The awful truth is, there's

nothing more in me. I have rather a high regard for literature, you see,

and on that very account I'm less willing to inflict myself on it. I

wouldn't care, though, if there was anything else I appeared to be cut

out for. If I felt that I could sweep crossings better than other

people, I assure you I would go into the profession with the greatest

cheerfulness!"

Madge laughed. "I know very much how you feel--I've been going through

much the same thing myself, though you might not have guessed it. Only

as it happens I have received a call for something very like the

profession you speak of."

"Crossing-sweeping?"

"The next thing to it--teaching in a dame's school in town--Miss

Snellgrove's. I think it's rather a pretty idea, don't you? Society

flower, withered and faint with gaiety, seeking refreshment in the

cloistral, the academic!--You don't approve?"

"Woman's sphere is the home," said Harry doubtfully.

"Not when the home is a two-by-four box; you couldn't call that a

sphere, could you? Of course," she went on, more seriously, "of course

the real, immediate reason why I'm doing it is financial. These are

times of--well, stringency.... Not but what we could scrape along; but

it seems rather absurd to be earning nothing when one could just as well

be earning something, doesn't it? And the only alternative is playing

about eternally with college boys younger than myself."

"Yes, I think you're very sensible, if that's the case. Not that it is,

of course; you'll find plenty of people coming back to the graduate and

professional schools to console you. Also my brother James at week-ends,

if that's any comfort to you!"

"James? Is he in this part of the country?"

"Yes, in New York. He's going to be in McClellan's branch there next

winter--assistant manager, or something of the sort--something important

and successful sounding. We are all very much set up over it. And it's

so near that he can come up for Sunday quite regularly, if he wants.--It

does give me quite a solemn and humble feeling, though, to think that

you have found a profession before me."

"Oh, yes; teaching at Miss Snellgrove's is more than a profession--it's

a career!--I refuse to believe, though," she continued with a change of

manner, "that you have not found your profession already, even though

you may not care to adopt it yet. For after all, you know, you have the

creative ability. Every one says that. All that's wanting in you, as you

say, is having something to write about, and nothing but time and

development will bring that. Meanwhile I think it's very nice and

high-minded of you not to go ahead and write nothing, with great ease

and fluency! That's what most people in your position do."

"Thank you; that's very encouraging," said Harry. He looked

thoughtfully at her for a moment and continued: "Has it ever occurred to

you, Madge, that you are quite a remarkable young woman?"

"Heavens yes, hundreds of times!"

"That's a denial, I suppose. However, it's true. Look at the way you've

just been talking to me!... You have what I've come to admire very much

during the past few months--perfect balance of viewpoint. You have what

one might call a sense of ultimacy--is there such a word? It's like a

number of children, each playing about in his own little backyard,

surrounded by a high fence that he can't see over, suspecting the

existence of a lot of other backyards, with children in them wondering

what lay beyond in just the same way. Then occasionally there is born a

happy being to whom is given the privilege of looking down on the whole

lot of them from the church steeple, and being able to see each backyard

in its exact relation to all the other backyards. That's you.... It's a

rare gift!"

Madge was at first amused by this elaborate compliment, but she ended by

being rather touched by it.

"It's very nice of you to say that," she replied after a moment, "no

matter how little foundation there may be for it. It proves one thing,

at any rate--I have no monopoly of the quality of ultimacy! You wouldn't

be able to think I was ultimate, would you, unless you were a wee bit

ultimate yourself? And that goes to prove what I said about your

attitude toward your profession."

"I'm afraid you can't make me believe in my own ultimacy, no matter how

hard you try," said Harry. "In fact I pursue the rival study of

propinquity--the art of never seeing beyond one's own nose!"

"Well, you must at least let me believe in the ultimacy of your finding

your profession," insisted Madge. But Harry only shook his head.

Commencement arrived at last, and Aunt Cecilia, attended by a

representative delegation of her progeny, flopped down upon Aunt Selina,

prepared to do as much by Harry as she had by his brother two years

earlier. Aunt Cecilia belonged to the important class of American women

who regard a graduation as a family event second in importance only to a

wedding or a funeral, ranking slightly higher than a "coming out." The

occasion was a particularly joyous one to her because of Harry's being

able to celebrate it in a full blaze of righteousness and truth, and

because of the consequent opportunities for motherly fluttering.

"Dear Harry," she said, as she kissed, him on his arrival; "I am so glad

to be here to see you graduate, and so glad that--that everything has

gone so splendidly. It is so much, much nicer--that is, it is _so_ nice

to think that--"

"Yes, dear; you mean, isn't it nice that I'm respectable again," said

Harry, with a flippancy made gentle by the sight of her kind blue eyes.

