A CHAPTER WHICH IS CONCERNED LARGELY WITH THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF "THE FULL
STRENGTH OF THE COMPANY"
This story, first of all, and last of all, is a love story. The emotion
called love and its twin desire hunger, are the two primal passions of
life. From love have developed somewhat the great altruistic
institutions of humanity--the family, the tribe, the State, the nation,
and the varied social activities--religion, patriotism, philanthropy,
brotherhood. While from hunger have developed war and trade and property
and wealth. Often it happens in the growth of life that men have small
choice in matters of living that are motived by hunger or its descendant
concerns; for necessity narrows the choice. But in affairs of the heart,
there comes wide latitudes of choice. It is reasonably just therefore to
judge a man, a nation, a race, a civilization, an era, by its love
affairs. So a book that would tell of life, that would paint the manners
of men, and thus show their hearts, must be a love story. "As a man
thinketh in his heart, so is he," runs the proverb, and, mind you, it
says heart--not head, not mind, but heart; as a man thinketh in his
heart, in that part of his nature where reside his altruistic
emotions--so is he.
It is the sham and shame of the autobiographies that flood and
dishearten the world, that they are so uncandid in their relation of
those emotional episodes in life--episodes which have to do with what we
know for some curious reason as "the softer passions." Caesar's Gaelic
wars, his bridges, his trouble with the impedimenta, his fights with the
Helvetians--who cares for them? Who cares greatly for Napoleon's
expedition against the Allies? Of what human interest is Grant's tale of
the Wilderness fighting? But to know of Calpurnia, of her predecessors,
and her heirs and assigns in Caesar's heart; to know the truth about
Josephine and the crash in Napoleon's life that came with her
heartbreak--if a crash did come, or if not, to know frankly what did
come; to know how Grant got on with Julia Dent through poverty and
riches, through sickness and in health, for better or for worse--with
all the strain and stress and struggle that life puts upon the yoke that
binds the commonplace man to the commonplace woman rising to eminence by
some unimportant quirk of his genius reacting on the times--these indeed
would be memoirs worth reading.
And whatever worth this story holds must come from its value as a
love-story,--the narrative of how love rose or fell, grew or withered,
bloomed and fruited, or rotted at the core in the lives of those men and
women who move through the scenes painted upon this canvas. After all,
who cares that Thomas Van Dorn waxed fat in the land, that he received
academic degrees from great universities which his masters supported,
that he told men to go and they went, to come and they came? These
things are of no consequence. Men are doing such things every minute of
every day in all the year.
But here sits Thomas Van Dorn, one summer afternoon, with a young broker
from New York--one of those young brokers with not too nice a
conscience, who laughs too easily at the wrong times. He and Thomas Van
Dorn are upon the east veranda of the new Country Club building in
Harvey--the pride of the town--and Thomas is squinting across the golf
course at a landscape rolling away for miles like a sea, a landscape
rich in homely wealth. The young New Yorker comes with letters to Judge
Van Dorn from his employers in Broad Street, and as the two sip their
long cool glasses, and betimes smoke their long black cigars, the former
judge falls into one of those self-revealing philosophical moods that
may be called the hypnoidal semi-conscious state of common sense. Said
Van Dorn:
"Well, boy--what do you think of the greatest thing in the world?" And
not waiting for an answer the older man continued as he held his cigar
at arm's length and looked between his elevated feet at the landscape:
"'Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.'
Great old lover--Solomon. Rather out of the amateur class--with his
thousand wives and concubines; perhaps a virtuous man withal, but hardly
a fanatic on the subject; and when he said he was sick of love--probably
somewhere in his fifties,--Solomon voiced a profound man's truth. Most
of us are. Speaking generally of love, my boy, I am with Solomon. There
is nothing in it."
The cigar in his finely curved mouth--the sensuous mouth of youth, that
had pursed up dryly in middle age--was pointed upward. It stood out from
a reddish lean face and moved when the muscles of the face worked
viciously in response to some inward reflection of Tom Van Dorn.
He drawled on, "Think of the time men fool away chasing calico. I've
gone all the gaits, and I know what I'm talking about. Ladies and Judy
O'Gradies, married and single, decent and indecent--it's all the same. I
tell you, young man, there's nothing in it! Love," he laughed a little
laugh: "Love--why, when I was in the business," he sniffed, "I never had
any trouble loving any lady I desired, nor getting her if I loved her
long enough and strong enough. When I was a young cub like you," Van
Dorn waved his weed grandly toward the young broker, "I used to keep
myself awake, cutting notches in my memory--naming over my conquests.
But now I use it as a man does the sheep over the fence, to put me to
sleep, and I haven't been able to pass my fortieth birthday in the list
for two years, without snoozing. What a fool a man can make of himself
over calico! The ladies, God bless 'em, have got old John Barleycorn
beaten a mile, when it comes to playing hell with a man's life. Again
speaking broadly, and allowing for certain exceptions, I should say--"
he paused to give the judicial pomp of reflection to his
utterances--"the bigger fool the woman is, the greater fool a man makes
of himself for her. And all for what?"
His young guest interjected the word "Love?" in the pause. The Judge
made a wry face and continued:
"Love? Love--why, man, you talk like a school girl. There is no love.
Love and God are twin myths by which we explain the relation of our
fates to our follies. The only thing about me that will live is the
blood I transmit to my children! We live in posterity. As for love and
all the mysteries of the temple--waugh--woof!" he shuddered.
He put back his cigar into the corner of his hard mouth. He was
squinting cynically across the rolling golf course. What he saw there
checked his talk. He opened his eyes to get a clearer view. His
impression grew definite and unmistakable. There, half playing and half
sporting, like young lambs upon the close-cropped turf, were Kenyon
Adams and Lila Van Dorn! They were unconscious of all that their gay
antics disclosed. They were happy, and were trying only to express
happiness as they ran together after the ball, that flew in front of
them like a mad butterfly. But in the sad lore of his bleak heart, the
father read the meaning of their happiness. Youth in love was never
innocent for him. Looking at Lila romping with her lover, he turned sick
at heart. But he held himself in hand. Only the zigzag scar on his
forehead flashing white in the pink of his brow betrayed the turmoil
within him. He tried to keep his eyes off the golf course. A sharp dread
that he might transmit himself in nature to posterity only through the
base blood of the Adamses, struck him. He closed his eyes. But the wind
brought to him the merriment of the young voices. A jealousy of Kenyon,
and an anger at him, flared up in the father. So Tom Van Dorn drew down
the corners of his mouth--and batted his furtive eyes, and put on his
bony knee a mottled, nervous hand, with brown splotches at the wrist,
coming up over the veined furrows that led to his tapering fingers, as
he cried harshly in a tone that once had been soft and mellifluous, and
still was deep and chesty: "Still me with flagons, comfort me with
apples, for I am sick of love!"
