CHAPTER I.

UNLEAVENED BREAD

by

ROBERT GRANT

Author of _The Bachelor's Christmas_, etc.

Charles Scribner's Sons

New York

1900

CONTENTS

BOOK I

THE EMANCIPATION

BOOK II

THE STRUGGLE

BOOK III

THE SUCCESS

UNLEAVENED BREAD

BOOK I.

THE EMANCIPATION

CHAPTER I.

Babcock and Selma White were among the last of the wedding guests to

take their departure. It was a brilliant September night with a touch of

autumn vigor in the atmosphere, which had not been without its effect on

the company, who had driven off in gay spirits, most of them in

hay-carts or other vehicles capable of carrying a party. Their songs and

laughter floated back along the winding country road. Selma, comfortable

in her wraps and well tucked about with a rug, leaned back contentedly

in the chaise, after the goodbyes had been said, to enjoy the glamour of

the full moon. They were seven miles from home and she was in no hurry

to get there. Neither festivities nor the undisguised devotion of a city

young man were common in her life. Consideration she had been used to

from a child, and she knew herself to be tacitly acknowledged the

smartest girl in Westfield, but perhaps for that very reason she had

held aloof from manhood until now. At least no youth in her neighborhood

had ever impressed her as her equal. Neither did Babcock so impress her;

but he was different from the rest. He was not shy and unexpressive; he

was buoyant and self-reliant, and yet he seemed to appreciate her

quality none the less.

They had met about a dozen times, and on the last six of these occasions

he had come from Benham, ten miles to her uncle's farm, obviously to

visit her. The last two times her Aunt Farley had made him spend the

night, and it had been arranged that he would drive her in the Farley

chaise to Clara Morse's wedding. A seven-mile drive is apt to promote or

kill the germs of intimacy, and on the way over she had been conscious

of enjoying herself. Scrutiny of Clara's choice had been to the

advantage of her own cavalier. The bridegroom had seemed to her what her

Aunt Farley would call a mouse-in-the-cheese young man. Whereas Babcock

had been the life of the affair.

She had been teaching now in Wilton for more than a year. When, shortly

after her father's death, she had obtained the position of school

teacher, it seemed to her that at last the opportunity had come to

display her capabilities, and at the same time to fulfil her

aspirations. But the task of grounding a class of small children in the

rudiments of simple knowledge had already begun to pall and to seem

unsatisfying. Was she to spend her life in this? And if not, the next

step, unless it were marriage, was not obvious. Not that she mistrusted

her ability to shine in any educational capacity, but neither Wilton nor

the neighboring Westfield offered better, and she was conscious of a

lack of influential friends in the greater world, which was embodied for

her in Benham. Benham was a western city of these United States, with an

eastern exposure; a growing, bustling city according to rumor, with an

eager population restless with new ideas and stimulating ambitions. So

at least Selma thought of it, and though Boston and New York and a few

other places were accepted by her as authoritative, she accepted them,

as she accepted Shakespeare, as a matter of course and so far removed

from her immediate outlook as almost not to count. But Benham with its

seventy-five thousand inhabitants and independent ways was a fascinating

possibility. Once established there the world seemed within her grasp,

including Boston. Might it not be that Benham, in that it was newer, was

nearer to truth and more truly American than that famous city? She was

not prepared to believe this an absurdity.

At least the mental atmosphere of Westfield and even of the somewhat

less solemn Wilton suggested this apotheosis of the adjacent city to be

reasonable. Westfield had stood for Selma as a society of serious though

simple souls since she could first remember and had been one of them.

Not that she arrogated to her small native town any unusual qualities of

soul or mind in distinction from most other American communities, but

she regarded it as inferior in point of view to none, and typical of the

best national characteristics. She had probably never put into words the

reasons of her confidence, but her daily consciousness was permeated

with them. To be an American meant to be more keenly alive to the

responsibility of life than any other citizen of civilization, and to be

an American woman meant to be something finer, cleverer, stronger, and

purer than any other daughter of Eve. Under the agreeable but sobering

influence of this faith she had grown to womanhood, and the heroic deeds

of the civil war had served to intensify a belief, the truth of which

she had never heard questioned. Her mission in life had promptly been

recognized by her as the development of her soul along individual lines,

but until the necessity for a choice had arisen she had been content to

contemplate a little longer. Now the world was before her, for she was

twenty-three and singularly free from ties. Her mother had died when she

was a child. Her father, the physician of the surrounding country, a man

of engaging energy with an empirical education and a speculative habit

of mind, had been the companion of her girlhood. During the last few

years since his return from the war an invalid from a wound, her care

for him had left her time for little else.

No more was Babcock in haste to reach home; and after the preliminary

dash from the door into the glorious night he suffered the farm-horse to

pursue its favorite gait, a deliberate jog. He knew the creature to be

docile, and that he could bestow his attention on his companion without

peril to her. His own pulses were bounding. He was conscious of having

made the whirligig of time pass merrily for the company by his spirits

and jolly quips, and that in her presence, and he was groping for an

appropriate introduction to the avowal he had determined to make. He

would never have a better opportunity than this, and it had been his

preconceived intention to take advantage of it if all went well. All had

gone well and he was going to try. She had been kind coming over; and

had seemed to listen with interest as he told her about himself: and

somehow he had felt less distant from her. He was not sure what she

would say, for he realized that she was above him. That was one reason

why he admired her so. She symbolized for him refinement, poetry, art,

the things of the spirit--things from which in the same whirligig of

time he had hitherto been cut off by the vicissitudes of the varnish

business; but the value of which he was not blind to. How proud he would

be of such a wife! How he would strive and labor for her! His heart was

in his mouth and trembled on his lip as he thought of the possibility.

What a joy to be sitting side by side with her under this splendid moon!

He would speak and know his fate.

"Isn't it a lovely night?" murmured Selma appreciatively. "There they

go," she added, indicating the disappearance over the brow of a hill of

the last of the line of vehicles of the rest of the party, whose songs

had come back fainter and fainter.

"I don't care. Do you?" He snuggled toward her a very little.

"I guess they won't think I'm lost," she said, with a low laugh.

"What d'you suppose your folks would say if you _were_ lost? I mean if I

were to run away with you and didn't bring you back?" There was a

nervous ring in the guffaw which concluded his question.

"My friends wouldn't miss me much; at least they'd soon get over the

shock; but I might miss myself, Mr. Babcock."

Selma was wondering why it was that she rather liked being alone with

this man, big enough, indeed, to play the monster, yet half school-boy,

but a man who had done well in his calling. He must be capable; he could

give her a home in Benham; and it was plain that he loved her.

"I'll tell you something," he said, eagerly, ignoring her suggestion.

"I'd like to run away with you and be married to-night, Selma. That's

what I'd like, and I guess you won't. But it's the burning wish of my

heart that you'd marry me some time. I want you to be my wife. I'm a

rough fellow along-side of you, Selma, but I'd do well by you; I would.

I'm able to look after you, and you shall have all you want. There's a

nice little house building now in Benham. Say the word and I'll buy it

for us to-morrow. I'm crazy after you, Selma."

The rein was dangling, and Babcock reached his left arm around the waist

of his lady-love. He had now and again made the same demonstration with

others jauntily, but this was a different matter. She was not to be

treated like other women. She was a goddess to him, even in his ardor,

and he reached gingerly. Selma did not wholly withdraw from the spread

of his trembling arm, though this was the first man who had ever

ventured to lay a finger on her.

"I'd have to give up my school," she said.

"They could get another teacher."

"_Could_ they?"

"Not one like you. You see I'm clumsy, but I'm crazy for you, Selma."

Emboldened by the obvious feebleness of her opposition, he broadened his

clutch and drew her toward him. "Say you will, sweetheart."

This time she pulled herself free and sat up in the chaise. "Would you

let me do things?" she asked after a moment.

"Do things," faltered Babcock. What could she mean? She had told him on

the way over that her mother had chosen her name from a theatrical

playbill, and it passed through his unsophisticated brain that she might

be thinking of the stage.

"Yes, do something worth while. Be somebody. I've had the idea I could,

if I ever got the chance." Her hands were folded in her lap; there was a

wrapt expression on her thin, nervous face, and a glitter in her keen

eyes, which were looking straight at the moon, as though they would

outstare it in brilliancy.

"You shall be anything you like, if you'll only marry me. What is it

you're wishing to be?"

"I don't know exactly. It isn't anything especial yet. It's the whole

thing. I thought I might find it in my school, but the experience so far

hasn't been--satisfying."

"Troublesome little brats!"

"No, I dare say the fault's in me. If I went to Benham to live it would

be different. Benham must be interesting--inspiring."

"There's plenty of go there. You'd like it, and people would think lots

of you."

"I'd try to make them." She turned and looked at him judicially, but

with a softened expression. Her profile in her exalted mood had

suggested a beautiful, but worried archangel; her full face seemed less

this and wore much of the seductive embarrassment of sex. To Babcock she

seemed the most entrancing being he had ever seen. "Would you really

like to have me come?"

He gave a hoarse ejaculation, and encircling her eagerly with his strong

grasp pressed his lips upon her cheek. "Selma! darling! angel! I'm the

happiest man alive."

"You mustn't do that--yet," she said protestingly.

"Yes, I must; I'm yours, and you're mine,--mine. Aren't you, sweetheart?