"I am respectable now, you know, so you needn't be afraid to talk about

it. We can all be respectable together; you're respectable, and I'm

respectable, and Ruth is respectable and Lucy is respectable, and Aunt

Selina is respectable--we hope; how about that, Aunt Selina?--and

altogether we're an eminently respectable family. All except Beatrice,

that is, who is far, far too nobly born, being related, in fact, to a

marquis. No one in the peerage, Aunt C. dear, likes to be called

respectable--it's considered insulting. No one, that is, above the rank

of baron; the barons are now all reformed brewers, who get their

peerages by being so respectable that people forget all about the

brewing, and that is English democracy, and isn't it a splendid thing,

dear? When you marry Ruth to an English peer, you must be sure to have

him a baron, because none of the others are respectable."

"Harry, what nonsense you do talk!" said his aunt. "Before these

girls--!"

"I imagine these girls know Harry by this time," remarked Aunt Selina.

"If they don't, it's time they did. You're a hundred times more innocent

than they, Cecilia, and always will be."

"Exactly always what I tell Mama," put in Ruth, the eldest of Aunt

Cecilia's brood. "Besides, what Harry said is all quite true, I'm sure.

Except about me; I shan't marry a foreigner at all, but if I do, I

certainly shan't marry a brewer. Mama is far too rich for me to take

anything less than a duke."

This was literally, almost painfully true. A succession of deaths in

Aunt Cecilia's family, accompanied by a scarcity of male heirs, had

placed her in possession of almost untold wealth--"more than I bargained

for when I took you," as Uncle James jocularly put it, for the pleasure

of seeing her bridle and blush. Aunt C. was one of the richest women in

the country, but it never changed her a particle. Not all her wealth,

not all her social prominence, not all the refining influences that

several generations' enjoyment of these brings, could ever make her even

appear to be anything but the simple, warm-hearted, motherly creature

she was.

Harry, realizing all this as well as any one, exerted himself to make

Aunt C. glad she had made the effort to come to see him graduate, and he

manfully escorted her and the girls to the play, the baccalaureate

service, his class-day exercises, the baseball game and various other

entertainments, where, as Ruth rather aptly put it, "we can sit around

and watch somebody else do something." He also did his full duty by his

cousin, and danced away a long and perspiring evening with her at the

senior promenade. He found Ruth very good company, in spite of her

active tongue, or rather, perhaps, because of it.

The final Wednesday, pregnant with fate, arrived at length, and after an

immense deal of watching other people receive degrees, some earned and

some accorded by the pure generosity of the University, Harry became

entitled to write the magic initials "B.A." after his name. Being one of

the leaders of his class in point of scholarship, he was one of the

twenty or so who mounted the platform and received the diplomas for the

rest. This was too much for Aunt Cecilia, who occupied a prominent place

in the front row of the balcony.

"Oh, dear," she sighed, wiping away a furtive tear, "there he goes, and

no mother to see him do it! No one to be proud of him! And the brightest

of all the family--I shall never live to see a son of mine do as well,

never, never!"

"I'm not so sure," said her eldest daughter, comfortingly; "the doctrine

of chances is in your favor. You have four boys--four chances to

Aunt--what was her name?--Aunt Edith's two. Harry's not so fearfully

bright, anyway--only sixteenth out of three hundred."

"My dear, how can you talk so? you ought to be ashamed, after his being

so nice to you all this week!"

"Yes, he's been very sweet, indeed," replied the maiden, magnanimously.

"Though I don't know, on looking back at it, that he's been any nicer to

me than I've been to him!"

Harry himself was rather impressed by the long ceremony in which he

found the qualities of dignity and simplicity nicely blended. He was

impressed particularly by the giving of the honorary degrees; it seemed

to him a very fine thing that these ten or fifteen people, all of them

leaders in widely different spheres of activity, should make so much of

receiving a bit of parchment from a university which most of them had

not even attended, and equally fine of the university to do them honor;

the whole giving proof of the triumph of the academic ideal in an age of

materialism.

The same thought occurred to him even more vividly at the great alumni

luncheon that followed; the last and in some ways the most impressive of

all the Commencement ceremonies. The great Renaissance dining hall

filled from end to end with graduates, upwards of a thousand strong,

ranging between the hoary-headed veteran and the hour-old Bachelor, all

of them gathered for the single purpose of doing honor to their alma

mater, all of them thrilled by the same feeling of affection for

her--all this awakened a responsive note in the mind of Harry, always

ready to render honor where honor was due, or to show love when he felt

it. It was pleasant to sit and eat among one's classmates and in the

presence of those other, older, more exalted beings stretching away to

the other end of the hall and think that they were all, in a way, on

terms of equal footing--all graduates together.