He would have gone away from the torture that came, as he stared at the
lovers, but his devil held him there. He was glad when a noise of saw
and hammer at the lake drowned the voices on the lawn. His gladness
lasted but a moment. For soon he saw the young people quit chasing their
crazy butterfly of a golf ball, and wander half way up the hill from the
lake, to sit in the snug shade of a wide-spreading, low-branched elm
tree. Then the father was nervous, because he could not hear their
voices. As he sat with the young broker, snarling at the anonymous
phantoms of his past which were bedeviling him, a gray doubt kept
brushing across his mind. He realized clearly that he had no legal right
to question Lila's choice of companions. He understood that the law
would not justify anything that he might do, or say, or think,
concerning her and her fortunes. Yet there unmistakably was the Van Dorn
set to her pretty head and a Van Dorn gesture in her gay hands that had
come down from at least four generations in family tradition. And he had
no right even to be offended when she would merge that Van Dorn blood
with the miserable Adams heredity. His impotence in the situation
baffled him, and angered him. The law was final to his mind; but it did
not satisfy his wrathful questioning heart. For in his heart, he
realized that denial was not escape from the responsibility he had
renounced when he tripped down the steps of their home and left Lila
pleading for him in her mother's arms. He bit his ragged cigar and
cursed his God, while the young man with Tom Van Dorn thought, "Well,
what a dour old Turk he is!"
The hammering and sawing, which drowned the voices of the young people
under the tree, came from the new bathing pavilion near by. Grant Adams
was working on a two days' job putting up the pavilion for the summer.
He was out of Van Dorn's view, facing another angle of the long
three-faced veranda. Grant saw Kenyon lying upon the turf, slim and
graceful and with the beauty of youth radiating from him, and Grant
wondered, as he worked, why his son should be there playing among the
hills, while the sons of other men, making much more money than he--much
more money indeed than many of the others who flitted over the
green--should toil in the fumes of South Harvey and in the great
industrial Valley through long hard hours of work, that sapped their
heads and hearts by its monotony of motion, and lack of purpose. As he
gazed at the lovers, their love did not stick in his consciousness--even
if he realized it. Their presence under the elm tree at midday rose as a
problem which deepened a furrow here and there in his seamed face and he
hammered and sawed away with a will, working out in his muscles the
satisfaction which his mind could not bring him.
As the two fathers from different vistas looked upon their children,
Kenyon and Lila beneath the elm tree were shyly toying with vagrant
dreams that trailed across their hearts. He was looking up at her and
saying:
"Lila--who are we--you and I? I have been gazing at you three minutes
while you were talking, and I see some one quite different from the you
I knew before. Looking up at you, instead of down at you, is like
transposing you. You are strangely new in this other key."
The girl did not try to respond in kind--with her lips at least. She
began teasing the youth about his crinkly hair. Breaking a twig as she
spoke, she threw it carelessly at his hair, and it stuck in the closely
curled locks. She laughed gayly at him. Perhaps in some way rather
subtly than suddenly, as by a ghostly messenger from afar, he may have
been made aware of her beautiful body, of the exquisite lines of her
figure, of the pink of her radiant skin, or the red of her girlish lips.
For the consciousness of these things seemed to spend his soul in joy.
The blazing eyes of Tom Van Dorn, squinting down upon the couple under
the tree, could see the grace that shone from a thousand reactions of
their bodies and faces. He opened his mouth to voice something from the
bitterness of his heart but did not speak. Instead he yawned and cried:
"And so we rot and we rot and we rot."
Now it matters little what the lovers chattered about there under the
elm tree, as they played with sticks and pebbles. It was what they would
have said that counts--or perhaps what they should have said, if they
had been able to voice their sense of the gift which the gods were
bestowing. But they were dumb humans, who threw pebbles at each other's
toes, though in the deep places of their souls, far below the surface
waves of bashful patter, heart might have spoken to heart in passing
thus:
"Oh, Lila, what is beauty? What is it in the soul, running out glad to
meet beauty, whether of line, of tone, of color, of form, of motion, of
harmony?"
And the answer might have been trumpeted back through the deep:
"Maybe beauty is the God that is everywhere and everything, releasing
himself in matter. Perhaps for our eyes and ears and fingers, the
immanent God had an equation, whose answer is locked in our souls that
are also a part of God--created in his image. And when in curve or line,
in sequence of notes or harmony, or in thrilling touch sense, the
equation is stated in terms of radiation, God seeking our soul's answer,
speaks to us."
But none of this trumpet call of souls reached the two fathers who were
watching the lovers. For one man was too old in selfishness to
understand, and the other had grown too old in bearing others' burdens
to know what voices speak through the soul's trumpet, when love first
comes into the heart. So the hammers hammered and the saws groaned in
the pavilion, and a hard heart hammered and a soul groaned and a tongue
babbled folly on the veranda. But under the elm tree, eyes met, and
across space went the message that binds lives forever. She picked up a
twig longer than most twigs about her, reached with it and touched his
forehead furtively, stroked his crinkled hair, blushing at her boldness.
His head sank to the earth, he put his face upon the grass, and for a
second he found joy in the rush of tears. They heard voices, bringing
the planet back to them; but voices far away. On the hill across the
little valley they could see two earnest golfers, working along the
sky-line.
The couple on the sky-line hurried along in the heat. The man mopped his
face, and his brown, hairy arms, and his big sinewy neck. The woman,
rather thin, but fresh and with the maidenly look of one who isn't
entirely sure what that man will do next, kept well in the lead.
"Well, Emma--there's love's young dream all right." He stopped to puff,
and waved at the couple by the tree. Then he hitched up his loose, baggy
trousers, gave a jerk to his big flowing blue necktie, let fly at the
ball and cried "Fore." When he came up to the ball again, he was red and
winded. "Emma," he said, "let's go have something to eat at the
house--my figure'll do for an emeritus bridegroom--won't it?" And thus
they strolled over the fields and out of the game.
But on another hill, another couple in the midst of a flock of children
attracted by one of Mr. Brotherton's smashing laughs, looked down and
saw Lila and Kenyon. The quick eyes of love caught the meaning of the
figures under the tree.
