woman to whom he was to turn for sympathy for the rest of his life, and
felt a cold shiver of terror, that passed as quickly as it came. He
reached out his hand and placed it on the arm of the chair where his
wife's hand should have been, and patted the place kindly. He would shut
his eyes to everything but that she was good and sweet and his wife.
Whatever else she lacked that her beauty had covered up and hidden, and
the want of which had lain unsuspected in their previous formal
intercourse, could not be mended now. He would settle his step to hers,
and eliminate all those interests from his life which were not hers as
well. He had chosen a beautiful idol, and not a companion, for a wife.
He had tried to warm his hands at the fire of a diamond.
Stuart's eyes closed wearily as though to shut out the memories of the
past, or the foreknowledge of what the future was sure to be. His head
sank forward on his breast, and with his hand shading his eyes, he
looked beyond, through the dying fire, into the succeeding years.
* * * * *
The gay little French clock on the table sounded the hour of midnight
briskly, with a pert insistent clamor, and at the same instant a
boisterous and unruly knocking answered it from outside the library
door.
Stuart rose uncertainly from his chair and surveyed the tiny clock face
with a startled expression of bewilderment and relief.
"Stuart!" his friends called impatiently from the hall. "Stuart, let us
in!" and without waiting further for recognition a merry company of
gentlemen pushed their way noisily into the room.
"Where the devil have you been?" demanded Weimer. "You don't deserve to
be spoken to at all after quitting us like that. But Seldon is so
good-natured," he went on, "that he sent us after you. It was a great
success, and he made a rattling good speech, and you missed the whole
thing; and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. We've asked half the
people in front to supper--two stray Englishmen, all the Wilton girls
and their governor, and the chap that wrote the play. And Seldon and his
brother Sam are coming as soon as they get their make-up off. Don't
stand there like that, but hurry. What have you been doing?"
Stuart gave a nervous, anxious laugh. "Oh, don't ask me," he cried. "It
was awful. I've been trying an experiment, and I had to keep it up until
midnight, and--I'm so glad you fellows have come," he continued, halting
midway in his explanation. "I _was_ blue."
"You've been asleep in front of the fire," said young Sloane, "and
you've been dreaming."
"Perhaps," laughed Stuart, gayly, "perhaps. But I'm awake now in any
event. Sloane, old man," he cried, dropping both hands on the
youngster's shoulders. "How much money have you? Enough to take me to
Gibraltar? They can cable me the rest."
"Hoorah!" shouted Sloane, waltzing from one end of the room to the
other. "And we're off to Ab-yss-in-ia in the morn-ing," he sang.
"There's plenty in my money belt," he cried, slapping his sides, "you
can hear the ten-pound notes crackle whenever I breathe, and it's all
yours, my dear boy, and welcome. And I'll prove to you that the
Winchester is the better gun."
"All right," returned Stuart, gayly, "and I'll try to prove that the
Italians don't know how to govern a native state. But who is giving this
supper, anyway?" he demanded. "That is the main thing--that's what I
want to know."
"You've got to pack, haven't you?" suggested Rives.
"I'll pack when I get back," said Stuart, struggling into his greatcoat,
and searching in his pockets for his gloves. "Besides, my things are
always ready and there's plenty of time, the boat doesn't leave for six
hours yet."
"We'll all come back and help," said Weimer.
"Then I'll never get away," laughed Stuart. He was radiant, happy, and
excited, like a boy back from school for the holidays. But when they had
reached the pavement, he halted and ran his hand down into his pocket,
as though feeling for his latch-key, and stood looking doubtfully at his
friends.
"What is it now?" asked Rives, impatiently. "Have you forgotten
something?"
Stuart looked back at the front door in momentary indecision.
"Y-es," he answered. "I did forget something. But it doesn't matter," he
added, cheerfully, taking Sloane's arm.
"Come on," he said, "and so Seldon made a hit, did he? I am glad--and
tell me, old man, how long will we have to wait at Gib for the P. & O.?"