At one end of the hall, on a great raised dais, sat the highest officers

of the University, in company with the guests of honor of the day, the

recipients of the honorary degrees. After the meal was over, certain of

these were called upon to speak. Harry thought he had never heard such

speeches. The men who made them were big men, foremost in the country's

service and in the work of the world; one was a Cabinet minister,

another a great explorer, another a scientist, another a missionary. The

ultimate message of each one of them was the high mission of Yale, given

in no spirit of boastful, flag-waving "almamatriotism," but with strong

emphasis on the theme of service. One got from them the idea that Yale

men, like all men of their station and responsibility the world over,

were born to serve humanity. The mission of Yale in this scheme was one

of preparation; she acted as a recruiting-station and clearing-house,

developing the special powers of each of her sons, equipping them with

knowledge of books, other men and themselves, and at last sending them

into the field where they were calculated to make the best use of

themselves. One revered and loved Yale, of course, for what she had

given one; to her every man owed a full measure of gratitude and

affection for what he had become. But one was never to forget where Yale

stood in the scheme of things; one must always bear in mind that she was

not an end in herself, but a means--one of many other means--to an

infinitely greater end. Only by considering her in her place in the vast

order of world-service could one do justice to her true power, her true

greatness.

The impression ultimately conveyed was not that of a smaller Yale but of

a larger world. Harry had never considered the relation between universe

and university in this illuminating light. He suddenly realized that his

idea of his college had been that of a particularly reputable and

agreeable finishing-school for young men; a treasury of social knowledge

and the home of sport. He had mistaken the side-shows for the main

exhibition; he had admired and criticized them without regard to the

whole of which they were but small parts. In a flash he looked back and

realized the vanity and recklessness of his earlier revolt against

college institutions and traditions. Who was he that he should criticize

them? What had he to offer as substitute for them except an attitude of

idle receptivity and irresponsible dalliance? He had recovered from that

first foolishness, to be sure, and thank Heaven for that slight evidence

of sanity; but what had he done since his recovery except sit back and

watch the days slide by? Had he ever made the slightest attempt toward

serious thinking, toward placing himself, his college and the world in

their proper relations to each other? Had he succeeded in learning a

single important lesson from the many that had been offered to him? Was

it possible that he had completely wasted these four precious years of

golden youth?

Suddenly he felt tears of humiliation and self-contempt burn behind his

eyes. It would be absurd to shed them. He shifted his position and lit a

cigarette. He inhaled the comforting smoke deeply and listened with

meticulous attention to the speech from which his mind had wandered

into introspection, trying not to think any more of himself. Gradually,

however, there penetrated into his inner consciousness the comforting

thought that he had been hysterical, had judged himself too harshly in

his anxiety to be sufficiently hard on himself. Those years were not

wholly wasted--he had learned something in them. He was ahead of where

he was when he entered college, if only a little. The thought of James

occurred to him; James would be an inspiration in the future as he had

been a help in the past. No, there was yet hope for him, though he must

be very careful how he acted in the future. He had been a fool, but he

hoped now that he had been merely a young fool, and that his mistakes

could be at least partly rectified by age and effort. He would try hard,

at least; he would be receptive, industrious, thorough, tolerant,

unbiased and humble--above all, humble. He glanced up at the speaker's

table and reflected that the men who had the most reason to be proud

were in fact the humblest.

The last speaker sat down amid a round of applause. The men on the floor

of the hall stood up to sing before departing. Harry, looking at his

watch, was surprised at the lateness of the hour; he had promised to see

Aunt Cecilia and her daughters off at the station and must hurry away at

once if he were to catch them.

He laboriously made his way through the ranks of singing graduates

toward the door, listening to the familiar words of the song as he had

never before listened.

Mother of men, grown strong in giving

Honor to them thy lights have led,

sang the men. Yes, thought Harry, there was plenty of honor to give.

Would that he might ever be one of those to whom such honor was due, but

that was not to be thought of. It was enough for him to be one of those

who were led by those lights. Yes, that was the first step, steadfastly

to follow the light that the grave Mother held above and before him; to

keep his eyes constantly on it, never looking down or behind.

Rich in the toil of thousands living,

Proud of the deeds of thousands dead,

Deeds, deeds! That was what counted; any one could see visions and dream

dreams; the veriest fool could mean well. Oh, might a merciful Heaven

help him to convert into deeds the lofty ideals that now surged within

his brain!--What a ripping song that was, and how well it sounded to

hear a thousand men singing it together! He forgot Aunt Cecilia for a

moment, and checked his pace near the door to hear the last verse.

Spirit of youth, alive, unchanging,

Under whose feet the years are cast,

Heir to an ageless empire, ranging

Over the future and the past--

Half blinded with tears he staggered out into the empty vestibule and

steadied himself for a second against a pillar. He never had realized

before how much it all meant to him, how he loved what he was leaving.

And yet--"Spirit of youth, alive, unchanging"--he had never quite caught

the full meaning of those words. They now seemed, in a way, to soften

the pain of parting, to give him comfort and strength with which to face

the years. Surely growing old would not be so bad if one could think of

the spirit of youth as still there, alive, unchanging, spreading joy and

hope through the world!