"Look, mamma--look," said Nathan Perry, pointing toward the tree.
"Oh, Nate," cried Anne, "--isn't it nice! Lila and Kenyon!"
"Well, mamma--are you happy?" asked Nathan, as he leaned against the
tree beside her. She nodded and directed their glances to the children
and said gently, "And they justify it--don't they?"
He looked at her for a moment, and said, "Yes, dear--I suppose that's
what the Lord gave us love for. That is why love makes the world go
around."
"And don't the people who don't have them miss it--my! Nate, if they
only knew--if these bridge-playing, childless ones knew how dear they
are--what joy they bring--just as children--not for anything else--do
you suppose they would--"
"Oh, you can't tell," answered the young father. "Perhaps selfish people
shouldn't have children; or perhaps it's the children that make us
unselfish, and so keep us happy. Maybe it's one of those intricate
psychical reactions, like a chemical change--I don't know! But I do know
the kids are the best things in the world."
She put her hand in his and squeezed it. "You know, Nate, I was just
thinking to-day as I put up the lunch--I'm a mighty lucky woman. I've
had all these children and kept every one so far; I've had such joy in
them--such joy, and we haven't had death. Even little Annie's long
sickness, and everything--Oh, dear, Nate--but isn't she worth it--isn't
she worth it?"
He kissed her hand and replied, "You know I'm so glad we went down to
South Harvey to live, Anne. I can see--well, here's the way it is. Lots
of families down there--families that didn't have any more to go on than
we had then, started out, as we did. They had a raft of kids--" he
laughed, "just as we did. But, mamma--they're dead--or worse, they're
growing up underfed, and are hurrying into the works or the breaker
bins. I tell you, Anne--here's the thing. Those fathers and mothers
didn't have any more money than we had--but we did have more and better
training than they had. You knew better than to feed our kids trash, you
knew how to care for them--we knew how to spend our little, so that it
would count. They didn't. We have ours, and they have doctors' and
undertakers' bills. It isn't blood that counts so much--as the
difference in bringing up. We're lovers because of our bringing up.
Otherwise, we'd be fighting like cats and dogs, I'd be drinking, you'd
be slommicking around in wrappers, and the kids would be on the
streets."
The children playing on the gravel bank were having a gay time. The
mother called to them to be careful of their clothes, and then replied:
"Nate, honestly I believe if I had two or three million dollars, and
could give every girl in South Harvey a good education--teach her how to
cook and keep house and care for babies before she is eighteen, that we
could change the whole aspect of South Harvey in a generation. If I had
just two or three million dollars to spend--I could fill that town just
as full as Harvey of happy couples like us. Of course there'd be the
other kind--some of them--just as there are the other kind in
Harvey--people like the Van Dorns--but they would be the exception in
South Harvey, as the Van Dorns are the exception in Harvey. And two or
three million dollars would do it."
"Yes, mamma,--that's the hell of it--the very hell of it that grinds my
gizzard--your father and my father and the others who haven't done a
lick of the work--and who are entitled only to a decent interest and
promoters' profits, have taken out twenty million dollars from South
Harvey in dividends in the last thirty years--and this is the result.
Hell for forty thousand people down there, and--you and I and a few
dozen educated happy people are the fruit of it. Sometimes, Anne, I look
at our little flock and look at you so beautiful, and think of our life
so glorious, and wonder how a just God can permit it."
They looked at the waving acres of blue-grass, dotted with trees, at the
creek winding its way through the cornfields, dark green and all but
ready to tassle, then up at the clear sky, untainted with the smoke of
Harvey.
Then they considered the years that lay back of them. "I think, Nate,"
she answered, "that to love really and truly one man or one woman makes
one love all men and women. I feel that way even about the little fellow
that's coming. I love him so, that even he makes me love everything. And
so I can't just pray for him--I have to pray for all the mothers
carrying babies and all the babies in the world. I think when love comes
into the world it is immortal. We die, but the sum of love we live, we
leave; it goes on; it grows. It is the way God gets into the world. Oh,
Nate," she cried, "I want to live in the next world--personally--with
you--to know the very you. I don't want the impersonal immortality--I
want just you. But, dear--I--why, I'd give up even that if I could be
sure that the love we live would never leave this earth. Think what the
love of Christ did for the earth and He is still with us in spirit. And
I know when we go away--when any lovers go away, the love they have
lived will never leave this earth. It will live and joy--yes, and
agonize too at the injustice of the world--live and be crucified over
and over again, so long as injustice exists. Only as love grows in the
world, and is hurt--is crucified--will wrongs be righted, will the world
be saved."
He patted her hand for a minute.
"Kyle, Nate, Annie--come here, children," cried the father. After some
repetition of the calling, they came trooping up, asking: "What is it?"
"Nothing at all," answered the father, "we just wanted to kiss you and
feel and see if your wings were sprouting, so that we could break them
off before you fly away," whereupon there was a hugging bee all around,
and while every one was loving every one else, a golf ball flew by them,
and a moment later the white-clad, unbent figure of Mrs. Bedelia
Satterthwaite Nesbit appeared, bare-headed and bare-armed, and behind
her trotted the devoted white figure of the Doctor, carrying two golf
sticks.
"Chained to her chariot--to make a Roman holiday," piped the Doctor.
"She's taking this exercise for my health."
"Well, James," replied his wife rather definitely, "I know you need it!"
"And that settles it," cried the little man shrilly, "say, Nate, if we
men ever get the ballot, I'm going to take a stand for liberty."
"I'm with you, Doctor," replied the young man.
"Nate," he mocked in his comical falsetto, "as you grow older and get
further and further from your mother's loving care, you'll find that
there was some deep-seated natural reason why we men should lead the
sheltered life and leave the hurly-burly of existence to the women."
From long habit, in such cases Mrs. Nesbit tried not to smile and, from
long habit, failed. "Doctor Jim," she cried as he picked up her ball,
and set it for her, "don't make a fool of yourself."
The little man patted the earth under the ball, and looked up and said
as he took her hand, and obviously squeezed it for the spectators, as he
rose.
"My dear--it's unnecessary. You have made one of me every happy minute
for forty years," and smiling at the lovers and their children, he took
the hand held out for him after she had sent the ball over the hill, and
they went away as he chuckled over his shoulder and cheeped: "Into the
twilight's purple rim--through all the world she followed him," and
trotting behind her as she went striding into the sunset, they
disappeared over the hill.
