"I can turn it," said Miss Mary, and standing up for a momen_The Strange Cases of Dr. Stanchon

Produced by Al Haines

[Frontispiece: "He had a sudden flashing sense of being in a net that

was softly tightening."]

THE

STRANGE CASES OF

DR. STANCHON

JOSEPHINE DASKAM BACON

AUTHOR OF

"THE INHERITANCE," "THE MEMOIRS OF A BABY,"

"THE MADNESS OF PHILIP," ETC.

NEW YORK AND LONDON

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

1913

JOSEPHINE DASKAM BACON

Printed in the United States of America

M. A. T.

WHO WATCHED MANY OF

THESE STORIES IN THE MAKING

J. D. B.

CONTENTS

THE KEY

THE CHILDREN

THE CRYSTAL

THE GOSPEL

THE GYPSY

THE WARNING

THE LEGACY

THE MIRACLE

THE UNBURIED

THE ORACLES

THE KEY

The young doctor stamped vehemently up the marble steps, to warm his

feet, and once in the warm, flower-scented halls, let a little shiver

escape him. The butler was new--he was always new, the doctor

thought--and actually didn't know him.

"Mrs. Allen is at bridge, sir, with a party: she asks to be excused,"

he began mechanically.

(_"That's good!" Stanchon felt tempted to say, "and I hope the girls

are out, too!"_) As if in answer to this indiscretion, the new butler

droned on:

"Miss Alida is at her riding-lesson and Miss Suzanne is--is engaged----"

(_"Now, what particular infernal idiocy is Suzanne at, I wonder?"

Stanchon pondered, still smiling lightly at the butler and warming

himself at every breath._)

"Mr. Edmund is--I think he could be found, sir," the voice went on.

(_"I don't doubt it," Stanchon agreed mentally, "at the side board, no

doubt; a nice time of day for a lad of twenty to be hanging about the

house!"_)

But all he said was:

"I am the doctor. I called to see Miss Mary."

"Oh!" Even this new butler assumed a look of burdened intelligence; he

leaned toward the visitor, "Oh, yes, sir--Miss Mary. I understood that

it wouldn't be possible for Miss Mary to see anybody, sir, but I

suppose, the doctor----"

"Certainly," said Stanchon curtly. "Please send word to her nurse that

I am here."

"Yes, sir," but the man hesitated, even as he took the hat held out to

him, "yes, sir, but--but ... it isn't Dr. Jarvyse, is it, sir?"

A slow, dark red spread over Stanchon's forehead.

(_"So they've sent for Jarvyse--well, I might have known. Nice,

tactful crowd, aren't they!"_)

He scowled slightly and set his jaw.

"No, I'm Dr. Stanchon," he said. "Dr. Jarvyse is coming later, I

suppose. Kindly let Miss Jessop know that I am here, will you? I

haven't much time."

The man sped swiftly down the hall, after depositing his hatless charge

in a blue satin reception-room, and Stanchon stared, unseeing, at the

old Chinese panels and ivory figures that dotted its walls and tables.

The strong odour of freesias and paper-narcissus hung heavy in the

room; the roar of the great, dirty, cold city was utterly shut away and

a scented silence, costly and blue and drowsy, held everything.

Presently the nurse stood before him, smiling, and he saw that her

usual modish house dress was changed for the regulation white duck and

peaked cap of her profession.

"What's all this?" he asked, and she shrugged her broad shoulders.

"She told me to put it on to-day. 'You're really a nurse, you know,

Miss Jessop,' she said, 'and if I require one, it might as well be

known.' Of course, I had it here, so I got it right out. Poor Miss

Mary!"

"I see they've sent for Jarvyse?"

She nodded uncomfortably.

"Then it's all over but the shouting, I suppose?" Again she shrugged.

The fatalism of her training spoke in that shrug, and the necessity for

taking everything as it comes--since everything is bound to come!

"H'm..." he meditated deeply, and all the youth went out of his face,

suddenly: he might have been forty-five or fifty. At such times the

nurses and the other doctors always watched him eagerly; it was

supposed that it was then that those uncanny intuitions came to him,

that almost clairvoyant penetration of the diseased minds that were his

chosen study.

"How is she?" he asked abruptly.

"Oh, very much the same, doctor. I can't see much difference."

"But you see a little?"

She moved uncomfortably.

"I don't say that ... it's nothing she says or does--but--sometimes I

think she's a little more--a little less..."

"A little less normal?"

She rested, relieved.

"Yes, just that."

Across the broad halls came a wave of sudden sound: movement of

drapery, faint clashes of metallic substances and glass, broken

feminine cries and light, breathy laughter. A difference in the air

became noticeable, new perfumes floated in to the little blue room,

perfumes and the odour of expensive, warm fur.

--"You don't mean to say that you discard from a strong suit--always?"

"My dear, I had nothing but that queen--nothing!"

--"And that's why, as Elwell says...."

--"And so he absolutely refuses to play with women!"

Evidently a door had been opened, somewhere. The next moment brought a

new whiff of cold, fresh air and the sound of a motor, then silence

again, sudden and profound, from the street-side. A deep, almost

dramatic voice silenced the confused babble.

"My dear, I'm frightfully sorry, but I simply could _not_ manage to get

here before! Why weren't any of you at the lecture? _Moyen Age_

house-furniture and decoration--terribly interesting. It's a shame to

miss a thing like that. Is my table all made up? Never mind, I can

cut in any time. Yes, Mrs. Allen, I know, but really, you ought not to

neglect the intellectual side, entirely, you know!"