And then, sweet and sudden as a breeze at sundown came the thought to

him that here lay his life's work, his own little mission in the world:

in using his intelligence and his power of interpretation, the only

gifts he could discover himself as possessing, to guide and assist those

who happened to come a little after him in the long procession of human

life--in becoming, in short, a teacher. A sudden feeling of calmness and

surety took possession of him; he was able to consider himself and his

place in the world with a more complete detachment than he had ever

before attained. He found himself able, for the moment, to rate his

powers and limitations exactly as an unprejudiced observer might have

done. Within him he suddenly, unmistakably felt those qualities of

priest and prophet which, combined with that of the scholar, make up the

ideal teacher.

"Spirit of youth," he whispered, "to you I dedicate myself, such as I

am, and my life, such as it may be."

He stood still for a moment and listened as the great chorus behind the

closed door brought the song to a finish, ending on a note both solemn

and exalted. For a second or two there was silence, and then there

burst forth the sound of the Yale cheer. The contrast between the last

notes of the song and the brazen bellow of that cheer, hallowed by the

memories of a hundred close-fought fields, struck Harry as both dramatic

and comic, and caused a corresponding change in his own mood.

"Spirit of youth, alive, unchanging!" he quoted again, laughing. Then he

hurried off to say good-by to his aunt.

PART II

CHAPTER I

CAN LOVE BE CONTROLLED BY ADVICE?

Madge Elliston lived alone with her mother in a small house on an

unpretentious but socially unimpeachable side street, just off one of

the main avenues. Their means, as Madge has already intimated, were

modest--"modest," as the young lady sprightly put it, "to the point of

prudishness." Joseph Elliston, her father, had been a brilliant and

promising young professor when her mother married him, with, as people

said, a career before him. If by career they meant affluence, they were

wholly right in saying it was all before him. But though the two married

on his prospects, they could not fairly have been said to have made an

unwise venture. Nothing but death had kept Joseph Elliston from becoming

a popular and respected teacher, a foremost authority on economics, the

author of standard works on that subject, and the possessor of a

comfortable income. But he had died when Madge, his only child, was five

years old, leaving his small and sorrowing family barely enough to live

on.

The straitened circumstances in which the sad event threw Mrs. Elliston

and her daughter were somewhat relieved by the generosity of the only

sister of the widow, Eliza Scharndorst, herself a widow and the

possessor of a large fortune. She was extremely fond of Madge, who

always got on beautifully with her "Aunt Tizzy"--an infantile corruption

allowed to survive into maturity--having more in common with her, if the

truth must be known, than with her mother. She was a festive soul, much

given to entertaining, and she was not long in discovering that the

assistance of her niece was a distinct asset in making her home

attractive to guests. It is not to be wondered at that Madge's

occasional services in the way of decorating a dinner table or

brightening up an otherwise stodgy reception would redound to her

material benefit as well as to her spiritual welfare. Such good things

as trips to Bermuda, occasional new frocks and instruction under the

best music masters, came her way so frequently that by the time we next

meet her, nearly five years after our last sight of her, Madge was a far

better dowered young woman, socially speaking, than the penniless

orphaned daughter of a college professor could normally hope to be.

For when we next see her Miss Elliston is--and in no mere figurative

sense--holding the center of the stage. A real stage in a real theater,

under the full blaze of real footlights, and if no real audience sits on

the other side of those footlights, it is no great matter, for a very

real audience will sit there soon enough. On Friday night, to be exact,

and this is Tuesday. To be even more exact, it is the first formal,

dress rehearsal of an amateur performance of "The Beggar's Opera"

(immortal work!) organized primarily for charitable purposes by a number

of prominent citizens, among them Mrs. Rudolph Scharndorst, and

secondarily, if we are to give any weight to the opinion of those

present at the rehearsal, for the purpose of giving scope to the talents

of Mrs. Rudolph Scharndorst's niece.

For Madge is cast for the part of Polly Peachum, heroine of the piece.

And if there was originally the slightest doubt as to the wisdom of such

an assignment, it has vanished into thin air before now. For Madge is

lovely--! It is not merely a matter of voice; there never was any doubt

but that she had the best voice available for the part. What the

scattered few in the dark auditorium are busy admiring now is the

extraordinary charm, grace, actual beauty, even, of the girl performing

before them. The more so because it is all so unattended; no one thought

that she would give that effect on the stage. Of a type usually

described as "attractive," slight and rather short, with hair sandy

rather than golden, and a face distinguished only by a nice pair of blue

eyes and a particularly ingratiating smile, Madge could not fairly be

expected to turn herself into a vision of commanding beauty and charm

with the slight external aids of paint and powder and a position behind

a row of strong lights.