When they had disappeared Anne began thinking of her picnic. She and
Nathan left the children at the lake, and walked to the club house for
the baskets. On the veranda they met Captain Morton in white flannels
with a gorgeous purple necktie and a panama hat of a price that made
Anne gasp. He came bustling up to Anne and Nathan and said:
"Surprise party--I'm going to give the girls a little surprise party
next week--next Tuesday, and I want you to come--what say? Out
here--next Tuesday night--going to have all the old friends--every one
that ever bought a window hanger, or a churn, or a sewing machine, or a
Peerless cooker, or a Household Horse--but keep it quiet--surprise on
the girls, eh?"
When they had accepted, the Captain lowered his voice and said
mysteriously: "'Y gory--the old man's got some ginger in him yet--eh?"
and bustled away with a card in his hands containing the names of the
invited guests, checking the Perrys from the list as he went.
As Captain Morton rounded the corner of the veranda and came into the
out-of-door dining room, he found Margaret Van Dorn, sitting at a table
by a window with Ahab Wright--flowing white side whiskers and white
necktie inviolate and pristine in their perfection. Ahab was clearly
confused when the Captain sailed into the room. For there was a
breeziness about the Captain's manner, and although Ahab respected the
Captain's new wealth, still his years of poverty and the meanness of his
former calling as a peddler of insignificant things, made Ahab Wright
feel a certain squeamishness when he had to receive Captain Morton upon
the term which, in Ahab's mind, a man of so much money should be
received.
Mrs. Van Dorn was using her eyes on Ahab. Perhaps they cast the spell.
She was leaning forward with her chin in her hands, with both elbows on
the table, and Ahab Wright, of the proud, prosperous and highly
respectable firm of Wright & Perry, was in much the mental and moral
attitude of the bird when the cat creeps up to the tree-trunk. He was
not unhappy; not terrorized--just curious and rather resistless, knowing
that if danger ever came he could fly. And Mrs. Van Dorn, who had tired
of the toys at hand, was adventuring rather aimlessly into the cold blue
eyes of Ahab, to see what might be in them.
"For many years," she was saying, and pronounced it "yee-ahs," having
remembered at the moment to soften her "r's," "I have been living on a
highah plane wheyah one ignoahs the futuah and foahgets the pahst. On
this plane one rises to his full capacity of soul strength, without the
hampah of remoahs or the terror of a vindictive Providence."
She might as well have been reciting the alphabet backwards so far as
Ahab understood or cared what she said. He was fascinated by her
resemblance to a pink and white marshmallow--rather over-powdered. But
she was still fortifying herself from that little black box in the
farthest corner in the bottom drawer of her dresser--and fortifying
herself with two brown pellets instead of one. So she ogled Ahab Wright
by way of diversion, and sat in the recesses of her soul and wondered
what she would say next.
The Captain pulling his panama off made a tremendous bow as Margaret was
saying: "Those who grahsp the great Basic Truths in the Science of
Being--" and just as the Captain was about to open his mouth to invite
Ahab Wright to his party, plumb came the ghastly consciousness to him
that the Van Dorns were not on his list. For the Van Dorns, however
securely they were entrenched socially among the new people who had no
part in the town's old quarrel with Tom, however the oil and gas and
smelter people and the coal magnates may have received the Van
Dorns--still they were under the social ban of the only social Harvey
that Captain Morton knew. So as a man falling from a balloon gets his
balance, the Captain gasped as he came up from his low bow and said:
"Madam, I says to myself just now as I looks over to that elm tree
yonder," he pointed to the place where Kenyon and Lila were sitting,
"soon we'll be having the fourth generation here in Harvey, and I says,
that will interest Tom! An 'y gory, ma'am, as I saw you sitting here, I
says as it was well in my mind, 'Here's Tom's lady love, and I'll just
go over and pass my congratulations on to Tom through the apple of his
eye, as you may say, and not bother him and the young man around the
corner there in their boss trade, eh?' What say?" He was flushed and
red, and he did not know exactly where to stop, but it was out--and
after a few sparring sentences, he broke away from the clutch of his
bungling intrusion and was gone. But as the Captain left the couple at
the table, the spell was broken. Life had intruded, and Ahab rose
hastily and went his way.
Margaret Van Dorn sat looking out at a dreary world. Even the lovers by
the elm tree did not quicken her pulse. Scarcely more did they interest
her than her vapid adventure with Ahab Wright. All romantic adventure,
personal or vicarious, was as ashes on her lips. But emotion was not all
dead in her. As she gazed at Lila and Kenyon, Margaret wondered if her
husband could see the pair. Her first emotional reaction was a gloating
sense that he would be boiling with humiliation and rage when he saw his
child so obviously and publicly, even if unconsciously, adoring an
Adams. So she exulted in the Van Dorn discomfiture. As her first
spiteful impulse wore away, a sense of desolation overcame Margaret Van
Dorn. Probably she had no regrets that she had abandoned Kenyon. For
years she had nursed a daily horror that the door which hid her secret
might swing open, but that horror was growing stale. She felt that the
door was forever sealed by time. So in the midst of a world at its
spring, a budding world, a world of young mating, a gay world going out
on its vast yearly voyage to hunt new life in new joy, a quest for ever
new yet old as God's first smile on a world unborn, this woman sat in a
drab and dreary desolation. Even her spite withered as she sat playing
with her tall glass. And as spite chilled, her loneliness grew.
She knew better than any one else in Harvey--better even than the
Nesbits--what Kenyon Adams really promised in achievement and fame. They
knew that he had some European recognition. Margaret in Europe had been
amazed to see how far he was going. In New York and Boston, she knew
what it meant to have her son's music on the best concert programs. Her
realization of her loss increased her loneliness. But regret did not
produce remorse. She was always and finally glad that the door was
inexorably sealed upon her secret. She saw only her husband angered by
her son's association with her husband's daughter, and when malice spent
itself, she was weary and lonely and out of humor, and longed to retire
to her fortification.
After Captain Morton had bowed himself away from Margaret Van Dorn, he
stood at the other end of the veranda looking down toward the lake. The
carpenters were quitting work for the day on the new bathing pavilion
and he saw the tall figure of Grant Adams in the group. He hurried down
the steps near by, and came bustling over to Grant.