There's no harm in a kiss."

She had to admit to herself that it was not very unpleasant after all to

be held in the embrace of a sturdy lover, though she had never intended

that their relations should reach this stage of familiarity so promptly.

She had known, of course, that girls were to look for endearments from

those whom they promised to marry, but her person had hitherto been so

sacred to man and to herself that it was difficult not to shrink a

little from what was taking place. This then was love, and love was, of

course, the sweetest thing in the world. That was one of the truths

which she had accepted as she had accepted the beauty of Shakespeare, as

something not to be disputed, yet remote. He was a big, affectionate

fellow, and she must make up her mind to kiss him. So she turned her

face toward him and their lips met eagerly, forestalling the little peck

which she had intended. She let her head fall back at his pressure on to

his shoulder, and gazed up at the moon.

"Are you happy, Selma?" he asked, giving her a fond, firm squeeze.

"Yes, Lewis."

She could feel his frame throb with joy at the situation as she uttered

his name.

"We'll be married right away. That's if you're willing. My business is

going first-rate and, if it keeps growing for the next year as it has

for the past two, you'll be rich presently. When shall it be, Selma?"

"You're in dreadful haste. Well, I'll promise to give the selectmen

notice to-morrow that they must find another teacher."

"Because the one they have now is going to become Mrs. Lewis J. Babcock.

I'm the luckiest fellow, hooray! in creation. See here," he added,

taking her hand, "I guess a ring wouldn't look badly there--a real

diamond, too. Pretty little fingers."

She sighed gently, by way of response. It was comfortable nestling in

the hollow of his shoulder, and a new delightful experience to be

hectored with sweetness in this way. How round and bountiful the moon

looked. She was tired of her present life. What was coming would be

better. Her opportunity was at hand to show the world what she was made

of.

"A real diamond, and large at that," he repeated, gazing down at her,

and then, as though the far away expression in her eyes suggested

kinship with the unseen and the eternal, he said, admiringly but humbly,

"It must be grand to be clever like you, Selma. I'm no good at that. But

if loving you will make up for it, I'll go far, little woman."

"What I know of that I like, and--and if some day, I can make you proud

of me, so much the better," said Selma.

"Proud of you? You are an angel, and you know it."

She closed her eyes and sighed again. Even the bright avenues of fame,

which her keen eyes had traversed through the golden moon, paled before

this tribute from the lips of real flesh and blood. What woman can

withstand the fascination of a lover's faith that she is an angel? If a

man is fool enough to believe it, why undeceive him? And if he is so

sure of it, may it even not be so? Selma was content to have it so,

especially as the assertion did not jar with her own prepossessions; and

thus they rode home in the summer night in the mutual contentment of a

betrothal.

CHAPTER II.

The match was thoroughly agreeable to Mrs. Farley, Selma's aunt and

nearest relation, who with her husband presided over a flourishing

poultry farm in Wilton. She was an easy-going, friendly spirit, with a

sharp but not wide vision, who did not believe that a likelier fellow

than Lewis Babcock would come wooing were her niece to wait a lifetime.

He was hearty, comical, and generous, and was said to be making money

fast in the varnish business. In short, he seemed to her an admirable

young man, with a stock of common-sense and high spirits eminently

serviceable for a domestic venture. How full of fun he was, to be sure!

It did her good to behold the tribute his appetite paid to the buckwheat

cakes with cream and other tempting viands she set before him--a

pleasing contrast to Selma's starveling diet--and the hearty smack with

which he enforced his demands upon her own cheeks as his mother-in-law

apparent, argued an affectionate disposition. Burly, rosy-cheeked,

good-natured, was he not the very man to dispel her niece's vagaries and

turn the girl's morbid cleverness into healthy channels?

Selma, therefore, found nothing but encouragement in her choice at home;

so by the end of another three months they were made man and wife, and

had moved into that little house in Benham which had attracted Babcock's

eye. Benham, as has been indicated, was in the throes of bustle and

self-improvement. Before the war it had been essentially unimportant.

But the building of a railroad through the town and the discovery of oil

wells in its neighborhood had transformed it in a twinkling into an

active and spirited centre. Selma's new house was on the edge of the

city, in the van of real estate progress, one of a row of small but

ambitious-looking dwellings, over the dark yellow clapboards of which

the architect had let his imagination run rampant in scrolls and

flourishes. There was fancy colored glass in a sort of rose-window over

the front door, and lozenges of fancy glass here and there in the

facade. Each house had a little grass-plot, which Babcock in his case

had made appurtenant to a metal stag, which seemed to him the finishing

touch to a cosey and ornamental home. He had done his best and with all

his heart, and the future was before them.

Babcock found himself radiant over the first experiences of married

life. It was just what he had hoped, only better. His imagination in

entertaining an angel had not been unduly literal, and it was a constant

delight and source of congratulation to him to reflect over his pipe on

the lounge after supper that the charming piece of flesh and blood

sewing or reading demurely close by was the divinity of his domestic

hearth. There she was to smile at him when he came home at night and

enable him to forget the cares and dross of the varnish business. Her

presence across the table added a new zest to every meal and improved

his appetite. In marrying he had expected to cut loose from his bachelor

habits, and he asked for nothing better than to spend every evening

alone with Selma, varied by an occasional evening at the theatre, and a

drive out to the Farleys' now and then for supper. This, with the

regular Sunday service at Rev. Henry Glynn's church, rounded out the

weeks to his perfect satisfaction. He was conscious of feeling that the

situation did not admit of improvement, for though, when he measured

himself with Selma, Babcock was humble-minded, a cheerful and uncritical

optimism was the ruling characteristic of his temperament. With health,

business fortune, and love all on his side, it was natural to him to

regard his lot with complacency. Especially as to all appearances, this

was the sort of thing Selma liked, also. Presently, perhaps, there would

be a baby, and then their cup of domestic happiness would be

overflowing. Babcock's long ungratified yearning for the things of the

spirit were fully met by these cosey evenings, which he would have been

glad to continue to the crack of doom. To smoke and sprawl and read a

little, and exchange chit-chat, was poetry enough for him. So contented

was he that his joy was apt to find an outlet in ditties and

whistling--he possessed a slightly tuneful, rollicking knack at both--a

proceeding which commonly culminated in his causing Selma to sit beside

him on the sofa and be made much of, to the detriment of her toilette.

As for the bride, so dazing were the circumstances incident to the

double change of matrimony and adaptation to city life, that her

judgment was in suspension. Yet though she smiled and sewed demurely,

she was thinking. The yellow clapboarded house and metal stag, and a

maid-of-all-work at her beck and call, were gratifying at the outset and

made demands upon her energies. Selma's position in her father's house

had been chiefly ornamental and social. She had been his companion and

nurse, had read to him and argued with him, but the mere household work

had been performed by an elderly female relative who recognized that her

mind was bent on higher things. Nevertheless, she had never doubted that

when the time arrived to show her capacity as a housewife, she would be

more than equal to the emergency. Assuredly she would, for one of the

distinguishing traits of American womanhood was the ability to perform

admirably with one's own hand many menial duties and yet be prepared to

shine socially with the best. Still the experience was not quite so easy

as she expected; even harassing and mortifying. Fortunately, Lewis was

more particular about quantity than quality where the table was

concerned; and, after all, food and domestic details were secondary

considerations in a noble outlook. It would have suited her never to be

obliged to eat, and to be able to leave the care of the house to the

hired girl; but that being out of the question, it became incumbent on

her to make those obligations as simple as possible. However, the

possession of a new house and gay fittings was an agreeable realization.

At home everything had been upholstered in black horse-hair, and regard

for material appearances had been obscured for her by the tension of her

introspective tendencies. Lewis was very kind, and she had no reason to

reproach herself as yet for her choice. He had insisted that she should

provide herself with an ample and more stylish wardrobe, and though the

invitation had interested her but mildly, the effect of shrewdly-made

and neatly fitting garments on her figure had been a revelation. Like

the touch of a man's hand, fine raiment had seemed to her hitherto

almost repellant, but it was obvious now that anything which enhanced

her effectiveness could not be dismissed as valueless. To arrive at

definite conclusions in regard to her social surroundings was less easy

for Selma. Benham, in its rapid growth, had got beyond the level

simplicity of Westfield and Wilton, and was already confronted by the

stern realities which baffle the original ideal in every American city.

We like as a nation to cherish the illusion that extremes of social

condition do not exist even in our large communities, and that the

plutocrat and the saleslady, the learned professions and the proletariat

associate on a common basis of equal virtue, intelligence, and culture.

And yet, although Benham was a comparatively young and an essentially

American city, there were very marked differences in all these respects

in its community.