The only unimpressed and indifferent person in the theater was the

coach. That was quite as it should be, of course; coaches must not

exhibit bursts of enthusiasm, like common people. Yet it is perhaps

worth mentioning that the coach in question made none of his frequent

interruptions during the first few moments of Polly's presence on the

stage, but sat silently biting his pencil and frowning in the back row

of the theater till after she had finished her second song.

"One moment!" he cried, running down the aisle. "I'm going to change

that song." He exchanged a few whispered remarks with the leader of the

orchestra, who had charge of the musical side of the production. "All

right--never mind now--go on with the act ... No, don't cross there,

Mrs. Peachum; stay where you are, and Miss Elliston! what are the last

words of the second line of that song?"

"'Mothers obey.'"

"All right--let's have 'em. I didn't get them that time. Go on, please."

The act continued, and admiration grew apace. When at length the act

reached its close there was a faint but spontaneous outburst of applause

from the almost empty theater.

"Well, what do you think of Madge?" asked Mrs. Scharndorst, waylaying

the coach on his progress down the aisle.

"Oh, she'll do! There's a lot there to improve, though.--Strike for the

second act--drinking scene!" This last uttered in a shout as he rushed

on down to the stage. Not very fulsome praise, to be sure, but Mrs.

Scharndorst knows her man, and is satisfied. Indeed, she respects him

the more for not being fulsome.

So do the other members of the cast and chorus; at least, if they do

respect him, it cannot be for the enthusiasm of his approval. His

demeanor, as he stands there on a chair in the orchestra pit, shouting

directions to his minions, is not indicative of very profound

satisfaction with the progress of the rehearsal.

"Thompson! If you're going to use your spot on Polly's entrance, for

Heaven's sake keep it on her face and not on her feet! I didn't see a

thing but her shoes then ... No, you there, that table way down

front--so, and oh, Mrs. Smith! is that Tilman's idea of a costume for an

old woman, middle class?... I thought so ... no, I'm afraid not! That

train might be quite suitable for a duchess, but it won't do for a

robber's wife. You see Miss Banks about it, will you please?... Mr.

Barnaby! I want to get you and Miss Elliston to go through the business

of that Pretty Polly song once again--you're both as stiff as pokers

still.... No, just the motions. No, stand on both feet and keep your

chest out while you're singing your part, and when she comes in,

'Fondly, fondly,' you half turn round, so--so that when she falls back

on your arm she'll have a chance to show more than her chin to the

audience.... No, I think I'll have you wait till the encore before you

kiss her--it looks flat if you do it too often, and by the bye, Mr.

Barnaby, will you make an appointment with Mrs. Adams for to-morrow to

get up a dance for that prison scene--'How happy could I be with

either'.... Four o'clock--all right.... What song?"

This last is in answer to an inquiry from Miss Elliston.

"Oh, of course--'Can love be controlled by advice'.... Come down here

and we'll talk it over. Careful, step in the middle of that chair and

you'll be all right ... there!" And Miss Elliston and the great man sit

down companionably in the places belonging respectively to the oboe and

the trombone, just as though they had been friends from earliest youth.

If there is one thing we despise, it is transparent roguishness on the

part of an author. Let us hasten to admit, then, that the coach is none

other than our friend Harry; a Harry not changed a particle, really,

from his undergraduate days, though a Harry, to be sure, in whom the

passage of five years has effected certain important developments. Such,

for instance, as having become able to coach an amateur production of a

musical show. These will be described and accounted for, all in good

time. The story cannot be everywhere at once.

"About that song ... I know nothing about music, of course, but it

struck me to-night that that was rather a good tune--one of the best in

the show.... It may have been the singing, of course."

"Not a bit of it--it's a ripping tune!--Let's see what the trombone part

for it looks like.... There isn't any--just those little thingumbobs.

Oh, the accompaniment is all on the strings, of course; I forgot."

"Well, what I want to get at is, do you think Gay's words are up to

it?"

"Nowhere near. I'd much rather sing some of yours, if that's what you're

getting at.... They're not quite _jeune fille_, either; I just

discovered that to-day."

"There's a great deal in this show that isn't. We've cut most of it, but

there's a good bit left, only no one who hasn't studied the period can

spot it.... You needn't tell any one that.--Well, let's see about some

words. 'Can love be controlled by advice, will Cupid our mothers

obey'--we'll keep that, I think ..."

He produced a scrap of paper from his pocket and scribbled rapidly on

it. In a minute or two he had evolved the following stanzas, retaining

the first four lines of Gay's original song:

Can love be controlled by advice?

Will Cupid our mothers obey?

Though my heart were as frozen as ice

At his flame 'twould have melted away.

Now love is enthroned in my heart

All your threats and entreaties are in vain;

His power defies all your art,

And chiding but adds to my pain.

Ah, mother! if ever in youth

Your heart by love's anguish was wrung;

If ever you thrilled with its truth

Too sweet to be spoken or sung;

If ever you've longed for life's best,

Nor reckoned the issue thereof;

If heart ever beat in your breast

Have pity on me--for I love!