"Just the man I want to see! I saw Jap chasing around the golf course
with Ruthie and invited him, but he said your pa wasn't very spry and
mightn't be uptown to-morrow, so you just tell him for me that you and
he are to come to my party here next Tuesday night--surprise party for
the girls--going to break something to them they don't know anything
about--what say? Tell your pa that his old army friend is going to send
his car--my new car--great, big, busting gray battleship for your
pa--makes Tom's car look like an ash cart. Don't let your pa refuse. I
want to bring you all up here to the party in that car in style--you and
Amos and Jap and Kenyon! eh? Say, Grant--tell me--" he wagged his head
at Kenyon and Lila still loitering by the tree. "What's Kenyon's idea in
loafing around so much here in Harvey? He's old enough to go to work.
What say?" Grant tried to get it to the Captain that Kenyon's real job
in the world was composing music, and that sometimes he tired of cities
and came down to Harvey to get the sunshine and prairie grass and the
woods and the waters of his childhood into his soul. But the Captain
waved the idea aside, "Nothing in the fiddling business, Grant--two
dollars a day and find yourself, is all the best of 'em make," protested
the Captain. "Let him do like I done--get at something sound and
practical early in life and 'y gory, man--look at me. What say?"
Grant did not answer, but when the Captain veered around to the subject
of his party, Grant promised to bring the whole Adams family. A moment
later the Captain saw the Sands's motor car on the road before them, and
said:
"Excuse me, Grant--here are the Sandses--I've got to invite them--Hi
there, Dan'l, come alongside." While the Captain was inviting Daniel
Sands, the Doctor's electric came purring up the hill to the club house
driven by Laura Van Dorn. Grant was trotting ahead to join the other
carpenters who were going to the street-car station, when Laura passing,
hailed him:
"Wait a minute, Grant, till I take this to father, and I'll go with
you."
As Laura Van Dorn turned her car around the club house, she stopped it
under the veranda overlooking the golf course and the rolling prairie
furrowed by the slowly winding stream. The afternoon sun slanting upon
the landscape brought out all its beauty--its gay greens, its somber,
contrasting browns, and its splashing of color from the fruit trees
across the valley that blushed pink and went white in the first unsure
ecstasies of new life. Then she saw Kenyon and Lila slowly walking up
the knoll to the road. The mother noted with quick instinct the way
their hands jostled together as they walked. The look that flashed from
their eyes when their hands touched--the look of proprietorship in each
other--told Laura Van Dorn that her life's work with Lila was finished.
The daughter's day of choice had come; and whatever of honesty, whatever
of sense, and sentiment, whatever of courage or conscience the mother
had put into the daughter's heart and mind was ready for its lifelong
test. Lila had embarked on her own journey; and motherhood was ended for
Laura Van Dorn.
As she looked at the girl, the mother saw herself, but she was not
embittered at the sad ending of her own journey along the road which her
daughter was taking. For years she had accepted as the fortunes of war,
what had come to her with her marriage, and because she had the
daughter, the mother knew that she was gainer after all. For to realize
motherhood even with one child, was to taste the best that life held. So
her face reflected, as a cloud reflects the glory of the dawn, something
of the radiance that shone in the two young faces before her; and in her
faith she laid small stress upon the particular one beside her daughter.
Not his growing fame, not his probable good fortune, inspired her
satisfaction. When she considered him at all as her daughter's lover,
she only reflected on the fact that all she knew of Kenyon was honest
and frank and kind. Then she dismissed him from her thoughts.
The mother standing on the hillock looking at the youth and maiden
sauntering toward her, felt the serene reliance in the order of things
that one has who knows that the worst life can do to a brave, wise, kind
heart, is not bad. For she had felt the ruthless wrenches of the
senseless wheels of fate upon her own flesh. Yet she had come from the
wheels bruised, and in agony, but not broken, not beaten. Her peace of
mind was not passive. It amounted to a militant pride in the strength
and beauty of the soul she had equipped for the voyage. Laura Van Dorn
was sure of Lila and was happy. Her eyes filled with grateful tears as
she looked down upon her daughter.
Her father, toddling ahead of Mrs. Nesbit a hundred paces, reached the
car first. She nodded at the young people trudging up the slope. "Yes,"
said the Doctor, "we have been watching them for half an hour. Seems
like the voice of the turtle is heard in the land."
The daughter alighted from the runabout, her father got in and waited
for his wife. The three turned their backs on the approaching lovers and
pretended not to see them. As Laura walked around the corner of the
house, she found Grant waiting for her at the car station, and the two
having missed the car that the other carpenters had taken, stood under
the shed waiting.
"Well--Laura," he asked, "are you leaving the idle rich for the worthy
poor?" She laughed and explained:
"The electric was for father and mother, and so long as I have to go
down to my girls' class in South Harvey this evening for their picnic,
I'm going to ride in your car, if you don't mind?"
The street car came wailing down on them and when they had taken a rear
seat on the trailer together, Grant began: "I'm glad you've come just
now--just to-night. I've been anxious to see you. I've got some things
to talk over--mighty big things--for me. In the first place--"
"In the first place and before I forget it, let me tell you the good
news. A telegram has just come from the capital to father, saying that
the State supreme court had upheld his labor bill--his and your bill
that went through the referendum.
"'Referendum J.' probably was the judge who wrote the opinion," said
Grant grimly. He took off his hat, and the cooling breeze of the late
afternoon played with his hair, without fluttering the curly, wiry red
poll, turning light yellow with the years. "Well, whoever influenced the
court--I'm glad that's over. The men have been grumbling for a year and
more because we couldn't get the benefits of the law. But their suits
are pending--and now they ought to have their money."
As the car whined along through the prairie streets, Grant, who had
started to speak twice, at last said abruptly, "I've got to cut loose."
He turned around so that his eyes could meet hers and went on: "Your
father and George Brotherton and a lot of our people seem to think that
we can patch things up--I mean this miserable profit system. They think
by paying the workmen for accidents and with eight hours, a living wage,
and all that sort of thing, we can work out the salvation of labor. I
used to think that too; but it won't do, Laura--I've gone clean to the
end of that road, and there's nothing in it. And I'm going to cut loose.
That's what I want to see you about. There's nothing in this
step-at-a-time business. I'm for the revolution!"
She showed clearly that she was surprised, and he seemed to find some
opposition in her countenance, for he hurried on: "The Kingdom--I mean
the Democracy of labor--is at hand; the day is at its dawn. I want to
throw my weight for the coming of the Democracy."
His voice was full of emotion as he cried:
"Laura--Laura, I know what you think; you want me to wait; you want me
to help on the miserable patchwork job of repairing the profit system.
But I tell you--I'm for the revolution, and with all the love in my
heart--I'm going to throw myself into it!"
No one sat in the seat before them, as they whirled through the lanes
leading to town, and he rested his head in his hand and put his elbow on
the forward seat.