Topographically speaking the starting point of Benham was its

water-course. Twenty years before the war Benham was merely a cluster of

frame houses in the valley of the limpid, peaceful river Nye. At that

time the inhabitants drank of the Nye taken at a point below the town,

for there was a high fall which would have made the drawing of water

above less convenient. This they were doing when Selma came to Benham,

although every man's hand had been raised against the Nye, which was the

nearest, and hence for a community in hot haste, the most natural

receptacle for dyestuffs, ashes and all the outflow from woollen mills,

pork factories and oil yards, and it ran the color of glistening bean

soup. From time to time, as the city grew, the drawing point had been

made a little lower where the stream had regained a portion of its

limpidity, and no one but wiseacres and busybodies questioned its

wholesomeness. Benham at that time was too preoccupied and too proud of

its increasing greatness to mistrust its own judgment in matters

hygienic, artistic, and educational. There came a day later when the

river rose against the city, and an epidemic of typhoid fever convinced

a reluctant community that there were some things which free-born

Americans did not know intuitively. Then there were public meetings and

a general indignation movement, and presently, under the guidance of

competent experts, Lake Mohunk, seven miles to the north, was secured as

a reservoir. Just to show how the temper of the times has changed, and

how sophisticated in regard to hygienic matters some of the good

citizens of Benham in these latter days have become, it is worthy of

mention that, though competent chemists declare Lake Mohunk to be free

from contamination, there are those now who use so-called mineral

spring-waters in preference; notably Miss Flagg, the daughter of old

Joel Flagg, once the miller and, at the date when the Babcocks set up

their household gods, one of the oil magnates of Benham. He drank the

bean colored Nye to the day of his death and died at eighty; but she

carries a carboy of spring-water with her personal baggage wherever she

travels, and is perpetually solicitous in regard to the presence of

arsenic in wall-papers into the bargain.

Verily, the world has wagged apace in Benham since Selma first looked

out at her metal stag and the surrounding landscape. Ten years later the

Benham Home Beautifying Society took in hand the Nye and those who

drained into it, and by means of garbage consumers, disinfectants, and

filters and judiciously arranged shrubbery converted its channel and

banks into quite a respectable citizens' paradise. But even at that time

the industries on either bank of the Nye, which flowed from east to

west, were forcing the retail shops and the residences further and

further away. To illustrate again from the Flagg family, just before the

war Joel Flagg built a modest house less than a quarter of a mile from

the southerly bank of the river, expecting to end his days there, and

was accused by contemporary censors of an intention to seclude himself

in magnificent isolation. About this time he had yielded to the plea of

his family, that every other building in the street had been given over

to trade, and that they were stranded in a social Sahara of factories.

So like the easy going yet soaring soul that he was, he had moved out

two miles to what was known as the River Drive, where the Nye

accomplishes a broad sweep to the south. There an ambitious imported

architect, glad of such an opportunity to speculate in artistic effects,

had built for him a conglomeration of a feudal castle and an old

colonial mansion in all the grisly bulk of signal failure.

Considering our ideals, it is a wonder that no one has provided a law

forbidding the erection of all the architecturally attractive, or

sumptuous houses in one neighborhood. It ought not to be possible in a

republic for such a state of affairs to exist as existed in Benham. That

is to say all the wealth and fashion of the city lay to the west of

Central Avenue, which was so literally the dividing line that if a

Benhamite were referred to as living on that street the conventional

inquiry would be "On which side?" And if the answer were "On the east,"

the inquirer would be apt to say "Oh!" with a cold inflection which

suggested a ban. No Benhamite has ever been able to explain precisely

why it should be more creditable to live on one side of the same street

than on the other, but I have been told by clever women, who were good

Americans besides, that this is one of the subtle truths which baffle

the Gods and democracies alike. Central Avenue has long ago been

appropriated by the leading retail dry-goods shops, huge establishments

where everything from a set of drawing-room furniture to a hair-pin can

be bought under a single roof; but at that time it was the social

artery. Everything to the west was new and assertive; then came the

shops and the business centre; and to the east were Tom, Dick, and

Harry, Michael, Isaac and Pietro, the army of citizens who worked in the

mills, oil yards, and pork factories. And to the north, across the

river, on the further side of more manufacturing establishments, was

Poland, so-called--a settlement of the Poles--to reach whom now there

are seven bridges of iron. There were but two bridges then, one of wood,

and journeys across them had not yet been revealed to philanthropic

young women eager to do good.

Selma's house lay well to the south-west of Central Avenue, far enough

removed from the River Drive and the Flagg mansion to be humble and yet

near enough to be called looking up. Their row was complete and mainly

occupied, but the locality was a-building, and in the process of making

acquaintance. So many strangers had come to Benham that even Babcock

knew but few of their neighbors. Without formulating definitely how it

was to happen, Selma had expected to be received with open arms into a

society eager to recognize her salient qualities. But apparently, at

first glance, everybody's interest was absorbed by the butcher and

grocer, the dressmaker and the domestic hearth. That is, the other

people in their row seemed to be content to do as they were doing. The

husbands went to town every day--town which lay in the murky

distance--and their wives were friendly enough, but did not seem to be

conscious either of voids in their own existence or of the privilege of

her society. To be sure, they dressed well and were suggestive in that,

but they looked blank at some of her inquiries, and appeared to feel

their days complete if, after the housework had been done and the battle

fought with the hired girl, they were able to visit the shopping

district and pore over fabrics, in case they could not buy them. Some

were evidently looking forward to the day when they might be so

fortunate as to possess one of the larger houses of the district a mile

away, and figure among what they termed "society people." There were

others who, in their satisfaction with this course of life, referred

with a touch of self-righteousness to the dwellers on the River Drive as

deserving reprobation on account of a lack of serious purpose. This

criticism appealed to Selma, and consoled her in a measure for the half

mortification with which she had begun to realize that she was not of so

much account as she had expected; at least, that there were people not

very far distant from her block who were different somehow from her

neighbors, and who took part in social proceedings in which she and her

husband were not invited to participate. Manifestly they were unworthy

and un-American. It was a comfort to come to this conclusion, even

though her immediate surroundings, including the society of those who

had put the taunt into her thoughts, left her unsatisfied.

Some relief was provided at last by her church. Babcock was by birth an

Episcopalian, though he had been lax in his interest during early

manhood. This was one of the matters which he had expected marriage to

correct, and he had taken up again, not merely with resignation but

complacency, the custom of attending service regularly. Dr. White had

been a controversial Methodist, but since his wife's death, and

especially since the war, he had abstained from religious observances,

and had argued himself somewhat far afield from the fold of orthodox

belief. Consequently Selma, though she attended church at Westfield when

her father's ailments did not require her presence at home, had been

brought up to exercise her faculties freely on problems of faith and to

feel herself a little more enlightened than the conventional worshipper.

Still she was not averse to following her husband to the Rev. Henry

Glynn's church. The experience was another revelation to her, for

service at Westfield had been eminently severe and unadorned. Mr. Glynn

was an Englishman; a short, stout, strenuous member of the Church of

England with a broad accent and a predilection for ritual, but

enthusiastic and earnest. He had been tempted to cross the ocean by the

opportunities for preaching the gospel to the heathen, and he had fixed

on Benham as a vineyard where he could labor to advantage. His advent

had been a success. He had awakened interest by his fervor and by his

methods. The pew taken by Babcock was one of the last remaining, and

there was already talk of building a larger church to replace the chapel

where he ministered. Choir boys, elaborate vestments, and genuflections,

were novelties in the Protestant worship of Benham, and attracted the

attention of many almost weary of plainer forms of worship, especially

as these manifestations of color were effectively supplemented by

evident sincerity of spirit on the part of their pastor. Nor were his

energy and zeal confined to purely spiritual functions. The scope of his

church work was practical and social. He had organized from the

congregation societies of various sorts to relieve the poor; Bible

classes and evening reunions which the members of the parish were urged

to attend in order to become acquainted. Mr. Glynn's manner was both

hearty and pompous. To him there was no Church in the world but the

Church of England, and it was obvious that as one of the clergy of that

Church he considered himself to be no mean man; but apart from this

serious intellectual foible with respect to his own relative importance,

he was a stimulating Christian and citizen within his lights. His

active, crusading, and emotional temperament just suited the seething

propensities of Benham.

His flock comprised a few of the residents of the River Drive district,

among them the Flaggs, but was a fairly representative mixture of all

grades of society, including the poorest. These last were specimens

under spiritual duress rather than free worshippers, and it was a

constant puzzle to the reverend gentleman why, in the matter of

attendance, they, metaphorically speaking, sickened and died. It had

never been so in England. "Bonnets!" responded one day Mrs. Hallett

Taylor, who had become Mr. Glynn's leading ally in parish matters, and

was noted for her executive ability. She was an engaging but

clear-headed soul who went straight to the point.

"I do not fathom your meaning," said the pastor, a little loftily, for

the suggestion sounded flippant.

"It hurts their feelings to go to a church where their clothes are

shabby compared with those of the rest of the congregation."

"Yes, but in God's chapel, dear lady, all such distinctions should be

forgotten."

"They can't forget, and I don't blame them much, poor things, do you?

It's the free-born American spirit. There now, Mr. Glynn, you were

asking me yesterday to suggest some one for junior warden. Why not Mr.

Babcock? They're new comers and seem available people."

Mr. Glynn's distress at her first question was merged in the interest

inspired by her second, for his glance had followed hers until it rested

on the Babcocks, who had just entered the vestry to attend the social

reunion. Selma's face wore its worried archangel aspect. She was on her

good behavior and proudly on her guard against social impertinence. But

she looked very pretty, and her compact, slight figure indicated a busy

way.

"I will interrogate him," he answered. "I have observed them before,

and--and I can't quite make out the wife. It is almost a spiritual face,

and yet--"

"Just a little hard and keen," broke in Mrs. Taylor, upon his

hesitation. "She is pretty, and she looks clever. I think we can get

some work out of her."