"There!" said he, handing it to the prima donna; "see what you think of

that."

"Oh ... much better! There'll be much more fun in singing it."

"It isn't much in the way of poetry," explained Harry, "but it gives a

certain dramatic interest to the song, which is the main thing. You can

change anything you want in it, of course; I daresay some of those words

are quite unsingable on the notes of the song."

"No--I think they'll be all right. Thank you very much; it was hard to

make anything out of the other words. Also, I shall be able to tell Mama

that you've cut out some of Gay's naughty words and put in some innocent

ones of your own instead. She's been just a little worried lately, I

think; she seems to have an idea that 'The Beggar's Opera' isn't quite a

nice play for a young lady to act in!"

"Well, one can hardly blame her...." This sentence trailed off into

inaudibility as Harry turned to give his attention to some one else

coming up with a question at the moment. Perhaps Miss Elliston did not

even hear the beginning of the sentence; it is easier to believe that

she did not, in view of what followed. Certainly every extenuating

circumstance is needed, on both sides, to help account for the fact that

so trivial conversation as that which just took place should have led

directly to unpleasantness and indirectly to consequences of a

far-reaching kind. It is easier to comprehend, also, if one remembers

that Miss Elliston's thoughts when she was left alone by Harry occupying

the position of the trombone, remained on, or at any rate quite near,

the point at which the conversation broke off, whereas Harry's had flown

far from it. So that when, after an interval of a few minutes, Harry's

voice again became articulate to her in the single isolated sentence

"given her something to say to her old frump of a mother," addressed to

the leader of the orchestra, she at first misconstrued his meaning,

interpreting his remark not as he meant it, as referring to her stage

mother, Mrs. Peachum, but as referring to quieting the puritanical

scruples of her own mother, Mrs. Elliston.

The whole affair hung on an incredibly slender thread of coincidence. If

Harry had not unconsciously raised his voice somewhat on that one

phrase, if he had not happened to use the word "frump," which might

conceivably be twisted into applying to either mother, Miss Elliston

would never, even for a moment, have been tempted to attribute the baser

meaning to his words. As it was the thought did not remain in her head

above five seconds, at the outside; she knew Harry better than to

believe seriously that he would say such a thing. But by another

unfortunate chance Harry happened to be looking her way during those few

seconds, and marked her angry flush and the instantaneous glance of

indignation and contempt that she shot toward him. He saw her flush die

down and her expression soften again, but the natural quickness that had

made him realize her state of mind was not long in giving him an

explanation of it.

All might yet have been well had not Harry's sense of humor played him

false. As usually happened at these evening rehearsals he escorted Miss

Elliston home, her house lying on the way to his. In the course of the

walk an unhappy impulse made him refer to the little incident, which had

struck him as merely humorous.

"By the way," said he "your sense of filial duty almost led you astray

to-night, didn't it?"

"Filial duty?"

"Yes--you thought I was making remarks about your mother to-night when I

was talking to Cosgrove about Mrs. Peachum and that song...."

"Oh, that--!" Any one who knew her might have expected Miss Elliston to

laugh and continue with something like "Yes, I know; wasn't it

ridiculous of me?" since she really knew perfectly well that Harry was

talking about Mrs. Peachum. That she did not is due partly to the

fatigue incident to rehearsing a leading part in an opera in addition to

teaching school from nine till one every day, and partly to the

eternally inexplicable depths of the feminine nature. She had been very

much ashamed of herself for having even for a moment done that injustice

to Harry, and she wished intensely that the affair might be buried in

the deepest oblivion. Harry's opening of the subject, consequently,

seemed to her tactless and a trifle brutal. She had done penance all the

evening for her after all very trifling mistake; why should he insist

upon humiliating her this way?... Obviously she was very tired!

"Yes," went on Harry, "don't expect me to believe that you were angry on

behalf of Mrs. Peachum!"

"No. I suppose I had a right to be angry on behalf of my own mother, if

I wanted to, though."

"But I wasn't talking about your mother--you know that!"

"Oh, weren't you?"

"Well, do you think so?"

"How should I know? I was only eavesdropping, of course, I have no right

to think anything about it."

"Madge, don't be silly."

"Well?"

"Do you really, honestly think that I am guilty of having spoken

slightingly of your mother? Just answer me that, yes or no."

"As I say, I have no right to any opinion on the subject. I only heard

something not intended--"

"Oh, the--" The remainder of this exclamation was fortunately lost in

the collar of Harry's greatcoat. "You had better give me back that

song--I presume you won't want to sing it now."

"Why not? Art is above all personal feelings." It was mere wilfulness

that led her to utter this cynical remark. What she really wanted to say

was "Of course I want to sing it, and I know you meant Mrs. Peachum,"

but somehow the other answer was given before she knew it.

"Madge, you may not know it, but you are positively insulting."