The door closed instantly, and again they stood alone in the heavy

silence. It was as if a curtain had been lifted swiftly on some

bustling, high-lighted scene and dropped as swiftly. Only a strong,

heady scent floated in on them, troubling, suggestive, complicated.

"What is that?" Stanchon asked, sniffing.

"Oh, one of those new Russian perfumes," the nurse said. "I hate them."

"Russian?" he looked puzzled.

"Don't you know it's a Russian season?" she instructed him. "Dancers

and music and hats--those high fur ones--and perfumes? And all that

Byzantine embroidery? You must have noticed!"

"Oh!" He considered thoughtfully. "I _had_ noticed the perfumes. But

I didn't know why it was.... Well, am I to see Miss Mary?"

"I don't know why not, doctor," she said. "She always likes to see

you. And I suppose you'll consult with Dr. Jarvyse, won't you?"

"I suppose so," he agreed, "though, of course, nobody's asked me. Is

she going out, this weather?"

"No: I wish she would. She says it tires her too much. It's a pity

she hates the South so."

They walked to the tiny tapestried lift, beyond the curve of the great

stairs, and she pressed the ivory button that sent them up. At the

fourth floor the car settled lightly and they stepped out.

"She's not speaking much," the nurse warned him, "but of course she

may, for you. Very gloomy, for two days, she's been."

She knocked lightly at a door and entered without waiting. The room

was very light, with bowls of cut flowers everywhere and a pair of

green love-birds billing eternally on a brass standard: they chirped

softly now and then. A miniature grand piano filled one corner, and

the light fell richly on the tooled leather of low book-cases, and

slipped into reflected pools of violet, green and blood-red on the

polished floor. A great tiger skin stretched in front of a massive,

claw-legged davenport, and in the corner of it, away from the cheerful,

crackling fire, a black-haired woman sat, tense and silent, her eyes

fixed in a brooding stare. She was all in delicate, cunningly mingled

tints of mauve, violet and lavender; near her neck tiny diamond points

winked; magnificent emeralds edged with diamonds lay like green stains

on her long white hands. In her dark immobility, among the rich, clear

objects scattered so artfully about the sun-lighted chamber, she had a

marvellous effect of being the chief figure in some modern French

artist's impressionistic "interior." She gave a distinct sense of

having been bathed and dried, scented and curled, dressed--and

abandoned there, between the love-birds and the polished piano: a large

gold frame about the room would have supplied the one note lacking.

"Well, Miss Mary, and how goes it?" Dr. Stanchon said, sitting beside

her and taking her hand easily, since she failed to notice his own

outstretched.

She lifted her eyes slightly to his, moved her lips, then sighed a

little and dropped her lids. She might have been a young-looking woman

of forty, or a girl of twenty-five who had been long ill or distressed.

"Come, now, Miss Mary, I hear you've given me up--wasn't I high priced

enough for you? Because I can always accommodate, you know, in that

direction," Stanchon went on persuasively.

Again she raised her eyes, swallowed, appeared to overcome an almost

unconquerable lethargy of spirit, and spoke.

"It's no use, doctor, all that. I've given up. It's all one to me,

now. Don't bother about me."

Stanchon looked genuinely concerned. He had worked hard over this

case, and it cut his pride to have the great specialist, with his

monotonous inflexible system, summoned against his express wish. That

meant they were all tired, disgusted, sick of the whole business. They

were determined to be rid of her.

"I wish you wouldn't look at it that way, Miss Mary," he said gently.

"I don't believe you need give up--if you'll only make an effort. But

it's fatal to give 'way: I've always told you that."

"Yes. You always told me that. You were always open and fair," she

said wearily, "but now you see it is fatal, for I _have_ given 'way.

Please go," she added nervously. "I feel more like crying. Ask him to

go, Miss Jessop..."

Her voice grew peevish and uncontrolled, and he bowed slightly and left

her. It was too bad, but there was nothing to do. Once or twice in

his brilliant career he had felt that same heavy hopelessness,

realized, to his disgust, that the patient's dull misery was creeping

over him, too, and that he had no power to help.

"Oh, well, you can't win out all the time," he said to himself

philosophically, "and it isn't as if she wouldn't have every comfort.

Old Jarvyse looks after them well: I'll say that for him."

The new butler met him as the lift reached the drawing-room floor.

"Mr. Edmund would like to see you a moment, sir," he murmured.

"He's--he's in the dining-room, doctor."

Stanchon turned abruptly and plunged into the great, dim leather-hung

apartment. He always felt as if he were entering into some vast cave

under the sea, when he crossed the threshold of this room, and the

peculiar odour of the leather always caught at his breath and choked

him for a moment. Edmund looked sulkier and more futile than usual,

even, and the cigarette that dropped from his trimmed and polished hand

had a positively insolent angle.

"Oh! How do!" he said discontentedly. "Been upstairs, I hear?"

"Yes," Stanchon answered briefly.

"Well, ... how about it?"

"I'm sorry to say your aunt is a little worse to-day; it may be,

probably is, nothing but a passing phase----"

"Ah, go on!" Edmund burst out. "Phase, nothing! She's as dippy as

they make 'em, Stanchon, and I'm through with it!"

The older man looked his disgust, but Edmund scowled and went on.

"After day before yesterday afternoon, I told Suzanne I'd come to the

end of my rope, and I meant it. I suppose you heard about it?"

"No."

"Oh, Miss Jessop knows. Upsetting a whole luncheon, and one the girls

had worked over, too, I can tell you! Why, they had three reporters on

their knees to hear about that luncheon!"