Thereupon she sailed gracefully in the direction of Selma. Mrs. Taylor

was from Maryland. Her husband, a physician, had come to Benham at the

close of the war to build up a practice, and his wife had aided him by

her energy and graciousness to make friends. Unlike some Southerners,

she was not indolent, and yet she possessed all the ingratiating,

spontaneous charm of well-bred women from that section of the country.

Her tastes were æsthetic and ethical rather than intellectual, and her

special interest at the moment was the welfare of the church. She

thought it desirable that all the elements of which the congregation was

composed should be represented on the committees, and Selma seemed to

her the most obviously available person from the class to which the

Babcocks belonged.

"I want you to help us," she said. "I think you have ideas. We need a

woman with sense and ideas on our committee to build the new church."

Selma was not used to easy grace and sprightly spontaneity. It affected

her at first much as the touch of man; but just as in that instance the

experience was agreeable. Life was too serious a thing in her regard to

lend itself casually to lightness, and yet she felt instinctively

attracted by this lack of self-consciousness and self-restraint. Besides

here was an opportunity such as she had been yearning for. She had met

Mrs. Taylor before, and knew her to be the presiding genius of the

congregation; and it was evident that Mrs. Taylor had discovered her

value.

"Thank you," she said, gravely, but cordially. "That is what I should

like. I wish to be of use. I shall be pleased to serve on the

committee."

"It will be interesting, I think. I have never helped build anything

before. Perhaps you have?"

"No," said Selma slowly. Her tone conveyed the impression that, though

her abilities had never been put to that precise test, the employment

seemed easily within her capacity.

"Ah! I am sure you will be suggestive" said Mrs. Taylor. "I am right

anxious that it shall be a credit in an architectural way, you know."

Mr. Glynn, who had followed with more measured tread, now mingled his

hearty bass voice in the conversation. His mental attitude was friendly,

but inquisitorial; as seemed to him to befit one charged with the cure

of souls. He proceeded to ask questions, beginning with inquiries

conventional and domestic, but verging presently on points of faith.

Babcock, to whom they were directly addressed, stood the ordeal well,

revealing himself as flattered, contrite, and zealous to avail himself

of the blessings of the church. He admitted that lately he had been lax

in his spiritual duties.

"We come every Sunday now," he said buoyantly, with a glance at Selma as

though to indicate that she deserved the credit of his reformation.

"The holy sacrament of marriage has led many souls from darkness into

light, from the flesh-pots of Egypt to the table of the Lord" Mr. Glynn

answered. "And you, my daughter," he added, meaningly, "guard well your

advantage."

It was agreeable to Selma that the clergymen seemed to appreciate her

superiority to her embarrassed husband, especially as she thought she

knew that in England women were not expected to have opinions of their

own. She wished to say something to impress him more distinctly with her

cleverness, for though she was secretly contemptuous of his ceremonials,

there was something impressive in his mandatory zeal. She came near

asking whether he held to the belief that it was wrong for a man to

marry his deceased wife's sister, which was the only proposition in

relation to the married state which occurred to her at the moment as

likely to show her independence, but she contented herself instead with

saying, with so much of Mrs. Taylor's spontaneity as she could reproduce

without practice, "We expect to be very happy in your church."

Selma, however, supplemented her words with her tense spiritual look.

She felt happier than she had for weeks, inasmuch as life seemed to be

opening before her. For a few moments she listened to Mr. Glynn unfold

his hopes in regard to the new church, trying to make him feel that she

was no common woman. She considered it a tribute to her when he took

Lewis aside later and asked him to become a junior warden.

CHAPTER III.

At this time the necessity for special knowledge as to artistic or

educational matters was recognized grudgingly in Benham. Any reputable

citizen was considered capable to pass judgment on statues and pictures,

design a house or public building, and prescribe courses of study for

school-children. Since then the free-born Benhamite, little by little,

through wise legislation or public opinion, born of bitter experience,

has been robbed of these prerogatives until, not long ago, the

un-American and undemocratic proposition to take away the laying out of

the new city park from the easy going but ignorant mercies of the

so-called city forester, who had been first a plumber and later an

alderman, prevailed. An enlightened civic spirit triumphed and special

knowledge was invoked.

That was twenty-five years later. Mrs. Hallett Taylor had found herself

almost single-handed at the outset in her purpose to build the new

church on artistic lines. Or rather the case should be stated thus:

Everyone agreed that it was to be the most beautiful church in the

country, consistent with the money, and no one doubted that it would be,

especially as everyone except Mrs. Taylor felt that in confiding the

matter to the leading architect in Benham the committee would be

exercising a wise and intelligent discretion. Mr. Pierce, the individual

suggested, had never, until recently, employed the word architect in

speaking of himself, and he pronounced it, as did some of the committee,

"arshitect," shying a little at the word, as though it were caviare and

anything but American. He was a builder, practised by a brief but

rushing career in erecting houses, banks, schools, and warehouses

speedily and boldly. He had been on the spot when the new growth of

Benham began, and his handiwork was writ large all over the city. The

city was proud of him, and had, as it were, sniffed when Joel Flagg went

elsewhere for a man to build his new house. Surely, if it were necessary

to pay extra for that sort of thing, was not home talent good enough?

Yet it must be confessed that the ugly splendor of the Flagg mediæval

castle had so far dazed the eye of Benham that its "arshitect" had felt

constrained, in order to keep up with the times, to try fancy flights of

his own. He had silenced any doubting Thomases by his latest effort, a

new school-house, rich in rampant angles and scrolls, on the brown-stone

front of which the name _Flagg School_ appeared in ambitious, distorted

hieroglyphics.

Think what a wealth of imagery in the tossing of the second O on top of

the L. If artistic novelty and genius were sought for the new church,

here it was ready to be invoked. Besides, Mr. Pierce was a

brother-in-law of one of the members of the committee, and, though the

committee had the fear of God in their hearts in the erection of his

sanctuary, it was not easy to protest against the near relative of a

fellow member, especially one so competent.

The committee numbered seven. Selma had been chosen to fill a vacancy

caused by death, but at the time of her selection the matter was still

in embryo, and the question of an architect had not been mooted. At the

next meeting discussion arose as to whether Mr. Pierce should be given

the job, under the eagle eyes of a sub-committee, or Mrs. Taylor's

project of inviting competitive designs should be adopted. It was known

that Mr. Glynn, without meaning disrespect to Mr. Pierce, favored the

latter plan as more progressive, a word always attractive to Benham ears

when they had time to listen. Its potency, coupled with veneration, for

the pastor's opinion, had secured the vote of Mr. Clyme, a banker.

Another member of the committee, a lawyer, favored Mrs. Taylor's idea

because of a grudge against Mr. Pierce. The chairman and brother-in-law,

and a hard-headed stove dealer, were opposed to the competitive plan as

highfalutin and unnecessary. Thus the deciding vote lay with Selma.

Now that they were on the same committee, Mrs. Taylor could not

altogether make her out. She remembered that Mr. Glynn had said the same

thing. Mrs. Taylor was accustomed to conquests. Without actual

premeditation, she was agreeably conscious of being able to convert and

sweep most opponents off their feet by the force of her pleasant

personality. In this case the effect was not so obvious. She was

conscious that Selma's eyes were constantly fixed upon her, but as to

what she was thinking Mrs. Taylor felt less certain. Clearly she was

mesmerized, but was the tribute admiration or hostility? Mrs. Taylor was

piqued, and put upon her metal. Besides she needed Selma's vote. Not

being skilled in psychological analyses, she had to resort to practical

methods, and invited her to afternoon tea.

Selma had never been present at afternoon tea as a domestic function in

her life. Nor had she seen a home like Mrs. Taylor's. The house was no

larger than her own, and had cost less. Medicine had not been so

lucrative as the manufacture of varnish. Externally the house displayed

stern lines of unadorned brick--the custom-made style of Benham in the

first throes of expansion before Mr. Pierce's imagination had been

stirred. Mr. Taylor had bought it as it stood, and his wife had made no

attempt to alter the outside, which was, after all, inoffensively

homely. But the interior was bewildering to Selma's gaze in its

suggestion of cosey comfort. Pretty, tasteful things, many of them

inexpensive knick-knacks of foreign origin--a small picture, a bit of

china, a mediæval relic--were cleverly placed as a relief to the

conventional furniture. Selma had been used to formalism in household

garniture--to a best room little used and precise with the rigor of wax

flowers and black horse-hair, and to a living room where the effect

sought was purely utilitarian. Her new home, in spite of its colored

glass and iron stag, was arranged in much this fashion, as were the

houses of her neighbors which she had entered.

Selma managed to seat herself on the one straight-backed chair in the

room. From this she was promptly driven by Mrs. Taylor and established

in one corner of a lounge with a soft silk cushion behind her, and

further propitiated by the proffer of a cup of tea in a dainty cup and

saucer. All this, including Mrs. Taylor's musical voice, easy speech,

and ingratiating friendliness, alternately thrilled and irritated her.

She would have liked to discard her hostess from her thought as a light

creature unworthy of intellectual seriousness, but she found herself

fascinated and even thawed in spite of herself.

"I'm glad to have the opportunity really to talk to you," said Mrs.

Taylor. "At the church reunions one is so liable to interruptions. If

I'm not mistaken, you taught school before you were married?"