Stuart's servant had heard the men trooping down the stairs, laughing
and calling to one another as they went, and judging from this that they
had departed for the night, he put out all the lights in the library and
closed the piano, and lifted the windows to clear the room of the
tobacco-smoke. He did not notice the beautiful photograph sitting
upright in the armchair before the fireplace, and so left it alone in
the deserted library.
The cold night-air swept in through the open window and chilled the
silent room, and the dead coals in the grate dropped one by one into
the fender with a dismal echoing clatter; but the Picture still sat in
the armchair with the same graceful pose and the same lovely expression,
and smiled sweetly at the encircling darkness.
THE EDITOR'S STORY
It was a warm afternoon in the early spring, and the air in the office
was close and heavy. The letters of the morning had been answered and
the proofs corrected, and the gentlemen who had come with ideas worth
one column at space rates, and which they thought worth three, had
compromised with the editor on a basis of two, and departed. The
editor's desk was covered with manuscripts in a heap, a heap that never
seemed to grow less, and each manuscript bore a character of its own, as
marked or as unobtrusive as the character of the man or of the woman who
had written it, which disclosed itself in the care with which some were
presented for consideration, in the vain little ribbons of others, or
the selfish manner in which still others were tightly rolled or vilely
scribbled.
The editor held the first page of a poem in his hand, and was reading it
mechanically, for its length had already declared against it, unless it
might chance to be the precious gem out of a thousand, which must be
chosen in spite of its twenty stanzas. But as the editor read, his
interest awakened, and he scanned the verses again, as one would turn to
look a second time at a face which seemed familiar. At the fourth stanza
his memory was still in doubt, at the sixth it was warming to the chase,
and at the end of the page was in full cry. He caught up the second page
and looked for the final verse, and then at the name below, and then
back again quickly to the title of the poem, and pushed aside the papers
on his desk in search of any note which might have accompanied it.
The name signed at the bottom of the second page was Edwin Aram, the
title of the poem was "Bohemia," and there was no accompanying note,
only the name Berkeley written at the top of the first page. The
envelope in which it had come gave no further clew. It was addressed in
the same handwriting as that in which the poem had been written, and it
bore the post-mark of New York city. There was no request for the return
of the poem, no direction to which either the poem itself or the check
for its payment in the event of its acceptance might be sent. Berkeley
might be the name of an apartment-house or of a country place or of a
suburban town.
The editor stepped out of his office into the larger room beyond and
said: "I've a poem here that appeared in an American magazine about
seven years ago. I remember the date because I read it when I was at
college. Some one is either trying to play a trick on us, or to get
money by stealing some other man's brains."
It was in this way that Edwin Aram first introduced himself to our
office, and while his poem was not accepted, it was not returned. On the
contrary, Mr. Aram became to us one of the most interesting of our
would-be contributors, and there was no author, no matter of what
popularity, for whose work we waited with greater impatience. But Mr.
Aram's personality still remained as completely hidden from us as were
the productions which he offered from the sight of our subscribers. For
each of the poems he sent had been stolen outright and signed with his
name.
It was through no fault of ours that he continued to blush unseen, or
that his pretty taste in poems was unappreciated by the general reader.
We followed up every clew and every hint he chose to give us with an
enthusiasm worthy of a search after a lost explorer, and with an animus
worthy of better game. Yet there was some reason for our interest. The
man who steals the work of another and who passes it off as his own is
the special foe of every editor, but this particular editor had a
personal distrust of Mr. Aram. He imagined that these poems might
possibly be a trap which some one had laid for him with the purpose of
drawing him into printing them, and then of pointing out by this fact
how little read he was, and how unfit to occupy the swivel-chair into
which he had so lately dropped. Or if this were not the case, the man
was in any event the enemy of all honest people, who look unkindly on
those who try to obtain money by false pretences.
The evasions of Edwin Aram were many, and his methods to avoid detection
not without skill. His second poem was written on a sheet of note-paper
bearing the legend "The Shakespeare Debating Club. Edwin Aram,
President."
This was intended to reassure us as to his literary taste and standard,
and to meet any suspicion we might feel had there been no address of any
sort accompanying the poem. No one we knew had ever heard of a
Shakespeare Debating Club in New York city. But we gave him the benefit
of the doubt until we found that this poem, like the first, was also
stolen. His third poem bore his name and an address, which on instant
inquiry turned out to be that of a vacant lot on Seventh Avenue near
Central Park.