"Oh, Harry--! Who began being insulting? Not that I mind your insulting

me...."

"Oh. That's the way it is, is it? I see." They were now standing talking

at the foot of Madge's front steps. Harry continued, very quietly: "Now

perhaps you'd better give me back that song."

"I don't see the necessity."

"I'll be damned if you shall sing it now!" His voice remained low, but

passion sounded in it as unmistakably as if he had shouted. The remark

was, in fact, made in an uncontrollable burst of anger, necessitating

the severing of all diplomatic relations.

"Just as you like, of course." Madge's tone, cold, expressionless,

hopelessly polite, is equivalent to the granting of a demanded passport.

"Here it is. Good-night."

"Good-night."

So they parted, in a white heat of anger. But being both fairly sensible

people, in the main, beside being the kind of people whose anger however

violently it may burn at first, does not last long, they realized before

sleep closed their eyes that night that the quarrel would not last over

another day.

Morning brought to Harry, at any rate, a complete return of sanity, and

before breakfast he sat down and wrote the following note:

Dear Madge:

I send back the song merely as a token of the abjectness of my

submission--I don't suppose you will want to sing it now. I

can't tell you how sorry I am about my behavior last night; I

can only ask you to attribute as much, of it as possible to

the fatigue of business and forgive the rest!

HARRY.

which he enclosed in an envelope with the words of the song and sent to

Madge by a messenger boy.

Madge received it while she was at breakfast. She went out and told the

boy to wait for an answer, and went back and finished her breakfast

before writing a reply. Her face was noticeably grave as she ate, and it

became even graver when at last she sat down at her desk and started to

put pen to paper. She wrote three pages of note-paper, read them, and

tore them up. She then wrote a page and a half, taking more time over

them than over the three. This she also tore up. Then she sat inactive

at her desk for several minutes, and at last, seeing that she was due at

her school in a few minutes, she took up another sheet of paper and

wrote: "All right--my fault entirely. M. E.," and sent it off by the

boy.

When Harry saw her at the rehearsal that evening she greeted him exactly

as if nothing had happened. She had rather less to say to him than was

customary during rehearsals, but Harry was so busy and preoccupied he

did not notice that. He did notice that she sang the original words to

the disputed song, which, as he told himself, was just what he expected.

For the next two days he was fairly buried in responsibility and detail

and hardly conscious of any feeling whatever beyond an intense desire to

have the performance over. It was not until this desire was partially

fulfilled, the curtain actually risen on the Friday night and the

performance well under way, that he was able to sit back and draw a free

breath. The moment came when, having seen that all was well behind the

scenes, he dropped into the back of the box occupied by Aunt Selina and

one or two chosen friends to watch the progress of the play from the

front.

Then, for the first time, he was able to look at it more from the point

of view of a spectator than that of a creator. Now that his work was

completed and must stand or fall on its own merit, he could watch from a

wholly detached position. On the whole, he rather enjoyed the sensation.

It occurred to him, for instance, as quite a new thought, that the

excellent make-up of the stolid Mr. Dawson in the part of Peachum very

largely counteracted his vocal "dulness"; and that Mrs. Smith as Mrs.

Peachum, in spite of the innumerable sillinesses and bad tricks that had

been his despair for weeks, was making an extremely good impression upon

the audience.

Then Madge made her entrance, and he saw at a glance, as he had never

seen it before, just how good Madge was. She had a certain way of

carrying her head, a certain sureness in adjusting her movements to her

speech, a certain judgment in projecting her voice that went straight to

the spot. Madge was a born actress, that was all there was to it; she

ought to have made the stage her profession. He smiled inwardly as he

thought how many people would make that remark after this performance.

Then his amusement gave place to a sudden and strange resentment against

the very idea of Madge's going on the stage; a resentment he made no

effort either to understand or account for....

The strings in the orchestra quavered a few languorous notes and Madge

started her song "Can love be controlled by advice." Her voice was a

singularly sweet one, of no great volume and yet possessed of a certain

carrying quality. The excellence of her instruction, combined with her

own good taste, had brought it to a state of what, for that voice, might

be called perfection. She also had the good sense never to sing anything

too big for her. But though her voice might not be suited to Wagner or

Strauss it was far better suited to certain simpler things than a larger

voice might have been, and the song she was singing now was one of

these. Probably no more happy combination could be effected between

singer and song than that of Madge and the slow, plaintive,

seventeenth-century melody of "Grim king of the ghosts," which Gay had

the good sense to incorporate into his masterpiece.

To say that the audience was spellbound by her rendering of the song

would be to stretch a point. It sat, for the most part, silently

attentive, enjoying it very much and thinking that it would give her a

good round of applause and an encore at the end. Harry, standing in the

obscurity of the back part of Aunt Selina's box, was of very much the

same mind. For about half of the song, that is. For near the end of the

first verse he suddenly realized that Madge was singing not Gay's

words, but his own.