"Really?" Stanchon inquired politely.

"Yes. But Alida wouldn't let mother say a word. And that was all

right, too. And then what does Aunt Mary do but say she's coming? And

mother weakened and said we'd have to let her, because either she is

all right or she isn't, and according to you, we're not to admit she

isn't--yet. So she comes, and what does she do but insult two of the

biggest swells there, right to their face! And when Suzanne tried to

carry it off, she just turns stubborn and never opens her mouth again.

Queered the whole thing. Broke the women all up. Suzanne says, never

again! And I'm with her. I had Jarvyse called in and he's going to

make his final decision today. Of course, if he wants to consult,

we'll be glad----"

"Dr. Jarvyse and I will settle all that, thanks," Stanchon interrupted

coldly. "I regret that your sisters should have been annoyed, but as I

explained to your mother, inconveniences of this sort would be bound to

occur, and the only question was----"

"The only question is," Edmund blustered, "are we to be queered in New

York for good by a woman who ought to have been shut up long ago! It's

up to me, now, as the man of the house, and I say, no."

He dabbed his cigarette viciously into a wet ring on the silver tray

beside him and filled a tiny glass from a decanter; his hand shook.

Stanchon's mounting wrath subsided. The boy became pathetic to him;

behind his dapper morning clothes, his intricate studs and fobs and

rings, his reedy self-confidence, the physician saw the faint, grisly

shadow of a sickly middle-age, a warped and wasted maturity.

"I'm sorry for you all," he said kindly. "Don't think I don't

appreciate the strain ... your mother has tried her best, I'm sure.

And--and go slow on those cigarettes, Allen, why don't you? They won't

help that cough, you know. And you told me you'd cut out the Scotch."

"Oh, that's all right," Edmund assured him. "I was seasoned in the

cradle, doc! Remember the old man's cigars?"

Stanchon put on his gloves.

"Your father was a very strong man," he said quietly, "and a hard

worker. And I've already reminded you that he didn't inhale. And for

more years than you've lived, Allen, he worked out of doors. I don't

want to nag at you, but just give it a thought now and then. And let

me know if I can do anything for you, ever. My regards to your

sisters."

As he paused at the curb, a short man in heavy motoring furs stumbled

out of a luxurious landaulet and would have gone down on the

treacherous pavement without Stanchon's quick arm.

"All right, doctor, all right," he smiled, as he braced himself for the

little man's weight. "Glad I was here. I've just left Mary--she's

getting a little unmanageable, I hear."

"Yes, yes," the little man panted, "she'll do better out of the family.

Yes, yes. They often do, you know. Position's perfectly anomalous

here, you know--constant friction."

"I see," said Stanchon. "Let me walk up to the door with you--I've

practiced on the steps, once today. You make it ..."

"Oh, clear paranoia," Jarvyse finished the sentence promptly. "They go

right along, you know. Perfectly typical. Good days--yes. Of course.

Everybody encouraged. Come to a ladies' luncheon--fat in the fire

directly. No keeping servants, you know. All that sort of thing.

Ever show you my card-catalogue of women between thirty-eight and

thirty-nine? No? Ask me some day."

The younger man pressed the electric button and turned the bronze knob

of the outer door, wrought and decorated like some great public tomb.

"Thanks, I'd be interested," he said.

"You knew the brother, didn't you?" Jarvyse went on, breathing easier

in the warmth of the vestibule. "Nothing out of the way there?"

"Absolutely not. He had the constitution of a bull. But I fear he's

not handed it on to his son."

"Ugh, no! Nasty little cub. Those families don't last. Daughters

always stronger. I give him fifteen ... eighteen years," the alienist

said placidly.

The inner door opened and Stanchon turned to go.

"Come up and see the patient," Jarvyse suggested, over his shoulder,

one glove already off. "Pleased to have you, and so would she, of

course. You'll find her much happier."

* * * * *

But Miss Mary was not happier. Freed of the contemptuous _brusquerie_

of Edmund, the thinly-veiled dislike of the girls, the

conscience-stricken attempts of her sister-in-law, she had felt for a

time the relief of a strain abandoned, the comfort of a definite

position. They had come to see her, too, and their timid overtures of

interest, their obvious surprise at the ease with which this great

change had been effected, their frank amazement at the luxury and

silken routine in which they found her, had almost established

relations long since fallen out of use. But the novelty had faded, the

visits grew fewer and shorter, the very telephone messages languished;

and as she sat brooding alone, in the few unoccupied half-hours that

the omniscient System left her, a slow, sure conviction dropped like an

acid on the clouded surface of her mind: she was alone. She was no

longer a part of life as it was ordinarily lived. She and the others

who shared that rich, tended seclusion were apart from the usages and

responsibilities of the World that was counterfeited there. They were

unreal. Through all the exercise and repose, the baths and

manipulations, the music and the silences, the courtesies and the

deprecations, the flowers and the birds that brought an artificial

summer within the thick walls, one idea clanged like a bell through her

weary mind: _This is not real_.

To Dr. Stanchon, who came in the intervals allowed by his work, she

seemed sadly changed. It was not that her face looked heavier and more

fretfully lined; not that her voice grew more monotonous; not that she

seemed sunk in the selfish stupor that her type of suffering invariably

produces. He had seen all this in others and seen it change for a

better state. No; in Miss Mary the settled pessimism of a deep

conviction had an almost uncanny power of communicating itself to those

about her.

"She's in bad, that one," one of the gardeners said to him, on a windy

March day when he had hunted for her over half-a-dozen guarded acres,

and found her sitting in one of her heavy silences under a sunny ledge

of rock.