Edwin Aram had by this time become an exasperating and picturesque
individual, and the editorial staff was divided in its opinion
concerning him. It was argued on one hand that as the man had never sent
us a real address, his object must be to gain a literary reputation at
the expense of certain poets, and not to make money at ours. Others
answered this by saying that fear of detection alone kept Edwin Aram
from sending his real address, but that as soon as his poem was printed,
and he ascertained by that fact that he had not been discovered, he
would put in an application for payment, and let us know quickly enough
to what portion of New York city his check should be forwarded.
This, however, presupposed the fact that he was writing to us over his
real name, which we did not believe he would dare to do. No one in our
little circle of journalists and literary men had ever heard of such a
man, and his name did not appear in the directory. This fact, however,
was not convincing in itself, as the residents of New York move from
flat to hotel, and from apartments to boarding-houses as frequently as
the Arab changes his camping-ground. We tried to draw him out at last by
publishing a personal paragraph which stated that several contributions
received from Edwin Aram would be returned to him if he would send
stamps and his present address. The editor did not add that he would
return the poems in person, but such was his warlike intention.
This had the desired result, and brought us a fourth poem and a fourth
address, the name of a tall building which towers above Union Square. We
seemed to be getting very warm now, and the editor gathered up the four
poems, and called to his aid his friend Bronson, the ablest reporter on
the New York ----, who was to act as chronicler. They took with them
letters from the authors of two of the poems and from the editor of the
magazine in which the first one had originally appeared, testifying to
the fact that Edwin Aram had made an exact copy of the original, and
wishing the brother editor good luck in catching the plagiarist.
The reporter looked these over with a critical eye. "The City Editor
told me if we caught him," he said, "that I could let it run for all it
was worth. I can use these names, I suppose, and I guess they have
pictures of the poets at the office. If he turns out to be anybody in
particular, it ought to be worth a full three columns. Sunday paper,
too."
The amateur detectives stood in the lower hall in the tall building,
between swinging doors, and jostled by hurrying hundreds, while they
read the names on a marble directory.
"There he is!" said the editor, excitedly. "'American Literary Bureau.'
One room on the fourteenth floor. That's just the sort of a place in
which we would be likely to find him." But the reporter was gazing
open-eyed at a name in large letters on an office door. "Edward K.
Aram," it read, "Commissioner of ----, and City ----."
"What do you think of _that_?" he gasped, triumphantly.
"Nonsense," said the editor. "He wouldn't dare; besides, the initials
are different. You're expecting too good a story."
"That's the way to get them," answered the reporter, as he hurried
towards the office of the City ----. "If a man falls dead, believe it's
a suicide until you prove it's not; if you find a suicide, believe it's
a murder until you are convinced to the contrary. Otherwise you'll get
beaten. We don't want the proprietor of a little literary bureau, we
want a big city official and I'll believe we have one until he proves we
haven't."
"Which are you going to ask for?" whispered the editor, "Edward K. or
Edwin?"
"Edwin, I should say," answered the reporter. "He has probably given
notice that mail addressed that way should go to him."
"Is Mr. Edwin Aram in?" he asked.
A clerk raised his head and looked behind him. "No," he said; "his desk
is closed. I guess he's gone home for the day."
The reporter nudged the editor savagely with his elbow, but his face
gave no sign. "That's a pity," he said; "we have an appointment with
him. He still lives at Sixty-first Street and Madison Avenue, I believe,
does he not?"
"No," said the clerk; "that's his father, the Commissioner, Edward K.
The son lives at ----. Take the Sixth Avenue elevated and get off at
116th Street."
"Thank you," said the reporter. He turned a triumphant smile upon the
editor. "We've got him!" he said, excitedly. "And the son of old Edward
K., too! Think of it! Trying to steal a few dollars by cribbing other
men's poems; that's the best story there has been in the papers for the
past three months,--'Edward K. Aram's son a thief!' Look at the
names--politicians, poets, editors, all mixed up in it. It's good for
three columns, sure."