"For a short time."

"That must have been interesting. It is so practical and definite. My

life," she added deprecatingly, "has been a thing of threads and

patches--a bit here and a bit there."

She paused, but without forcing a response, proceeded blithely to touch

on her past by way of illustration. The war had come just when she was

grown up, and her kin in Maryland were divided on the issue. Her father

had taken his family abroad, but her heart was in the keeping of a young

officer on the Northern side--now her husband. Loss of property and

bitterness of spirit had kept her parents expatriated, and she, with

them, had journeyed from place to place in Europe. She had seen many

beautiful places and beautiful things. At last Major Taylor had come for

her and carried her off as his bride to take up again her life as an

American.

"I am interested in Benham," she continued, "and I count on you, Mrs.

Babcock, to help make the new church what it ought to be

artistically--worthy of all the energy and independence there is in this

place."

Selma's eye kindled. The allusion to foreign lands had aroused her

distrust, but this patriotic avowal warmed her pulses.

"Every one is so busy with private affairs here, owing to the rapid

growth of the city," pursued Mrs. Taylor, "that there is danger of our

doing inconsiderately things which cannot easily be set right hereafter.

An ugly or tawdry-looking building may be an eyesore for a generation. I

know that we have honest and skilful mechanics in Benham, but as

trustees of the church funds, shouldn't we at least make the effort to

get the best talent there is? If we have the cleverest architect here,

so much the better. An open competition will enable us to find out.

After all Benham is only one city among many, and a very new city. Why

shouldn't we take advantage of the ideas of the rest of the country--the

older portion of the country?"

"Mr. Pierce built our house, and we think it very satisfactory and

pretty."

Selma's tone was firm, but she eyed her hostess narrowly. She had begun

of late to distrust the æsthetic worth of the colored glass and metal

stag, and, though she was on her guard against effrontery, she wished to

know the truth. She knew that Mr. Pierce, with fine business instinct,

had already conveyed to her husband the promise that he should furnish

the varnish for the new church in case of his own selection, which, as

Babcock had remarked, would be a nice thing all round.

Mrs. Taylor underwent the scrutiny without flinching. "I have nothing to

say against Mr. Pierce. He is capable within his lights. Indeed I think

it quite possible that we shall get nothing more satisfactory elsewhere.

Mr. Flagg's grim pile is anything but encouraging. That may sound like

an argument against my plan, but in the case of the Flagg house there

was no competition; merely unenlightened choice on the one side and

ignorant experimenting on the other."

"You don't seem to think very highly of the appearance of Benham," said

Selma. The remark was slightly interrogative, but was combative withal.

She wished to know if everything, from the Flagg mansion down, was open

to criticism, but she would fain question the authority of the

censor--this glib, graceful woman whose white, starched cuffs seemed to

make light of her own sober, unadorned wrists.

This time Mrs. Taylor flushed faintly. She realized that their relations

had reached a critical point, and that the next step might be fatal. She

put down her teacup, and leaning forward, said with smiling confidential

eagerness, "I don't. I wouldn't admit it to anyone else. But what's the

use of mincing matters with an intelligent woman like you? I might put

you off now, and declare that Benham is well enough. But you would soon

divine what I really think, and that would be the end of confidence

between us. I like honesty and frankness, and I can see that you do. My

opinion of Benham architecture is that it is slip-shod and mongrel.

There! You see I put myself in your hands, but I do so because I feel

sure you nearly agree with me already. You know it's so, but you hate to

acknowledge it."

Selma's eyes were bright with interest. She felt flattered by the

appeal, and there was a righteous assurance in Mrs. Taylor's manner

which was convincing. She opened her mouth to say something--what she

did not quite know--but Mrs. Taylor raised her hand by way of

interdiction.

"Don't answer yet. Let me show you what I mean. I'm as proud of Benham

as anyone. I am absorbed by the place, I look to see it fifty years

hence--perhaps less--a great city, and a beautiful city too. Just at

present everything is commercial and--and ethical; yes, ethical. We wish

to do and dare, but we haven't time to adorn as we construct. That is,

most of us haven't. But if a few determined spirits--women though they

be--cry 'halt,' art may get a chance here and there to assert herself.

Look at this," she said, gliding across the room and holding up a small

vase of exquisite shape and coloring, "I picked it up on the other side

and it stands almost for a lost art. The hands and taste which wrought

it represent the transmitted patience and skill of hundreds of years. We

like to rush things through in a few weeks on a design hastily conceived

by a Mr. Pierce because we are so earnest. Now, we won't do it this

time, will we?"

"No, we won't," said Selma. "I see what you mean. I was afraid at first

that you didn't give us credit for the earnestness--for the ethical

part. That's the first thing, the great thing according to my idea, and

it's what distinguishes us from foreigners,--the foreigners who made

that vase, for instance. But I agree with you that there's such a thing

as going too fast, and very likely some of the buildings here aren't all

they might be. We don't need to model them on foreign patterns, but we

must have them pretty and right."

"Certainly, certainly, my dear. What we should strive for is

originality--American originality; but soberly, slowly. Art is evolved

painfully, little by little; it can't be bought ready-made at shops for

the asking like tea and sugar. If we invite designs for the new church,

we shall give the youths of the country who have ideas seething in their

heads a chance to express themselves. Who knows but we may unearth a

genius?"

"Who knows?" echoed Selma, with her spiritual look. "Yes, you are right,

Mrs. Taylor. I will help you. As you say, there must be hundreds of

young men who would like to do just that sort of thing. I know myself

what it is to have lived in a small place without the opportunity to

show what one could do; to feel the capacity, but to be without the

means and occasion to reveal what is in one. And now that I understand

we really look at things the same way, I'm glad to join with you in

making Benham beautiful. As you say, we women can do much if we only

will. I've the greatest faith in woman's mission in this new,

interesting nation of ours. Haven't you, Mrs. Taylor? Don't you believe

that she, in her new sphere of usefulness, is one of the great moving

forces of the Republic?" Selma was talking rapidly, and had lost every

trace of suspicious restraint. She spoke as one transfigured.

"Yes, indeed," answered Mrs. Taylor, checking any disposition she may

have felt to interpose qualifications. She could acquiesce generally

without violence to her convictions, and she could not afford to imperil

the safety of the immediate issue--her church. "I felt sure you would

feel so if you only had time to reflect," she added. "If you vote with

us, you will have the pleasant consciousness of knowing that you have

advanced woman's cause just so much."

"You may count on my vote."

Selma stopped on her way home, although it was late, to purchase some

white cuffs. As she approached, her husband stood on the grass-plot in

his shirt sleeves with a garden-hose. He was whistling, and when he saw

her he kissed his hand at her jubilantly,

"Well, sweetheart, where you been?"

"Visiting. Taking tea with Mrs. Taylor. I've promised her to vote to

invite bids for the church plans."

Babcock looked surprised. "That'll throw Pierce out, won't it?"

"Not unless some one else submits a better design than he."

Lewis scratched his head. "I considered that order for varnish as good

as booked."

"I'm not sure Mr. Pierce knows as much as he thinks he does," said Selma

oracularly. "We shall get plans from New York and Boston. If we don't

like them we needn't take them. But that's the way to get an artistic

thing. And we're going to have the most artistic church in Benham. I'm

sorry about the varnish, but a principle is involved."

Babcock was puzzled but content. He cared far more for the

disappointment to Pierce than for the loss of the order. But apart from

the business side of the question, he never doubted that his wife must

be right, nor did he feel obliged to inquire what principle was

involved. He was pleased to have her associate with Mrs. Taylor, and was

satisfied that she would be a credit to him in any situation where

occult questions of art or learning were mooted. He dropped his hose and

pulled her down beside him on the porch settee. There was a beautiful

sunset, and the atmosphere was soft and refreshing. Selma felt satisfied

with herself. As Mrs. Taylor had said, it was her vote which would turn

the scale on behalf of progress. Other things, too, were in her mind.

She was not ready to admit that she had been instructed, but she was

already planning changes in her own domestic interior, suggested by what

she had seen.

She let her husband squeeze her hand, but her thoughts were wandering

from his blandishments. Presently she said: "Lewis, I've begun lately to

doubt if that stag is really pretty."

"The stag? Well, now, I've always thought it tasty--one of the features

of our little place."

"No one would mistake it for a real deer. It looks to me almost

comical."

Babcock turned to regard judicially the object of her criticism.

"I like it," he said somewhat mournfully, as though he were puzzled.

"But if you don't, we'll change the stag for something else. I wish you

to be pleased first of all. Instead we might have a fountain; two

children under an umbrella I saw the other day. It was cute. How does

that strike you?"

"I can't tell without seeing it. And, Lewis, promise me that you won't

select anything new of that sort until I have looked at it."

"Very well," Babcock answered submissively. But he continued to look

puzzled. In his estimate of his wife's superiority to himself in the

subtleties of life, it had never occurred to him to include the choice

of every-day objects of art. He had eyes and could judge for himself

like any other American citizen. Still, he was only too glad to humor

Selma in such an unimportant matter, especially as he was eager for her

happiness.

CHAPTER IV.

Seven designs for the new church were submitted, including three from

Benham architects. The leaven of influence exercised by spirits like

Mrs. Taylor was only just beginning to work, and the now common custom

of competing outside one's own bailiwick was still in embryo. Mr.