"Well, what do you think of it?" he asked, looking anxiously into her
troubled face. "I have been feeling strongly now for a month--waiting to
see you--also waiting to be dead sure of myself. Now I am sure!" The mad
light in his eye and the zealot's enthusiasm flaming in his battered
face, made the woman pause a moment before she replied:
"Well," she smiled as she spoke, "don't you think you are rather rushing
me off my feet? I've seen you coming up to it for some time--but I
didn't know you were so far along with your conviction."
She paused and then: "Of course, Grant, the Socialists--I mean the
revolutionary group--even the direct action people--have their proper
place in the scheme of things--but, Grant--" she looked earnestly at him
with an anxious face, "they are the scouts--the pioneers ahead of the
main body of the troops! And, Grant," she spoke sadly, "that's a hard
place--can't you find enough fighting back with the main body of the
troops--back with the army?"
He beat the seat with his iron claw impatiently and cried: "No--no--I'm
without baggage or equipment. I'm traveling light. I must go forward.
They need me there. I must go where the real danger is. I must go to
point the way."
"But what is the way, Grant--what is it? You don't know--any more than
we do--what is beyond the next decade's fight! What is the way you are
going to point out so fine and gay--what is it?" she cried.
"I don't know," he answered doggedly. "I only know I must go. The scouts
never know where they are going. Every great movement has its men who
set out blindly, full of faith, full of courage, full of joy, happy to
fail even in showing what is not the way--if they cannot find the path.
I must go," he cried passionately, "with those who leave their homes to
mark the trail--perhaps a guide forward, perhaps as a warning away--but
still to serve. I'm going out to preach the revolution for I know that
the day of the Democracy of labor is at hand! It is all but dawning."
She saw the exultation upon him that hallowed his seamed features and
she could not speak. But when she got herself in hand she said calmly:
"But, Grant--that's stuff and nonsense--there is no revolution. There
can be no Democracy of labor, so long as labor is what it is. We all
want to help labor--we know that it needs help. But there can be no
Democracy of labor until labor finds itself; until it gets capacity for
handling big affairs, until it sees more clearly what is true and what
is false. Just now labor is awakening, is growing conscious--a
little--but, Grant, come now, my good friend, listen, be sensible, get
down to earth. Can't you see your fine pioneering and your grand
scouting won't help--not now?"
"And can't you understand," he replied almost angrily, "that unless I or
some one else who can talk to these people does go out and preach a
definite ideal, a realizable hope--even though it may not be realized,
even though it may not take definite shape--they will never wake up?
Can't you see, girl, that when labor is ready for the revolution--it
won't need the revolution? Can't you see that unless we preach the
revolution, they will never be ready for it? When the workers can stand
together, can feel class consciousness and strike altogether, can
develop organizing capacity enough to organize, to run their own
affairs--then the need for class consciousness will pass, and the demand
for the revolution will be over? Can't you see that I must go out
blindly and cry discontent to these people?"
She smiled and shook her head and answered, "I don't know, Grant--I
don't know."
They were coming into town, and every few blocks the car was taking on
new passengers. She spoke low and almost whispered when she answered:
"I only know that I believe in you--you are my faith; you are my social
gospel." She paused, hesitated, flushed slightly, and said, "Where you
go I shall go, and your people shall be my people! Only do--Oh, do
consider this well before you take the final step."
"Laura, I must go," he returned stubbornly. "I am going to preach the
revolution of love--the Democracy of labor founded on the theory that
the Holy Ghost is in every heart--poor as well as rich--rich as well as
poor. I'm not going to preach against the rich--but against the system
that makes a few men rich without much regard to their talent, at the
expense of all the rest, without much regard to their talents."
The woman looked at him as he turned his blue eyes upon her in a kind of
delirium of conviction. He hurried on as their car rattled through the
town:
"We must free master as well as slave. For while there is slavery--while
the profit system exists--the mind of the slave and the mind of the
master will be cursed with it. There can be no love, no justice between
slave and master--only deceit and violence on each side, and I'm going
out to preach the revolution--to call for the end to a system that keeps
love out of the world."
"Well, then, Grant," said the woman as the car jangled its way down
Market Street, "hurrah for the revolution."
She smiled up at him, and they rode without speaking until they reached
South Harvey. He left her at the door of her kindergarten, and a group
of young girls, waiting for her, surrounded her.
When he reached his office, he found Violet Hogan working at her desk.
"You'll find all your mail opened, and I've noted the things that have
been attended to," she said, as she turned to him. "I'm due over to the
girls' class with Miss Laura--I'm helping her to-night with her picnic."
Grant nodded, and fell to his work. Violet went on:
"The letters for your signature are here on my desk. Money seems to be
coming in. New local showing up down in Magnus--from the tile works."
She rose, put on her coat and hat, and said as she stood in the door,
"To-morrow will be your day in--won't it?" He nodded at his work, and
she called out, "Well,--bye, bye--I'll be in about noon."
Daylight faded and he turned on the electric above his desk and was
going over his work, making notations on letters for Violet, when he
heard a footstep on the stairs. He recognized the familiar step of Henry
Fenn.
"Come in--come in, Henry," cried Grant.
Fenn appeared, saw Grant at his work, slipped into a chair, and said:
"Now go right on--don't mind me, young man." Fenn pulled a newspaper
from his cheap neat coat, and sat reading it, under a light that he made
for himself at Violet's desk. The light fell on his thin whitening
hair--still coarse, and close cropped. In his clean, washed-out face
there was the faded glow of the man who had been the rising young
attorney thirty years before. Grant knew that Fenn did not expect the
work to stop, so he went on with it. "I'm going to supper about eight
o'clock," said Grant, and asked: "Will that be all right?"
"Don't mind me," returned Fenn, and smiled with a dim reflection of the
old incandescence of his youth.
Fenn's hands trembled a little, but his eyes were steady and his voice
clear. His clothes were shabby but decent, and his whole appearance was
that of one who is making it a point to keep up. When Grant had finished
his correspondence, and was sealing up his letters, Fenn lent a hand and
began:
"Well, Grant, I'm in trouble--Oh, it's not that," he laughed as Grant
looked quickly into the clean, alert old face. "That's not bothered me
for--Oh, for two years now. But it's Violet--she wants me to marry her."
He blurted it out as if it had been pent in, and was hard to hold.
"Why--well--what makes you--well, has she proposed, Henry?" asked the
younger man.
"Naw--of course not," answered Fenn. "Boy, you don't know anything about
women."