"She's quiet and easy, but she's one of the worst of 'em, in my

opinion."

And when she turned to him a moment later and said quietly: "Tell me,

once for all, Dr. Stanchon, do you consider me insane?" his voice

expressed all the simple sincerity of his eyes.

"Miss Mary, I tell you the truth--I don't know."

"But you know they'll never let me out?"

He braced himself. "How can they, Miss Mary, when you won't

promise----"

"Why should I promise anything, if I'm not insane? Would you promise

never to state your opinion in your own house?"

He shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"You see!" he said gently.

Beyond them the gardener struggled with a refractory horse that refused

to draw his load of brush and dead leaves. She stared at the group

dully: six months ago she would have flinched at the great clambering

hoofs and the man's danger.

"And even if I did give up and promise everything, do you believe I'd

get out, doctor?"

"I see no reason----"

"You don't need to lie to me," she interrupted. "When I signed that

paper, they fooled me: it was for good. It said six months--but it was

for good."

He felt a great sympathy for her. It was hard, very hard. And yet,

what they had been through with her!

"If only you hadn't refused to travel," he began.

"But I agreed to--I agreed to, last month," she cried, "even though I'm

never well travelling, I agreed to--and what happened? Dr. Jarvyse

said it wouldn't be best for me! And you did nothing..."

"How could I, Miss Mary?" he urged. "You know the only reason I see

you so often is that I acquiesce and don't interfere. The moment I

thought it would do any good----"

"You mean you're not sure, yourself!" she said keenly.

He sighed.

"You know I'm your friend," he said simply.

Her whole face changed. An almost disconcerting brightness flashed

over it. Through all the heaviness and fatigue and despair that had

yellowed her skin, dulled her eyes, and taken, it seemed, the very

sheen from her black hair, her lost girlhood flared a moment. With the

inconstant emotion of a child she smiled at him.

"I know you are," she murmured confidingly, "and I'll tell you

something, because you are."

"What is it, Miss Mary?" he said, but he sighed as he said it.

"Do you see how I'm dressed?" she half whispered. He looked,

uncomprehending, at the long light ulster she wore.

"Underneath, I'm in black," she said softly, "a whole suit. I have a

little bag packed right under this rock, and I have ninety dollars in

my bag, here." She tapped her waist, where a small shopping bag

dangled. "And I have an umbrella. I always sit near this gate."

"Why do you do such things, dear Miss Mary?" he said sadly. "It does

you no good--please try to believe me!"

"I never did, until I had the dream," she answered calmly. "This is

the third night I've had it. I dreamed I was near some gate, and I

looked down, and right before me on the path I saw a key--a great,

brown key! So I started to pick it up, and then I realised that I

wasn't prepared, that I had no money, and that I'd just be caught and

brought back. Then I woke. But I dreamed it over again the next

night, so I packed the bag and got it out here under this steamer-rug,

and asked for some money to buy presents when that embroidery woman

came from Lakewood. And I got it, of course, and bought some. She

said she was coming again. So I got more. Last night I dreamed it

again, and it looked like this gate, in the dream. That's three times.

Suzanne has those dreams, you know--she's like me, Suzanne--and they

always happen. So perhaps mine will. I tell you, because you're my

friend. And you would never have put me here."

Stanchon bit his lip. A sudden disgust of everything seized him.

"No, I wouldn't have put you here--once," he said slowly, then rose

abruptly.

"Hi, there, hold him! hold him, you fool!" he shouted. "Sit on his

head!"

The gardener's horse, beyond all control, now, was rolling furiously,

neighing and snapping. The man clung to the reins, keeping his

distance, but as the animal gained his feet with a lurch, his finger

slipped and he, too, rolled over and over down the little slope to the

gravelled path. Stanchon was after the horse before the attendant had

picked himself up and was calling him angrily.

"Don't be alarmed, miss," the man panted. "The doctor and I can settle

him!" and staggering to his feet made off to the rescue. As he ran,

something clinked and rattled about his boots, and a bunch of keys lay

quiet on the gravel.

Miss Mary rose instantly, walked to them and put her foot over them,

but the man was several yards away and Stanchon and the horse were

struggling towards the wagon. Miss Mary stooped down and lifted the

keys; all had metal tags and the one in her hand read, _East Gate, by

shrubbery_. She stepped to the ledge, drew out a fair sized black

hand-bag, tucked her umbrella under her arm and looked about her. The

nearest gate, set in dense shrubbery, lay in a direct line with the

ledge, and as she slipped behind it the two men and the horse were

wiped out of her vision. With her usual quiet, long step she reached

the gate, fitted the key, turned it and opened the gate. She closed it

behind her, considered a moment, then tossed the keys back among the

thick, glossy rhododendrons.

"Just as I dreamed," she muttered, "but where is the carriage?"

She stood on the edge of a road she had never seen, a quarter of a mile

from the great wrought-iron entrance that had closed behind her half a

year ago, and looked vaguely about her, at the mercy of Fate. And

Fate, that quaint old lady who holds you and me and Miss Mary in the

hollow of her hand, smiled and gave a tiny pat and a push to the shiny

little electric run-about of Miss Winifred Jarvyse, a handsome young

Diana, who had never seen the inside of the great walled estate next

her father's private grounds, so that she waved her hand cordially,

stopped out of pure good feeling for the absent-minded stranger in the

beautiful coat, and asked if she could drop her at the station!

"Why, yes, thank you," said Miss Mary, still vaguely.

"It's going to rain and I've no cover on," said Winifred. "It's a pity

about your coat."