Pierce's design was bold and sumptuous. His brother-in-law stated

oracularly not long before the day when the plans were to be opened:

"Pierce is not a man to be frightened out of a job by frills. Mark my

words; he will give us an elegant thing." Mr. Pierce had conceived the

happy thought of combining a Moorish mosque and New England

meeting-house in a conservative and equitable medley, evidently hoping

thereby to be both picturesque and traditional. The result, even on

paper, was too bold for some of his admirers. The chairman was heard to

remark: "I shouldn't feel as though I was in church. That dome set among

spires is close to making a theatre of the house of God."

The discomfiture of the first architect of Benham cleared the way for

the triumph of Mrs. Taylor's taste. The design submitted by Wilbur

Littleton of New York, seemed to her decidedly the most meritorious. It

was graceful, appropriate, and artistic; entirely in harmony with

religious associations, yet agreeably different from every day

sanctuaries. The choice lay between his and that presented by Mr. Cass,

a Benham builder--a matter-of-fact, serviceable, but very conventional

edifice. The hard-headed stove dealer on the committee declared in favor

of the native design, as simpler and more solid.

"It'll be a massive structure" he said, "and when it's finished no one

will have to ask what it is. It'll speak for itself. Mr. Cass is a solid

business man, and we know what we'll get. The other plan is what I call

dandified."

It was evident to the committee that the stove dealer's final criticism

comprehended the architect as well as his design. Several

competitors--Littleton among them--had come in person to explain the

merits of their respective drawings, and by the side of solid,

red-bearded, undecorative Mr. Cass, Littleton may well have seemed a

dandy. He was a slim young man with a delicate, sensitive face and

intelligent brown eyes. He looked eager and interesting. In his case the

almost gaunt American physiognomy was softened by a suggestion of poetic

impulses. Yet the heritage of nervous energy was apparent. His

appearance conveyed the impression of quiet trigness and gentility. His

figure lent itself to his clothes, which were utterly inconspicuous,

judged by metropolitan standards, but flawless in the face of

hard-headed theories of life, and aroused suspicion. He spoke in a

gentle but earnest manner, pointing out clearly, yet modestly, the

merits of his composition.

Selma had never seen a man just like him before, and she noticed that

from the outset his eyes seemed to be fastened on her as though his

words were intended for her special benefit. She had never read the

lines--indeed they had not been written--

"I think I could be happy with a gentleman like you."

Nor did the precise sentiment contained in them shape itself in her

thought. Yet she was suddenly conscious that she had been starving for

lack of intellectual companionship, and that he was the sort of man she

had hoped to meet--the sort of man who could appreciate her and whom she

could appreciate.

It did not become necessary for Selma to act as Mr. Littleton's

champion, for the stove dealer's criticism found only one supporter. The

New Yorker's design for the church was so obviously pretty and suitable

that a majority of the Committee promptly declared in its favor. The

successful competitor, who had remained a day to learn the result, was

solemnly informed of the decision, and then elaborately introduced to

the members. In shaking hands with him, Selma experienced a shade of

embarrassment. It was plain that his words to her, spoken with a low

bow--"I am very much gratified that my work pleases you" conveyed a more

spiritual significance than was contained in his thanks to the others.

Still he seemed more at his ease with Mrs. Taylor, who promptly broke

the ice of the situation by fixing him as a close relative of friends in

Baltimore. Straightway he became sprightly and voluble, speaking of

things and people beyond Selma's experience. This social jargon

irritated Selma. It seemed to her a profanation of a noble character,

yet she was annoyed because she could not understand.

Mrs. Taylor, having discovered in Mr. Littleton one who should have been

a friend long before, succeeded in carrying him off to dinner. Yet,

before taking his leave, he came back to Selma for a few words. She had

overheard Mrs. Taylor's invitation, and she asked herself why she too

might not become better acquainted with this young man whose attitude

toward her was that of respectful admiration. To have a strange young

man to dine off-hand struck her as novel. She had a general conviction

that it would seem to Lewis closely allied to light conduct, and that

only foreigners or frivolous people let down to this extent the bars of

family life. Now that Mrs. Taylor had set her the example, she was less

certain of the moral turpitude of such an act, but she concluded also

that her husband would be in the way at table. What she desired was an

opportunity for a long, interesting chat about high things.

While she reflected, he was saying to her, "I understand that your

committee is to supervise my work until the new church is completed, so

I shall hope to have the opportunity to meet you occasionally. It will

be necessary for me to make trips here from time to time to see that

everything is being done correctly by the mechanics."

"Do you go away immediately?"

"It may be that I shall be detained by the arrangements which I must

make here until day after to-morrow."

"If you would really like to see me, I live at 25 Onslow Avenue."

"Thank you very much." Littleton took out a small memorandum book and

carefully noted the address. "Mrs. Babcock, 25 Onslow Avenue. I shall

make a point of calling to-morrow afternoon if I stay--and probably I

shall."

He bowed and left Selma pleasantly stirred by the interview. His voice

was low and his enunciation sympathetically fluent. She said to herself

that she would give him afternoon tea and they would compare ideas

together. She felt sure that his must be interesting.

Later in the evening at Mrs. Taylor's, when there was a pause in their

sympathetic interchange of social and æsthetic convictions, Littleton

said abruptly:

"Tell me something, please, about Mrs. Babcock. She has a suggestive as

well as a beautiful face, and it is easy to perceive that she is

genuinely American--not one of the women of whom we were speaking, who

seem to be ashamed of their own institutions, and who ape foreign

manners and customs. I fancy she would illustrate what I was saying just

now as to the vital importance of our clinging to our heritage of

independent thought--of accepting the truth of the ancient order of

things without allowing its lies and demerits to enslave us."

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Taylor. "She certainly does not belong to the

dangerous class of whom you were speaking. I was flattering myself that

neither did I, for I was agreeing with all you said as to the need of

cherishing our native originality. Yet I must confess that now that you

compare me with her (the actual comparison is my own, but you instigated

it), I begin to feel more doubts about myself--that is if she is the

true species, and I'm inclined to think she is. Pray excuse this

indirect method of answering your inquiry; it is in the nature of a

soliloquy; it is an airing of thoughts and doubts which have been

harassing me for a fortnight--ever since I knew Mrs. Babcock. Really,

Mr. Littleton, I can tell you very little about her. She is a new-comer

on the horizon of Benham; she has been married very recently; I believe

she has taught school and that she was brought up not far from here. She

is as proud as Lucifer and sometimes as beautiful; she is profoundly

serious and--and apparently very ignorant. I fancy she is clever and

capable in her way, but I admit she is an enigma to me and that I have

not solved it. I can see she does not approve of me altogether. She

regards me with suspicion, and yet she threw the casting vote in favor

of my proposal to open the competition for the church to architects from

other places. I am trying to like her, for I wish to believe in

everything genuinely American if I can. There, I have told you all I

know, and to a man she may seem altogether attractive and inspiring."

"Thank you. I had no conception that I was broaching such a complex

subject. She sounds interesting, and my curiosity is whetted. You have

not mentioned the husband."

"To be sure. A burly, easy-going manufacturer of varnish, without much

education, I should judge. He is manifestly her inferior in half a dozen

ways, but I understand that he is making money, and he looks kind."

Wilbur Littleton's life since he had come to man's estate had been a

struggle, and he was only just beginning to make headway. He had never

had time to commiserate himself, for necessity on the one hand and

youthful ambition on the other had kept his energies tense and his

thoughts sane and hopeful. He and his sister Pauline, a year his senior,

had been left orphans while both were students by the death of their

father on the battlefield. To persevere in their respective tastes and

work out their educations had been a labor of love, but an undertaking

which demanded rigorous self-denial on the part of each. Wilbur had

determined to become an architect. Pauline, early interested in the

dogma that woman must no longer be barred from intellectual

companionship with man, had sought to cultivate herself intelligently

without sacrificing her brother's domestic comfort. She had succeeded.

Their home in New York, despite its small dimensions and frugal

hospitality, was already a favorite resort of a little group of

professional people with busy brains and light purses. Wilbur was in the

throes of early progress. He had no relatives or influential friends to

give him business, and employment came slowly. He had been an architect

on his own account for two years, but was still obliged to supplement

his professional orders by work as a draughtsman for others. Yet his

enthusiasm kept him buoyant. In respect to his own work he was

scrupulous; indeed, a stern critic. He abhorred claptrap and specious

effects, and aimed at high standards of artistic expression. This gave

him position among his brother architects, but was incompatible with

meteoric progress. His design for the church at Benham represented much

thought and hope, and he felt happy at his success.

Littleton's familiarity with women, apart from his sister, had been

slight, but his thoughts regarding them were in keeping with a poetic

and aspiring nature. He hoped to marry some day, and he was fond of

picturing to himself in moments of reverie the sort of woman to whom his

heart would be given. In the shrine of his secret fancy she appeared

primarily as an object of reverence, a white-souled angel of light clad

in the graceful outlines of flesh, an Amazon and yet a winsome, tender

spirit, and above all a being imbued with the stimulating intellectual

independence he had been taught to associate with American womanhood.