"We've got to think of his people, too," urged the editor, as they
mounted the steps of the elevated road.
"He didn't think of them," said the reporter.
The house in which Mr. Aram lived was an apartment-house, and the brass
latchets in the hallway showed that it contained three suites. There
were visiting-cards under the latchets of the first and third stories,
and under that of the second a piece of note-paper on which was written
the autograph of Edwin Aram. The editor looked at it curiously. He had
never believed it to be a real name.
"I am sorry Edwin Aram did not turn out to be a woman," he said,
regretfully; "it would have been so much more interesting."
"Now," instructed Bronson, impressively, "whether he is in or not we
have him. If he's not in, we wait until he comes, even if he doesn't
come until morning; we don't leave this place until we have seen him."
"Very well," said the editor.
The maid left them standing at the top of the stairs while she went to
ask if Mr. Aram was in, and whether he would see two gentlemen who did
not give their names because they were strangers to him. The two stood
silent while they waited, eying each other anxiously, and when the girl
reopened the door, nodded pleasantly, and said, "Yes, Mr. Aram is in,"
they hurried past her as though they feared that he would disappear in
midair, or float away through the windows before they could reach him.
And yet, when they stood at last face-to-face him, he bore a most
disappointing air of every-day respectability. He was a tall, thin young
man, with light hair and mustache and large blue eyes. His back was
towards the window, so that his face was in the shadow, and he did not
rise as they entered. The room in which he sat was a prettily furnished
one, opening into another tiny room, which, from the number of books in
it, might have been called a library. The rooms had a well-to-do, even
prosperous, air, but they did not show any evidences of a pronounced
taste on the part of their owner, either in the way in which they were
furnished or in the decorations of the walls. A little girl of about
seven or eight years of age, who was standing between her father's
knees, with a hand on each, and with her head thrown back on his
shoulder, looked up at the two visitors with evident interest, and
smiled brightly.
"Mr. Aram?" asked the editor, tentatively.
The young man nodded, and the two visitors seated themselves.
"I wish to talk to you on a matter of private business," the editor
began. "Wouldn't it be better to send the little girl away?"
The child shook her head violently at this, and crowded up closely to
her father; but he held her away from him gently, and told her to "run
and play with Annie."
She passed the two visitors, with her head held scornfully in air, and
left the men together. Mr. Aram seemed to have a most passive and
incurious disposition. He could have no idea as to who his anonymous
visitors might be, nor did he show any desire to know.
"I am the editor of ----," the editor began. "My friend also writes for
that periodical. I have received several poems from you lately, Mr.
Aram, and one in particular which we all liked very much. It was called
'Bohemia.' But it is so like one that has appeared under the same title
in the '---- Magazine' that I thought I would see you about it, and ask
you if you could explain the similarity. You see," he went on, "it would
be less embarrassing if you would do so now than later, when the poem
has been published and when people might possibly accuse you of
plagiarism." The editor smiled encouragingly and waited.
Mr. Aram crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands in his lap.
He exhibited no interest, and looked drowsily at the editor. When he
spoke it was in a tone of unstudied indifference. "I never wrote a poem
called 'Bohemia,'" he said, slowly; "at least, if I did I don't remember
it."
The editor had not expected a flat denial, and it irritated him, for he
recognized it to be the safest course the man could pursue, if he kept
to it. "But you don't mean to say," he protested, smiling, "that you can
write so excellent a poem as 'Bohemia' and then forget having done so?"
"I might," said Mr. Aram, unresentfully, and with little interest. "I
scribble a good deal."
"Perhaps," suggested the reporter, politely, with the air of one who is
trying to cover up a difficulty to the satisfaction of all, "Mr. Aram
would remember it if he saw it."
The editor nodded his head in assent, and took the first page of the two
on which the poem was written, and held it out to Mr. Aram, who accepted
the piece of foolscap and eyed it listlessly.
"Yes, I wrote that," he said. "I copied it out of a book called _Gems
from American Poets_." There was a lazy pause. "But I never sent it to
any paper." The editor and the reporter eyed each other with outward
calm but with some inward astonishment. They could not see why he had
not adhered to his original denial of the thing _in toto_. It seemed to
them so foolish, to admit having copied the poem and then to deny having
forwarded it.