"I can turn it," said Miss Mary, and standing up for a moment she

slipped the sleeves of the ulster, shook herself slightly and sat down

a totally different woman. So that when (such was the perfection of

the System) a quick call to the ticket office set the agent searching

twenty minutes later for a tall woman in a light tan coat, alone,

without luggage, he replied very truly that no such person had entered

his station. Only a friend of Miss Jarvyse had come to the 2:15, a

lady in a dark plaid ulster with bag and umbrella, in Miss Jarvyse's

car.

"I hope you found your friends--er--doing well?" said Miss Jarvyse

delicately.

"Thank you, they were very well," said Miss Mary gravely. And she took

the 2:15 for New York.

Nothing further than the immediate moment was in her mind. To her

thought, long confused and fleeting, the dreamlike character of this

sudden change seemed natural and simple. She had no plan of campaign,

no route of escape, no future. Her mind, relaxed from the quick

decision that had cleared its mists in the moment of action, began to

dull and settle and fall into its old rut of mechanical despair, when

suddenly the voices of two women in the seat behind her grew louder and

rose above the jar of the train.

"And so she decided to get it over while he was in the hospital. She

thought the dye would have to wear off gradually, but there's a place

on West Twenty-eighth Street--near Sixth Avenue, I think--where a

French woman guarantees to remove any dye, perfectly harmlessly, in two

hours. So she had it done, and he was delighted. My dear, she was

fifty, and the grey hair really was more becoming to her. Everybody

thinks so. But nobody knew her--I never saw such a change, at first.

If you know anybody who wants it done, just send them there. Some

French name."

And just as Miss Mary was drifting off to that dull world of grievances

in which she dwelt habitually, a new idea, as strong and definite as

that which took her through the gate caught and held her, and she wrote

in a little leather book in her bag, "28th St. west, near Sixth." Some

primitive instinct of caution directed her to a street car in

preference to a hansom or taxi-cab, and she found the French woman's

small, musty establishment with an ease that surprised her. Her coat,

obviously "imported," the elegance of her bag and umbrella, the air of

custom with which she submitted to others' ministrations, brought her

quick service, and in less than the guaranteed two hours she left

Madame, whose very considerable fee she paid with gloved hands, thus,

through sheer inadvertence, concealing the one trace of her

identity--her massive and beautiful rings. For no one of Dr. Jarvyse's

detectives could be expected to look at an iron-grey woman in black,

when searching for a black-haired woman in blue plaid. And none of

them, not the great Jarvyse, nor her maid even, knew that Miss Mary had

dyed her hair for ten years!

As she stood by a little optician's, on one of the great avenues,

later, gazing fascinated at her strange reflection in a large glass

there, terrified at her daring, doubtful if her freedom could endure,

two errand-girls, peering in with her in the imitative New York

fashion, held her with an idle sentence.

"Did you know Miss Mahoney with those glasses? I nearly fell over when

I seen her, honest! She was awful cross--the boss himself cut her

dead!"

"Say, what do you think of that now?"

"An' they're only window-glass, too! She told one o' the fitters. She

can stare at the ladies better she says, when they try to beat her

down."

They moved on, but Miss Mary entered the shop.

"Can I get a pair of eye-glasses made of window-glass?" she asked him

simply.

"Certainly, madam," and one would have supposed that leaders of fashion

generally were wearing these articles, so swiftly and unsmilingly did

he produce them and adjust them to her strong, dark eyes.

"Wonderful how they change a person, though," he admitted. "You

wouldn't believe it."

The price seemed very small to Miss Mary, whose last purchase in that

line had been a tortoise-shell lorgnette for her sister-in-law.

She had eaten very lightly at luncheon, for food was tasteless to her,

of late, and she had been so followed, tended and directed in all the

operations of life that she actually failed to recognise her sensations

as those of hunger. But her unwonted exertions, the strain on her

flagging brain, the stimulus of this unprecedented day, all combined to

flush her cheek feverishly and she felt strangely weak. For the first

time it flashed over her cleared faculties that she must go somewhere

and at once. New York was too dangerous for her; she must leave it.

A very panic of terror seized her and she half expected to hear Dr.

Jarvyse's soft voice at her shoulder. She started from the shop like

one pursued, and hurried foolishly on and on in an ecstasy of flight.

The streets were now dark, and Miss Mary, who had begun life in New

York with her own private hansom, felt singularly out of place in the

jostling crowd.

She stopped at the foot of an elevated railway station, and more

because she was pushed up the steps by the hurrying mass of humanity

that scurried like ants up and down, than for any other reason, climbed

wearily up. As she sat pressed against a dirty man with a bundle, a

sudden inconsequent thought struck her, and she removed her gloves in a

leisurely way, took off her rings, dropped them into a roll of

chamois-skin in the large bag, added to them a diamond cross and

pendant from the lace at her neck and put on her gloves again. The

dirty man stared at her.

Then she lifted her eyes to a large sign above the car-windows and the

sign read:

_Avoid the biting March winds. You will find quiet, an even

temperature and perfect seclusion among the pines at restful Lakewood.

Take the ferry at 23d St._

So that when the guard announced Twenty-third Street, Miss Mary got up,

went down the stairs, tumbled with surprising facility upon a

cross-town car and made for the ferry. And the dirty man went down the

stairs with her.