She would be the loving wife of his bosom and the intelligent sharer of

his thoughts and aspirations--often their guide. So pure and exacting

was his ideal that while alive to the value of coyness and coquetry as

elements of feminine attraction for others, Wilbur had chosen to regard

the maiden of his faith as too serious a spirit to condescend to such

vanities; and from a similar vein of appreciation he was prone to think

of her as unadorned, or rather untarnished, by the gewgaws of

fashionable dressmaking and millinery. His first sight of Selma had made

him conscious that here was a face not unlike what he had hoped to

encounter some day, and he had instinctively felt her to be sympathetic.

He was even conscious of disappointment when he heard her addressed as

Mrs. Babcock. Evidently she was a free-born soul, unhampered by the

social weaknesses of a large city, and illumined by the spiritual grace

of native womanliness. So he thought of her, and Mrs. Taylor's diagnosis

rather confirmed than impaired his impression, for in Mrs. Taylor Wilbur

felt he discerned a trace of antagonism born of cosmopolitan

prejudice--an inability to value at its true worth a nature not moulded

on conventional lines. Rigorous as he was in his judgments, and eager to

disown what was cheap or shallow, mere conventionalism, whether in art

or daily life, was no less abhorrent to him. Here, he said to himself,

was an original soul, ignorant and unenlightened perhaps, but endowed

with swift perception and capable of noble development.

The appearance of Selma's scroll and glass bedizened house did not

affect this impression. Wilbur was first of all appreciatively an

American. That is he recognized that native energy had hitherto been

expended on the things of the spirit to the neglect of things material.

As an artist he was supremely interested in awakening and guiding the

national taste in respect to art, but at the same time he was thoroughly

aware that the peculiar vigor and independence of character which he

knew as Americanism was often utterly indifferent to, or ignorant of,

the value of æsthetics. After all, art was a secondary consideration,

whereas the inward vision which absorbed the attention of the thoughtful

among his countrymen and countrywomen was an absolute essential without

which the soul must lose its fineness. He himself was seeking to show

that beauty, in external material expression, was not merely consistent

with strong ideals but requisite to their fit presentment. He recognized

too that the various and variegated departures from the monotonous

homely pattern of the every-day American house, which were evident in

each live town, were but so many indicators that the nation was

beginning to realize the truth of this. His battle was with the

designers and builders who were guiding falsely and flamboyantly, not

with the deceived victims, nor with those who were still satisfied

merely to look inwardly, and ignored form and color. Hence he would have

been able to behold the Babcocks' iron stag without rancor had the

animal still occupied the grass-plot. Selma, when she saw the figure of

her visitor in the door-way, congratulated herself that it had been

removed. It would have pleased her to know that Mr. Littleton had

already placed her in a niche above the level of mere grass-plot

considerations. That was where she belonged of course; but she was

fearful on the score of suspected shortcomings. So it was gratifying to

be able to receive him in a smarter gown, to be wearing white cuffs, and

to offer him tea with a touch of Mrs. Taylor's tormenting urbanity. Not

so unreservedly as she. That would never do. It was and never would be

in keeping with her own ideas of serious self-respect. Still a touch of

it was grateful to herself. She felt that it was a grace and enhanced

her effectiveness.

A few moments later Selma realized that for the first time since she had

lived in Benham she was being understood and appreciated. She felt too

that for the first time she was talking to a kindred spirit--to be sure,

to one different, and more technically proficient in concrete knowledge,

possibly more able, too, to express his thoughts in words, but eminently

a comrade and sympathizer. She was not obliged to say much. Nor were,

indeed, his actual words the source of her realization. The revelation

came from what was left unsaid--from the silent recognition by him that

she was worthy to share his best thoughts and was herself a serious

worker in the struggle of life. No graceful but galling attitude of

superiority, no polite indifference to her soul-hunger, no disposition

to criticise. And yet he was no less voluble, clever, and spirited than

Mrs. Taylor. She listened with wrapt interest to his easy talk, which

was ever grave in tone, despite his pleasant sallies. He spoke of Benham

with quick appreciation of its bustling energy, and let her see that he

divined its capacity for greatness. This led him to refer with kindling

eyes to the keen impulse toward education and culture which was

animating the younger men and women of the country; to the new

beginnings of art, literature, and scientific investigation. At scarcely

a hint from her he told briefly of his past life and his hopes, and

fondly mentioned his sister and her present absorption in some history

courses for women.

"And you?" he said. "You are a student, too. Mrs. Taylor has told me,

but I should have guessed it. Duties even more interesting claim you

now, but it is easy to perceive that you have known that other

happiness, 'To scorn delights and live laborious days.'"

His words sounded musical, though the quotation from Lycidas was

unfamiliar to her ears. Her brain was thrilling with the import of all

he had told her--with his allusions to the intellectual and ethical

movements of Boston and New York, in which she felt herself by right and

with his recognition a partner and peer.

"You were teaching school when you married, I believe?" he added.

"Yes."

"And before that, if I may ask?"

"I lived at Westfield with my father. It is a small country town, but we

tried to be in earnest."

"I understand--I understand. You grew up among the trees, and the

breezes and the brooks, those wonderful wordless teachers. I envy you,

for they give one time to think--to expand. I have known only city life

myself. It is stimulating, but one is so easily turned aside from one's

direct purpose. Do you write at all?"

"Not yet. But I have wished to. Some day I shall. Just now I have too

many domestic concerns to--"

She did not finish, for Babcock's heavy tread and whistle resounded in

the hall and at the next moment he was calling "Selma!"

She felt annoyed at being interrupted, but she divined that it would

never do to show it.

"My husband," she said, and she raised her voice to utter with a sugared

dignity which would have done credit to Mrs. Taylor,

"I am in the parlor, Lewis."

"Enter your chief domestic concern," said Littleton blithely. "A happy

home is preferable to all the poems and novels in the world."

Babcock, pushing open the door, which stood ajar, stopped short in his

melody.

"This is Mr. Littleton, Lewis. The architect of our new church."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance." And by way of accounting for the

sudden softening of his brow, Babcock added, "I set you down at first as

one of those lightning-rod agents. There was one here last week who

wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."

"He has an advantage over me," answered Littleton with a laugh. "In my

business a man can't solicit orders. He has to sit and wait for them to

come to him."

"I want to know. My wife thinks a lot of your drawings for the new

church."

"I hope to make it a credit to your city. I've just been saying to your

wife, Mr. Babcock, that Benham has a fine future before it. The very

atmosphere seems charged with progress."

Babcock beamed approvingly. "It's a driving place, sir. The man in

Benham who stops by the way-side to scratch his head gets left behind.

When we moved into this house a year ago looking through that window we

were at the jumping-off place; now you see houses cropping up in every

direction. It's going to be a big city. Pleased to have you stop to

supper with us," he added with burly suavity as their visitor rose.

Littleton excused himself and took his leave. Babcock escorted him to

the front door and full of his subject delayed him on the porch to touch

once more on the greatness of Benham. There was a clumsy method too in

this optimistic garrulity, for at the close he referred with some pride

to his own business career, and made a tender of his business card,

"Lewis Babcock & Company, Varnishes," with a flourish. "If you do

anything in my line, pleased to accommodate you."

Littleton departing, tickled by a pleasant sense of humor, caught

through the parlor window a last glimpse of Selma's inspired face bowing

gravely, yet wistfully, in acknowledgment of his lifted hat, and he

strode away under the spell of a brain picture which he transmuted into

words: "There's the sort of case where the cynical foreigner fails to

appreciate the true import of our American life. That couple typifies

the elements of greatness in our every-day people. At first blush the

husband's rough and material, but he's shrewd and enterprising and

vigorous--the bread winner. He's enormously proud of her, and he has

reason to be, for she is a constant stimulus to higher things. Little by

little, and without his knowing it, perhaps, she will smoothe and

elevate him, and they will develop together, growing in intelligence and

cultivation as they wax in worldly goods. After all, woman is our most

marvellous native product--that sort of woman. Heigho!" Having given

vent to this sigh, Littleton proceeded to recognize the hopelessness of

the personal situation by murmuring with a slightly forced access of

sprightliness

"If she be not fair for me,

What care I how fair she be?"

Still he intended to see more of Mrs. Babcock, and that without

infringing the tenth or any other commandment. To flirt with a married

woman savored to him of things un-American and unworthy, and Littleton

had much too healthy an imagination to rhapsodize from such a

stand-point. Yet he foresaw that they might be mutually respecting

friends.

CHAPTER V.

Selma knew intuitively that an American woman was able to cook a smooth

custard, write a poem and control real society with one and the same

brain and hand, and she was looking forward to the realization of the

apotheosis; but, though she was aware that children are the natural

increment of wedlock, she had put the idea from her ever since her

marriage as impersonal and vaguely disgusting. Consequently her

confinement came as an unwelcome interruption of her occupations and

plans.

Her connection with the committee for the new church had proved an

introduction to other interests, charitable and social. One day she was

taken by Mrs. Taylor to a meeting of the Benham Woman's Institute, a

literary club recently established by Mrs. Margaret Rodney Earle, a

Western newspaper woman who had made her home in Benham. Selma came in

upon some twenty of her own sex in a hotel private parlor hired weekly

for the uses of the Institute. Mrs. Earle, the president, a large florid

woman of fifty, with gray hair rising from the brow, fluent of speech,

endowed with a public manner, a commanding bust and a vigorous,

ingratiating smile, wielded a gavel at a little table and directed the

exercises. A paper on Shakespeare's heroines was read and discussed.