It was absurd, of course, but at that realization the whole world seemed

suddenly to change. The floor beneath his feet became clouds, the

theater a corner of paradise, the people in it choirs of marvelous

ethereal beings, Mrs. Peachum (alias Smith) a ministrant seraph, Madge's

voice the music of the spheres, and Madge herself, from being an

unusually nice girl of his acquaintance, became....

What nonsense! he told himself; the idea of getting so worked up at

hearing his own words sung on a stage!--You fool, replied another voice

within him, you know perfectly well that that's not it at all.--Don't

tell me, replied the other Harry, the sensible one; such things don't

happen, except in books; they don't happen to real people--ME, for

instance.--Why not? obstinately inquired the other; why not you, as well

as any one else?--Well, I can't stop to argue about it now, the

practical Harry answered; I've got to go out and see that people are

ready for their cues.

He went out, and found everything running perfectly smoothly. People

were standing waiting for their entrances minutes ahead of time, the

electricians were at their posts, the make-up people had finished their

work, the scene-shifters and property men had put everything in

readiness for setting the next scene; no one even asked him a question.

He flitted about for a few moments on imaginary errands, asking various

people if all was going well; but the real question that he kept asking

himself all the time was Is this IT? Is this IT?

"I don't know!" he said at last, loudly and petulantly, and several

people turned to see whom he was reproving now.

When he got back to the box he found Madge still singing the last verse

of her song. He wondered how many times she had had to repeat it, and

hoped Cosgrove was living up to his agreement not to give more than one

encore to each song. In reality this was her first encore; his hectic

trip behind the scenes had occupied a much shorter time than he

supposed. Madge was making a most exquisite piece of work of her little

appeal to maternal sympathy; she was actually taking the second verse

sitting down, leaning forward with her arms on a table in an attitude of

conversational pleading. He had not told her to do that; it was so hard

to make effective that he would not have dared to suggest it. When she

reached the line, "If heart ever beat in your breast" she suddenly rose,

slightly threw back her arms and head, and sang the words on a wholly

new note of restrained passion, beautifully dramatic and suggestive. The

house burst into applause, but Harry was seized with a fit of unholy

mirth at the irony of the situation--Madge, perfectly indifferent,

singing those words, while he, their author, consumed with an

all-devouring flame, stood stifling his passion in a dark corner. An

insane desire seized him to run out to the middle of the stage and shout

at the top of his voice "Have pity on me, for I love!" It would be true

then. He supposed, however, that people might think it peculiar.

From then on, as long as Madge held the stage, he stood rooted to the

spot, unable to lift his eyes from her. Presently her lover came in, and

they started the lovely duet, "Pretty Polly, say." At the end of the

encore, according to Harry's instructions, Barnaby leaned over and

kissed his Polly on the mouth. A sudden and intense dislike for Mr.

Barnaby at that moment overcame Harry....

The act ended; the house went wild again; the curtain flopped up and

down with no apparent intention of ever stopping; ushers rushed down the

aisles with great beribboned bunches of flowers. This gave Harry an

idea; as soon as the second act was safely under way he rushed out to

the nearest florist's shop and commandeered all the American Beauty

roses in the place, to be delivered to Miss Elliston with his card at

the end of the next act.

As he was going out of the shop he stopped to look at some peculiar

little pink and white flowers in a vase near the door.

"What are those?" he asked.

"Bleeding hearts," said the florist's clerk. "Just up from Florida; very

hard to get at this time of year."

Harry stood still, thinking. If he sent those--would she Know--Of course

she would, answered the practical Harry immediately; she would not only

Know but would call him a fool for his pains.--Oh, shut up! retorted the

other.

"I'll have these then, instead of the roses, please," he said aloud.

"All of them, and don't forget the card."

They did not meet till after the performance was over. He caught sight

of her making a sort of triumphal progress through the back of the

stage, on her way to the dressing rooms, and deliberately placed himself

in her path. She was looking rather surprisingly solemn, he noticed. Her

face lighted up, however, when she saw him. She smiled, at least.

"Well, what did _you_ think of it?" she asked.

"I think the performance was very creditable," he answered. "To say what

I think of you would be compromising."

She laughed and went on without making any reply. He could not see her

face, but something gave him the impression that her smile did not last

very long after she had turned away from him.

He walked home alone through the crisp March night, breathing deeply and

trying to reduce his teeming brain to a state of order and clarity. The

walk from the theater home was not sufficient for this; he walked far

beyond his house and all the way back again before he could think

clearly enough. At last he raised his eyes to the comfortable stars and

spoke a few words aloud in a low, calm voice.

"I really think," he said, "that this is IT. I really do think so ...

But I must be very careful," he added, to himself; "_very_ careful. I

must take no chances--this time. Both on Madge's account and on mine."

"No," he added after a moment; "not on my account. On Madge's."