Fate put Miss Mary on just the right boat for a Lakewood Special, and

hunger cleared her mind to the extent of throwing her card-case over

the rail on the way across. Her umbrella and ulster she had left

behind on the elevated train, not being accustomed to carry such

things, and they were found by a thrifty old lady in the

second-hand-clothing line, who annexed them silently and forever. So

that when she arrived at the Lakewood Station and fell among the

cabbies and hotel touts she was the perfect type of the no-longer-young

spinster, unaccompanied, awkward and light of luggage, presumably light

of purse. The cabbies left her therefore, unchallenged, to a lad as

shy and awkward as herself, who mumbled something about quiet,

reasonable rooms, and received her yielded bag with a surprise as great

as her own.

Miss Mary was by now almost light-headed from hunger and excitement.

At the slightest pressure she would have told her story to the first

interested stranger, and thus ended her adventure, most surely. But

Fate led her to the door of one too full of trouble to heed Miss

Mary's. To Mrs. Meeker she was a lodger certainly, a boarder

possibly--in any event, a source of income. So long had she been

waiting for Miss Mary that she fairly snatched her bag from her and

pushed her up the faded, decent stairs into the faded, decent bedroom

with the cracked china toilet-set. Any one, _any one_ would have been

welcome to Mrs. Meeker, and Miss Mary's quiet elegance and handsome

travelling-bag were far beyond her hopes.

"A real lady," she whispered to her nephew. "Ask if she'd like a

little something on a tray, Georgie. I could poach that egg, and

there's tea. I won't say anything about a week in advance. She looks

tired to death."

Miss Mary's famishing senses cried out loudly at sight of the meagre

tray, and as the egg and tea passed her lips a strange, eager sensation

was hers, a delicious, gratified climax of emotion: Miss Mary was glad

she was alive! She savoured each morsel of the pitiful meal; she could

have wished it doubled; the cheap tea filled her nostrils with a balmy

odour; she was hungry.

And hardly had the food satisfied her when her eyelids fell, her head

dropped forward. Approaching oblivion drugged her ere it reached her

and she dozed in her chair. But some instinct forced her to her feet

as the landlady appeared, and fumbling in her bag for her card-case and

pocketbook, she held herself awake.

"I'd like to pay," she murmured, "and then I'll--I'll go to bed. Will

you send some one, please?"

She meant some one to undress her, but Mrs. Meeker did not know this.

"It's--it's twelve a week, with board," she said, her eyes lighting at

the yellow bills in her lodger's hand, "and--oh, dear, yes, two weeks

is ample, Miss--Miss----"

"My cards are lost," said Miss Mary fretfully. "I can't think where I

left them. The man or somebody will know. Ask----"

She started to say, "Ask the doctor," for her memory was swallowed,

nearly, by sleepiness, and a curious woman would have had her secret in

a twinkle. But Mrs. Meeker was too thankful to be curious.

"Certainly, Miss--Miss----"

"Miss Mary," said the other, yawning, and the landlady repeated, "Yes,

Miss Merry. Can't I help you, you being so tired and all?"

"And she stuck out her feet for her shoes, just like a baby," she

confided to Georgie, later. "She went off before I got her undressed,

really; her folks ought to 've sent some one with her, worn out as she

was! You go 'round the first thing in the morning and tell the agent

I've got a fine boarder, and more expected. I feel real encouraged."

And all that night and all the next day Miss Mary slept dreamlessly,

for the first time in years without a drug to help her.

It did not seem unusual that Mrs. Meeker should have unpacked her few

things and laid them in the drawer of the battered bureau: some one

always unpacked her things. And when, strangely weak and relaxed, she

lay for three days more and ate dutifully from the tray, dozing between

whiles, nobody questioned her.

On the fourth day she woke into a grey, despondent world again. The

old angry, purposeless tears beset her and she felt that terrible

dumbness settling over her. She had long ceased to fight it, now; she

only wondered what Mrs. Meeker would do with her. But she never knew

what Mrs. Meeker would have done, for when the tired, drudging little

woman brought her breakfast tray she held it in dingily gloved hands;

she was dressed for a journey.

"My brother's down with a stroke," she said abruptly, "Georgie's

father, and wants to see me. I'll have to nurse him, prob'ly, and I

s'pose his sending means he's friendly again. It may just be I won't

need to come back, and I'm glad, of course, for I'm worth my keep to

him any day, and he'd ought to have took Georgie long ago. I'll soon

know, and I'll write you, and what I wanted to ask was, would you be

willin' to wait till I find out? It might be only temp'ry, and then

I'd be sorry to lose a boarder. Will you stay till you hear, anyway?"

Miss Mary nodded dumbly. She could not speak and she was ashamed that

she could not; _she had never been ashamed before_.

"That's good," said Mrs. Meeker quickly, "and the lady next door'll

give you meals. I'll settle with her--Mrs. Palmer. Her board's good,

and I'll only charge you five for the room. That makes a month you've

paid for. D'you see?"

Again, Miss Mary nodded.

"Then I'll get right off. It's Philadelphia I'm going to, and I'll

write you as soon's I know. But I count on you to stay."

"Yes, I'll stay."

Miss Mary forced the words harshly and it seemed that they would tear

her lips, so hard they came. But they came, and they sufficed for Mrs.

Meeker, who went out of her solitary lodger's life as quickly as she

had come into it, for Miss Mary never saw her again.

On that day she dressed herself slowly, and with a certain clumsiness,

took her little shopping bag and bought, with economy and taste, a very

fair outfit of simple clothing for the seventy dollars she had gained

on the strength of the peddler of embroideries; she passed the

peddler's very shop on her way. Underwear, a black dress, rubber

overshoes and a plain umbrella--nothing was forgotten.