Fenn shook his head knowingly, and winked one eye slowly.
"Children--she's set the children on me. You know, Grant--" he turned
his smile on with what candlepower he could muster, "that's my other
weakness--children. And they're the nicest children in the world. But I
can't--I tell you, man, I can't," protested Mr. Fenn, as if he believed
Grant in league with the woman to kidnap him.
"Well, then, don't," said Grant, rising and gathering up his mail.
"But how can I help it?" Fenn cried helplessly. "What can a man do?
Those kids need a father. I need a family--I've always needed a
family--but I don't want Violet--nor any one else." Grant towed him
along to the restaurant, and they sat alone. After Grant had ordered his
supper he asked, "Henry--why can't you marry Violet? She's a sensible,
honest woman--she's got over her foolishness; what's wrong with her?"
"Why, of course, she is a good woman. If you'd see her chasing out
nights--picking up girls, mothering 'em, loving 'em, working with
'em--she knows their language; she can talk to 'em so they get it. And
I've known her time and again to get scent of a new girl over there at
Bessie Wilson's and go after her and pull her out and start her right
again. I tell you, Grant, Violet has her weaknesses--as to hair ribbons
and shirtwaists and frills for the kids--but she's got a heart, Grant--a
mighty big heart."
"Then why not marry her?" persisted Grant.
"That's just it," answered Fenn.
He looked hopelessly at Grant and finally said as he reached his hands
across the table and grasped Grant's big flinty paw, "Grant--let me tell
you something--it's Margaret. I'm a fool--a motley fool i' the forest,
Grant, but I can't help it; I can't help it," he cried. "So long as she
lives--she may need me. I don't trust that damn scoundrel, Grant. She
may need me, and I stand ready to go to hell itself with her if I live a
thousand years. It's not that I want her any more; but, Grant--maybe you
know her; maybe you understand. She used to hate you for some reason,
and maybe that will help you to know how I feel. But--I know I'm
weak--God knows I'm putty in my soul. And I'm ashamed. But I mustn't get
married. It wouldn't be fair. It wouldn't be square to Violet, nor the
kids, nor to any one. So long as Margaret is on this earth--it's my job
to stand guard and wait till she needs me."
He turned a troubled, heartbroken face up to the younger man and
concluded, "I know she despises me--that she loathes me. But I can't
help it, Grant--and I came to you to kind of help me with Violet. It
wouldn't be right to--well, to let this thing go on." He heaved a deep
sigh, then he added as he fumbled with the red tablecloth, "What a fool
a man is--Lord, what a fool!"
In the end, Grant had to agree to let Violet know, by some round about
procedure devised by Mr. Fenn's legal mind, that he was not a
marriageable person. At the same time, Grant had to agree not to
frighten away the Hogan children.
The next morning as Grant and his father rode from their home into town,
Grant told his father of the invitation to the Captain's party.
"If your mother could have lived just to see the Captain on his grand
plutocratic spree, Grant--" said his father. He did not finish the
sentence, but cracked the lines on the old mare's back and looked at the
sky. He turned his white beard and gentle eyes upon his son and said,
"There was a time last night, before you came in, when I thought I had
her. Some one was greatly interested in you and some new project you
have in mind. Emerson thinks well of it," said Amos, "though," he added,
"Emerson thinks it won't amount to much--in practical immediate results.
But I think, Grant, now of course, I can't be sure," the father rubbed
his jaw and shook a meditative head, "it certainly did seem to me mother
was there for a time. Something kept bothering Emerson--calling
Grantie--the way she used to--all the time he was talking!"
The father let Grant out of the buggy at the Vanderbilt House in South
Harvey, and the old mare and her driver jogged up town to the
_Tribune_ office. There he creaked out of the buggy and went to his
work. It was nine o'clock before the Captain came capering in, and the
two old codgers in their seventies went into the plot of the surprise
party with the enthusiasm of boys.
After the Captain had explained the purpose of the surprise, Amos Adams
sat with his hands on his knees and smiled. "Well--well, Ezry--I didn't
realize it. Time certainly does fly. And it's all right," he added, "I'm
glad you're going to do it. She certainly will approve it. And the
girls--" the old man chuckled, "you surely will settle them for good and
all."
He laughed a little treble laugh, cracked and yet gleeful. "Nice
girls--all of 'em. But Grant says Jap's a kind of shining around your
Ruth--that's the singing one, isn't it? Well, I suppose, Ezry, either of
'em might do worse. Of course, this singing one doesn't remember her
mother much, so I suppose she won't be much affected by your surprise?"
He asked a question, but after his manner went on, "Well, maybe it was
Jap and Ruth that was bothering Mary last night. I kind of thought
someway, for the first time maybe I'd get her. But nothing much came of
it," he said sadly. "It's funny about the way I've never been able to
get her direct, when every one else comes--isn't it?"
The Captain was in no humor for occult things, so he cut in with: "Now
listen here, Amos--what do you think of me asking Mrs. Herdicker to sit
at one end of the table, eh? Of course I know what the girls will
think--but then," he winked with immense slyness, "that's all right. I
was talking to her about it, and she's going to have a brand new
dress--somepin swell--eh? By the jumping John Rogers, Amos--there's a
woman--eh?"
And tightening up his necktie--a scarlet creation of much pride--he
pulled his hat over his eyes, as one who has great affairs under it, and
marched double-quick out of the office.
You may be sure that some kind friend told the Morton girls of what was
in store for them, the kind friend being Mr. George Brotherton, who
being thoroughly married, regarded any secret from his wife in the light
of a real infidelity. So he told her all that he and Market Street knew.
Now the news of the party--a party in whose preparations they were to
have no share, roused in the Misses Morton, and their married sister,
jointly and severally, that devil of suspicion which always tormented
their dreams.
"And, Emma," gasped Martha, when Emma came over for her daily visit,
"just listen! Mrs. Herdicker is having the grandest dress made for the
party! She told the girls in the store she had twenty-seven dollars'
worth of jet on it--just jet alone." Here the handsome Miss Morton
turned pale with the gravity of the news. "She told the girls to-day,
this very afternoon, that she was going to take the three o'clock
morning train right after the party for New York to do her fall buying.
Fall buying, indeed! Fall buying," the handsome Miss Morton's voice
thickened and she cried, "just because papa's got a little money, she
thinks--"
But what she thought Miss Morton never said, for Mrs. Brotherton, still
familiar with the gossip of the schoolhouse, cut in to say: "And,
Martha, what do you think those Copini children say? They say father's
got their father's orchestra to practice all the old sentimental music
you ever heard of--'Silver Threads Among the Gold,' and 'Do You Love Me,
Molly Darling,' and 'Lorena,' and 'Robin Adair,'--and oh," cried Mrs.