"You see," explained Mr. Aram, still with no apparent interest in the
matter, "I am very fond of poetry; I like to recite it, and I often
write it out in order to make me remember it. I find it impresses the
words on my mind. Well, that's what has happened. I have copied this
poem out at the office probably, and one of the clerks there has found
it, and has supposed that I wrote it, and he has sent it to your paper
as a sort of a joke on me. You see, father being so well-known, it would
rather amuse the boys if I came out as a poet. That's how it was, I
guess. Somebody must have found it and sent it to you, because _I_ never
sent it."
There was a moment of thoughtful consideration. "I see," said the
editor. "I used to do that same thing myself when I had to recite pieces
at school. I found that writing the verses down helped me to remember
them. I remember that I once copied out many of Shakespeare's sonnets.
But, Mr. Aram, it never occurred to me, after having copied out one of
Shakespeare's sonnets, to sign my own name at the bottom of it."
Mr. Aram's eyes dropped to the page of manuscript in his hand and rested
there for some little time. Then he said, without raising his head, "I
haven't signed this."
"No," replied the editor; "but you signed the second page, which I still
have in my hand."
The editor and his companion expected some expression of indignation
from Mr. Aram at this, some question of their right to come into his
house and cross-examine him and to accuse him, tentatively at least, of
literary fraud, but they were disappointed. Mr. Aram's manner was still
one of absolute impassibility. Whether this manner was habitual to him
they could not know, but it made them doubt their own judgment in having
so quickly accused him, as it bore the look of undismayed innocence.
It was the reporter who was the first to break the silence. "Perhaps
some one has signed Mr. Aram's name--the clerk who sent it, for
instance."
Young Mr. Aram looked up at him curiously, and held out his hand for the
second page. "Yes," he drawled, "that's how it happened. That's not my
signature. I never signed that."
The editor was growing restless. "I have several other poems here from
you," he said; "one written from the rooms of the Shakespeare Debating
Club, of which I see you are president. Your clerk could not have access
there, could he? He did not write that, too?"
"No," said Mr. Aram, doubtfully, "he could not have written that."
The editor handed him the poem. "It's yours, then?"
"Yes, that's mine," Mr. Aram replied.
"And the signature?"
"Yes, and the signature. I wrote that myself," Mr. Aram explained, "and
sent it myself. That other one ('Bohemia') I just copied out to
remember, but this is original with me."
"And the envelope in which it was enclosed," asked the editor, "did you
address that also?"
Mr. Aram examined it uninterestedly. "Yes, that's my handwriting too."
He raised his head. His face wore an expression of patient politeness.
"Oh!" exclaimed the editor, suddenly, in some embarrassment. "I handed
you the wrong envelope. I beg your pardon. That envelope is the one in
which 'Bohemia' came."
The reporter gave a hardly perceptible start; his eyes were fixed on the
pattern of the rug at his feet, and the editor continued to examine the
papers in his hand. There was a moment's silence. From outside came the
noise of children playing in the street and the rapid rush of a passing
wagon.
When the two visitors raised their heads Mr. Aram was looking at them
strangely, and the fingers folded in his lap were twisting in and out.
"This Shakespeare Debating Club," said the editor, "where are its rooms,
Mr. Aram?"
"It has no rooms, now," answered the poet. "It has disbanded. It never
had any regular rooms; we just met about and read."
"I see--exactly," said the editor. "And the house on Seventh Avenue from
which your third poem was sent--did you reside there then, or have you
always lived here?"
"No, yes--I used to live there--I lived there when I wrote that poem."
The editor looked at the reporter and back at Mr. Aram. "It is a vacant
lot, Mr. Aram," he said, gravely.
There was a long pause. The poet rocked slowly up and down in his
rocking-chair, and looked at his hands, which he rubbed over one another
as though they were cold. Then he raised his head and cleared his
throat.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, "you have made out your case."
"Yes," said the editor, regretfully, "we have made out our case." He
could not help but wish that the fellow had stuck to his original
denial. It was too easy a victory.