"When my money is all gone, I will begin to sell the jewelry," she

thought, for she knew that she could live comfortably for the rest of

her life on less than the value of the emeralds and diamonds. She did

her shopping in a public victoria and brought the parcels home in it:

it was her only extravagance that day.

As she got out at the door of the little faded house and paid the

driver, it occurred to her that she had left it unlocked during her

absence, and in her remorse over this and the bustle of going to the

strange dining-room for luncheon, whither she was summoned by a

slatternly waitress, she forgot completely that on this day she had

sworn to stay alone in her room, to conceal from strangers her malady

of melancholy dumbness.

"But I'm _not_ that way--I'm _not_!" she whispered to herself in

amazement, "why, I talked to the clerks all the morning!" And so she

had, and none of the dozen at Mrs. Palmer's table that noon remarked

anything further than that Miss Merry seemed a quiet, shy sort of

person with a tendency to vagueness and little idea of passing the

butter dish.

She sorted and arranged her purchases all the afternoon; the little

roll of chamois-skin she kept carefully in the wrist-bag which never

left her arm.

At dinner Mrs. Palmer took her aside and with the touch on her arm Miss

Mary's blood turned to water. "She knows about me!" she thought and

nearly fell to the ground from weakness.

"I'm sorry I startled you," said Mrs. Palmer, "Mrs. Meeker said you

weren't any too strong, I remember. I only wanted to say that I've

sent three more roomers over to your house--she'll be only too glad, I

know. You don't mind, Miss Merry?"

"No. I don't mind," she answered, and her heart gave a great pump of

relief.

"It'll be more comfortable at night, too," said Mrs. Palmer. "That

makes the four rooms full, now, and I'll see that your room gets done

up every day with the others. I presume we'll hear from her soon."

The next day she approached Miss Mary with an open letter in her hand.

"Mrs. Meeker's to live with her brother, now, he's paralysed," she

announced. "She's sent me a check for the rent and you've paid

twenty-four dollars, I see. I'm going over to pack up her stuff and

she'll sell me the rest reasonable enough. I'm going to take her

house, too. There's a new roomer comes to-day--I think I'll put him in

her old room. Or if you," with a shrewd glance at Miss Mary, "wanted

to economise at all. I'd rent you hers for four dollars and give this

gentleman yours. And I'm usually paid in advance, so if you could make

it convenient----"

"I'll attend to it," said Miss Mary, "but I'll keep the room, I think.

I don't like change."

She went up to her room, and Dr. Jarvyse would have been amazed at the

easy quickness of her gait. She had it all planned, now--the diamonds

should go first, and then she would buy some fruit and a plant for her

room. She liked her room very much; she did as she pleased in it and

no one spied on her or suggested ways of passing the time. Was it some

faint memory of her room as a girl, before her brother made his great

fortune, that found this dull, half-worn chamber so home-like and

soothing? Every afternoon she dusted it, as the chambermaid suggested

most ladies expected to, and once she had turned the mattress and made

the bed, when the girl felt ill. It gave her a sense of competence and

executive ability.

Now she went to the little chamois skin roll, unpicked the tight knots

carefully, opened it--and dropped on her knees. The roll was empty.

On the compartment where the diamond cross had fitted, stretched a

soiled, streaked thumb mark; mechanically she sniffed it--it smelled of

tar. The dirty fellow with the bundle who had followed her down the

elevated steps had smelled of tar, too, had Miss Mary remembered it.

Well, it was over. She never had a moment's doubt. She had no means,

she could not starve, nobody would keep her, and she must go back to

Dr. Jarvyse. She groaned in anguish as she looked about her dear, safe

room and thought of the horrible luxury of that guarded prison, the

birds and the flowers and cruel kindness of those strangers who knew

every corner of her bureau, every word of her letters. Still, it must

be. The Allens would never take her back, and after this, she would be

watched as never before. It must be.

She met Mrs. Palmer on the threshold of what she had begun to call her

home. Mrs. Palmer looked worried and spoke sharply to the untidy

cleaning-woman behind her.

"Now, I do hope I can trust you," she said, "for I can't stay here to

watch. Three new gentlemen for meals, and I have no table for them!

And this whole house to be cleaned! And not a girl to be hired in the

town! I wish I had another room--I could rent it this afternoon."

"You can have mine," said Miss Mary quietly. "I have no money and I

must go."

Mrs. Palmer looked shrewdly at her.

"What made you think you had, before?" she said.

"I had some valuable jewelry--I expected to sell it. It must have been

stolen before I got here. I have nothing here to pay with, but I can

send it back to you from New York."

"Folks rich?" asked Mrs. Palmer.

Miss Mary nodded carelessly. That people should be rich was nothing to

her, and the practiced landlady saw this in a twinkling: no

protestations could have proved so much.

"But you don't get on well, I s'pose," she suggested.

"No. We don't get on well," Miss Mary repeated dully.

"I guess it's often so," said the other. Her placid acceptance of

these facts was very comforting to Miss Mary. She did not realise how

different she herself was from the vague, scared woman of a week ago;

nor how her quiet, well-dressed taciturnity impressed Mrs. Palmer.

"You find this agrees with you here, don't you?" the landlady asked,

tapping her teeth with a key, thoughtfully.

"Oh, yes, I like it here. I would have liked to stay."

"Well, Miss Merry, how'd you like to stay and help me?" said the

landlady. "To tell the truth, I've bit off more than I can chew, as

they say. I never had such a run of boarders, and it's all the girl

can do to look after the other house. What keeps my people is the

cooking, you see, and that I do mostly myself. I'm not fit to talk to

the ladies and gentlemen, with my hair all stringy, and smelling of

cooking. I know it well enough. I had some thought of asking Mrs.