Brotherton, shaking a hopeless head, "I don't know what other silly
things."
"And yes, girls," exclaimed the youngest Miss Morton flippantly, "he's
sent around to the Music School for Miss Howe to come and sing 'O
Promise Me'!"
"The idea!" cried the new Mrs. Brotherton.
"Why, the very idea!" broke out the handsome Miss Morton, sitting by the
dining-room table.
"The idea!" echoed the youngest Miss Morton, putting away her music
roll, and adding in gasping excitement: "And that isn't the worst. He
sent word for her to sing it just after the band had finished playing
the wedding march!"
Now terror came into the house of Morton, and when the tailor's boy
brought home a package, the daughters tore it open ruthlessly, and
discovered--as they sat limply with it spread out in its pristine beauty
on the sofa before them--a white broadcloth dinner suit--with a watered
silk vest. Half an hour later, when a pleated dress shirt with pearl
buttons came, it found three daughters sitting with tight lips waiting
for their father--and six tigers' eyes glaring hungrily at the door
through which he was expected. At six o'clock, when they heard his
nimble step on the porch, they looked at one another in fear, and as he
burst into the room, each looked decisively at the other as indicating a
command to begin.
He came in enveloping them in one all-encompassing hug and cried:
"Well 'y gory, girls, you certainly are the three graces, the three
fates, and the world, the flesh and the devil all in one--what say?"
But the Morton daughters were not to be silenced. Ruth took in a deep
breath and began:
"Well, now see here, father, do you know what people are saying about--"
"Of course--I was just coming to that, Ruthie," answered the Captain.
"Amos Adams he says, 'Well, Cap,' say he, 'I was talking to Cleopatra
and she says Queen Victoria had a readin' to the effect that there was a
boy named Amos Ezra Morton Adams over on one of the stars in the
southwest corner of the milky way that would be busting into this part
of the universe in about three years, more or less'--what say?"
The old man laughed and Ruth flushed red, and ran away. The Captain saw
his suit lying on the sofa.
"Somepin new--" interjected the Captain. "Thought I'd kind o' bloom out;
sort o' to let folks know that the old man had a little kick in him
yet--eh? And now, girls--listen; let's all go out to the Country Club
for dinner to-night, and I'll put on my new suit and you kind of rig up
in your best, and we'll make what George calls a killing--what say?" He
put his hands in his pockets and looked critically at his new clothes.
The flight of Ruth had quieted Emma, but Martha came swooping down on
him with "Now, father--look here--about that Country Club party--"
The Captain shot a swift glance at Martha, and saw Emma looking at him
from the kitchen door.
"What party?" he exclaimed. "Can't I ask my girls out for a little
innocent dinner without its being called a party--eh? Now, you girls get
your things on and come on. As for me, the limousine will be at the door
at eight!"
He disappeared up the stairs and in the Morton household, two young
women, woeful and heavy hearted, went about their toilets, while in the
Brotherton establishment, one large fat man in suspenders felt the rush
of sudden tears on his shirt front and marveled at the ways of the sex.
When the Mortons were in the midst of their moist and lugubrious task,
the thin, cracked little voice of the Captain called out:
"Girls--before you go, don't forget to put that cold beef on and stew it
to-night for hash in the morning--eh?"
It was a beautiful party that Captain Morton gave at the Country Club
house that evening. And at the end of a most gorgeously elaborate
dinner, wherein were dishes whose very names the Captain did not know,
he rose among his guests seated at the U-shaped table in the big dining
room with the heavy brown beams in the ceiling, a little old man by his
big chair, which stood beside a chair unoccupied.
"Friends," he said, "when a man gets on in his seventies, at that
uncertain time, when he does not know whether to be ashamed of his years
or proud of his age," he smiled at Daniel Sands, who clicked his
false-teeth in appreciation of the phrase, "it would seem that thoughts
of what the poet calls 'the livelier iris' on the 'burnished dove' would
not inconvenience him to any great extent--eh? At seventy-five a young
fellow's fancy ought to be pretty well done lightly turning to thoughts
of love--what say? But by cracky--they don't."
He paused. The Morton girls in shame looked at their plates. "So, I just
thought I'd have this little party to tell you about it. I wanted to
surprise the girls." There was only a faint clapping of hands; for tears
in the eyes of the three Morton daughters discouraged merriment.
"A man, as I was saying, never gets too old--never gets too crabbed, for
what my friend Amos's friend Emerson calls 'a ruddy drop of manly
blood'--eh? So, when that 'ruddy drop of manly blood' comes a surging up
in me, I says I'll just about have a party for that drop of manly blood!
I'm going to tell you all about it. There's a woman in my mind--a very
beautiful woman; for years--a feller just as well breakdown and
confess--eh?--well for years she's been in my mind pretty much all the
time--particularly since Ruthie there was a baby and left alorn and
alone--as you may say--eh? And so," he reached down and grasped a goblet
of water firmly, and held it before him, "and so," he repeated, and his
old eyes glistened and his voice broke, "as it was just fifty years ago
to-night that heaven opened and let her come to me, before I marched off
to war--so," he hurried along, "I give you this toast--the vacant
chair--may it always, always, always be filled in my heart of hearts!"
He could not drink, but sank with his head on his arms, and when they
had ceased clapping their hands, the old man looked up, signaled to the
orchestra, and cried in a tight, cracked voice, "Now, dern ye--begin yer
fiddlin'!"
Whereupon the three Morton daughters wept and the old ladies gathered
about them and wept, and Mrs. Hilda Herdicker's ton of jet heaved as in
a tidal wave, and the old men dried their eyes, and only Lila Van Dorn
and Kenyon Adams, holding hands under the table, really knew what it was
all about.
Now they have capered through these pages of this chapter--all of the
people in this story in their love affairs. Hand in hand, they have come
to the footlights, hand in hand they have walked before us. We have seen
that love is a passion with many sides. It varies with each soul. In
youth, in maturity, in courtship, in marriage, in widowhood, in
innocence, and in the wisdom of serpents, love reflects the soul it
shines on. For love is youth in the heart--youth that always beckons,
that always shapes our visions. Love ever sheens and shimmers brightly
from within us; but what it shows to the world--that is vastly different
with each of us. For that is the shadow of his inmost being.