Meeker to go in with me and look after this house and take the head of

the table, and keep the books. But you could do it, if you wanted, and

you'd look more--more--not that Mrs. Meeker wasn't a lady, of course,

but--well, some people look the part better than others."

Miss Mary's brain whirled. The head of the table! The books! It was

impossible. Why, the woman didn't realise that she was talking to

a--a--Patient, then! (They were never called anything but Patients at

Dr. Jarvyse's.)

"I--I'm afraid I haven't the experience," she began tremulously.

"I--sometimes my head--I can't always talk to people----"

"Oh, you talk enough," Mrs. Palmer interrupted, kindly. "That's just

what it is: some talk too much. Mr. Swartout (that's the literary

gentleman in brown--the one with the grey moustache) said you were so

quiet and dignified. You know you sat at the end, today, for

breakfast, and he said to me it would be pleasant if you kept that

place. That's what put it into my head, really. And I guess you've

had experience enough. Miss Jenny, that went with you through the

store when you bought those clothes (I know her, you see) said she'd

never seen seventy dollars used with more judgment nor made to go

further. I noticed what she said." She nodded shrewdly, as one who

knew the world.

"Well, I don't want to urge, but will you or won't you? I'd give board

and lodging and, say, twenty-five a month, till I could do better. The

Palmer House has just got to the point where there'll have to be a

change, or it'll get second-class."

"Very well, I will try," said Miss Mary huskily, and in a moment she

was alone, for Mrs. Palmer was half across the side-yard.

"Just boss that woman, then, and see if she can get the house clean by

evening," she called over her shoulder. "I leave her to you, Miss

Merry, and it's a weight off me, I can tell you!"

If Miss Mary had paused to think, she would have collapsed into tears

and sent for the doctor, but she could not stop, for the cleaning-woman

addressed her briskly.

"I suppose everything better come right out and get a good beating?"

she said, shouldering her mop; and Miss Mary controlled her quivering

lips, pressed her hands to her head, which must not, _could not_ fail

her now, and agreed.

Late in the afternoon Mrs. Palmer dashed over, her hair flying, her

dress untidy.

"Well, how'd you get along?" she began, but paused in the doorway of

the fresh, aired house, taking in, at one eagle glance, the white

curtains behind shining panes, the polished woodwork, the re-arranged

furniture.

"I guess that cleaning-woman met her match," she announced dryly. "You

must be nearly dead, Miss Merry! And all ready for dinner, too! I've

had a clean table cloth put on, and what do you think that Delia said?

'I'll just rub out me apron an' press it off,' she said, 'for if

_she's_ to head the table, I can see she'll be particular!'"

Nothing could have kept Miss Mary up but the fact that her own room was

yet uncleaned. The lust of soap and water had entered into her, and

she ate and answered and passed the butter dish like one in a dream,

looking forward with the last of her strength to sleeping in an

immaculate chamber. And at half-past one in the morning, she did so.

The warm bath in the painted tin tub was a luxury she had never

imagined; as the sheets received her tired body, aching in every joint,

she tasted for the one moment before sleep blotted out consciousness

the ecstasy of earned rest after steady, worried toil, and it was very

sweet. Privilege of the clumsiest hod-carrier, it was utterly new to

Miss Mary, and she in her innocence, thought it due to delight at the

prospect of board and lodging and, say, twenty-five dollars a month!

She did not know that she had hummed, unconsciously, during the

afternoon, a song of her early girlhood; nor that the blood, long

stagnant, that had raced through every vein as she stooped and beat and

lifted and cleansed, was driving the crawling vapours from that

mysterious grey tissue in her skull that had so long plagued and

confused her.

Nor did she know that the flowers on the table, the fresh chintz covers

for the worn lodging-house furniture, so recklessly provided by her,

the quick neatness of an apotheosised Delia and the gentle, reserved

welcome of the new housekeeper herself, were lifting the commonplace

boarding-house to a higher and still higher level. She only knew that

she worked harder and harder and never wept nor shuddered nor looked

out of black apathy into a cruel tantalizing world, whose inhabitants

had evil thoughts of her and wished and worked her ill.

"It's just as I always say," Mrs. Palmer observed, one afternoon in

May, as, resting in frank gingham and enveloping apron, she permitted

herself the luxury of a cup of tea in Miss Mary's own room. "What's

bred in the bones comes out in the blood. I had a gift for cooking

since I was ten, and there's little I'll thank a French chef to tell

me, Miss Merry. But I can't impress the boarders. I never could. And

I can't get the work out of servant-girls without screaming at

'em--never could. And look at you! Every man of 'em--that we

wanted--coming up two dollars a week, like gentlemen. And all for the

privilege of having this house bachelor. I thought they would. And

every man Jack of 'em booked for November first again. I tell you

what, Miss Merry, we'll paint both houses this fall, and I wouldn't

wonder, what with this spring being so backward and the season so long,

if we could paint and paper inside, right through, would you?"

"No," said the housekeeper, rocking gently, luxuriating in the

half-hour rest after a hard day on her feet with one servant gone.

"No, I wouldn't. That would be nice. I have something saved. You can

take that."

"Look at you!" cried Mrs. Palmer. "Saving on thirty a month! We'll

pretty near go halves, Miss Merry, from next November. What's bred in

the bone, as I said--you were born for the business!"

And the sister of Hiram Z. Allen, late Captain of Finance, blushed with

pleasure.

* * * * *