Selections on the piano followed. A thin woman in eye-glasses, the

literary editor of the _Benham Sentinel_, recited "Curfew must not ring

to-night," and a visitor from Wisconsin gave an exhibition in melodious

whistling. In the intervals, tea, chocolate with whipped cream and

little cakes were dispensed.

Selma was absorbed and thrilled. What could be more to her taste than

this? At the close of the whistling exercise, Mrs. Earle came over and

spoke to her. They took a strong fancy to each other on the spot. Selma

preferred a person who would tell you everything about herself and to

whom you could tell everything about yourself without preliminaries.

People like Mrs. Taylor repressed her, but the motherly loquacity and

comprehension of Mrs. Earle drew her out and thawed at once and forever

the ice of acquaintanceship. Before she quite realized the extent of

this fascination she had promised to recite something, and as in a

dream, but with flushing cheeks, she heard the President rap the table

and announce "You will be gratified to hear that a talented friend who

is with us has kindly consented to favor us with a recital. I have the

honor to introduce Mrs. Lewis Babcock."

After the first flush of nervousness, Selma's grave dignity came to her

support, and justified her completely in her own eyes. Her father had

been fond of verse, especially of verse imbued with moral melancholy,

and at his suggestion she had learned and had been wont to repeat many

of the occasional pieces which he cut from the newspapers and collected

in a scrap-book. Her own preference among these was the poem, "O why

should the spirit of mortal be proud?" which she had been told was a

great favorite of Abraham Lincoln. It was this piece which came into her

mind when Mrs. Earle broached the subject, and this she proceeded to

deliver with august precision. She spoke clearly and solemnly without

the trace of the giggling protestation which is so often incident to

feminine diffidence. She treated the opportunity with the seriousness

expected, for though the Institute was not proof against light and

diverting contributions, as the whistling performance indicated, levity

of spirit would have been out of place.

"'Tis a twink of the eye, 'tis a draught of the breath

From the blossom of health to the paleness of death;

From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,

O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?"

Selma enjoyed the harmony between the long, slow cadence of the metre

and the important gravity of the theme. She rolled out the verses with

the intensity of a seer, and she looked a beautiful seer as well.

Liberal applause greeted her as she sat down, though the clapping woman

is apt to be a feeble instrument at best. Selma knew that she had

produced an impression and she was moved by her own effectiveness. She

was compelled to swallow once or twice to conceal the tears in her voice

while listening to the congratulations of Mrs. Earle. The words which

she had just recited were ringing through her brain and seemed to her to

express the pitch at which her life was keyed.

Selma was chosen a member of the Institute at the next meeting, and

forthwith she became intimate with the president. Mrs. Margaret Rodney

Earle was, as she herself phrased it, a live woman. She supported

herself by writing for the newspapers articles of a morally utilitarian

character--for instance a winter's series, published every Saturday,

"Hints on Health and Culture," or again, "Receipts for the Parlor and

the Kitchen." She also contributed poetry of a pensive cast, and chatty

special correspondence flavored with personal allusion. She was one of

the pioneers in modern society journalism, which at this time, however,

was comparatively veiled and delicate in its methods. Besides, she was a

woman of tireless energy, with theories on many subjects and an ardor

for organization. She advocated prohibition, the free suffrage of woman,

the renunciation of corsets, and was interested in reforms relating to

labor, the pauper classes and the public schools. In behalf of any of

these causes she was ready from time to time to dash off an article at

short notice or address an audience. But her dearest concern was the

promotion of woman's culture and the enlargement of woman's sphere of

usefulness through the club. The idea of the woman's club, which was

taking root over the country, had put in the shade for the time being

all her other plans, including the scheme of a society for making the

golden-rod the national flower. As the founder and president of the

Benham Institute, she felt that she had found an avocation peculiarly

adapted to her capacities, and she was already actively in

correspondence with clubs of a similar character in other cities, in the

hope of forming a national organization for mutual enlightenment and

support.

Mrs. Earle received Selma by invitation at her lodgings the following

day, and so quickly did their friendship ripen that at the end of two

hours each had told the other everything. Selma was prone instinctively

to regard as aristocratic and un-American any limitations to confidence.

The evident disposition on the part of Mrs. Earle to expose promptly and

without reserve the facts of her past and her plans for the future

seemed to Selma typical of an interesting character, and she was

thankful to make a clean breast in her turn as far as was possible. Mrs.

Earle's domestic experience had been thorny.

"I had a home once, too," she said, "a happy home, I thought. My husband

said he loved me. But almost from the first we had trouble. It went on

so from month to month, and finally we agreed to part. He objected, my

dear, to my living my own life. He didn't like me to take an interest in

things outside the house--public matters. I was elected on the

school-board--the only woman--and he ought to have been proud. He said

he was, at first, but he was too fond of declaring that a woman's place

is in her kitchen. One day I said to him, 'Ellery, this can't go on. If

we can't agree we'd better separate. A cat-and-dog life is no life at

all.' He answered back, 'I'm not asking you to leave me, but if you're

set on it don't let me hinder you, Margaret. You don't need a man to

support you. You're as good as a man yourself.' He meant that to be

sarcastic, I suppose. 'Yes,' said I, 'thank God, I think I can take care

of myself, even though I am a woman.' That was the end of it. There was

no use for either of us to get excited. I packed my things, and a few

mornings later I said to him, 'Good-by, Ellery Earle: I wish you well,

and I suppose you're my husband still, but I'm going to live my own life

without let or hindrance from any man. There's your ring.' My holding

out the ring was startling to him, for he said, 'Aren't you going to be

sorry for this, Margaret?' 'No,' said I, 'I've thought it all out, and

it's best for both of us. There's your ring.' He wouldn't take it, so I

dropped it on the table and went out. Some people miss it, and

misbelieve I was ever married. That was close on to twenty years ago,

and I've never seen him since. When the war broke out I heard he

enlisted, but what's become of him I don't know. Maybe he got a divorce.

I've kept right on and lived my own life in my own way, and never lacked

food or raiment. I'm forty-five years old, but I feel a young woman

still."

Notwithstanding Mrs. Earle's business-like directness and the

protuberance of her bust in conclusion, by way of reasserting her

satisfaction with the results of her action, there was a touch of

plaintiveness in her confession which suggested the womanly author of

"Hints on Culture and Hygiene," rather than the man-hater. This was lost

on Selma, who was fain to sympathize purely from the stand-point of

righteousness.

"It was splendid," she said. "He had no right to prevent you living your

own life. No husband has that right."

Mrs. Earle brushed her eyes with her handkerchief. "You musn't think, my

dear, that I'm not a believer in the home because mine has been

unhappy--because my husband didn't or couldn't understand. The true home

is the inspirer and nourisher of all that is best in life--in our

American life; but men must learn the new lesson. There are many

homes--yours, I'm sure--where the free-born American woman has

encouragement and the opportunity to expand."

"Oh, yes. My husband lets me do as I wish. I made him promise before I

accepted him that he wouldn't thwart me; that he'd let me live my own

life."

Selma was so appreciative of Mrs. Earle, and so energetic and suggestive

in regard to the scope of the Institute, that she was presently chosen a

member of the council, which was the body charged with the supervision

of the fortnightly entertainments. It occurred to her as a brilliant

conception to have Littleton address the club on "Art," and she broached

the subject to him when he next returned to Benham and appeared before

the church committee. He declared that he was too busy to prepare a

suitable lecture, but he yielded finally to her plea that he owed it to

himself to let the women of Benham hear his views and opinions.

"They are wives and they are mothers," said Selma sententiously. "It was

a woman's vote, you remember, which elected you to build our church. You

owe it to Art; don't you think so?"

A logical appeal to his conscience was never lost on Littleton. Besides

he was glad to oblige Mrs. Babcock, who seemed so earnest in her desire

to improve the æsthetic taste of Benham. Accordingly, he yielded. The

lecture was delivered a few weeks later and was a marked success, for

Littleton's earnestness of theme and manner was relieved by a graceful,

sympathetic delivery. Selma, whose social aplomb was increasing every

day, glided about the rooms with a contented mien receiving

felicitations and passing chocolate. She enjoyed the distinction of

being the God behind the curtain.

A few days later the knowledge that she herself was to become a mother

was forced upon her attention, and was a little irksome. Of necessity

her new interests would be interrupted. Though she did not question that

she would perform maternal duties fitly and fully, they seemed to her

less peculiarly adapted to her than concerns of the intellect and the

spirit. However, the possession of a little daughter was more precious

to her than she had expected, and the consciousness that the tiny doll

which lay upon her breast, was flesh of her flesh and bone of her bone

affected her agreeably and stirred her imagination. It should be reared,

from the start, in the creed of soul independence and expansion, and she

herself would find a new and sacred duty in catering to the needs of

this budding intelligence. So she reflected as she lay in bed, but the

outlook was a little marred by the thought that the baby was the living

image of its father--broad-featured and burly--not altogether desirable

cast of countenance for a girl. What a pity, when it might just as well

have looked like her.

Babcock, on his part, was transported by paternity. He was bubbling over

with appreciation of the new baby, and fondly believed it to be a human

wonder. He was solicitous on the score of its infantile ailments, and

loaded it with gifts and toys beyond the scope of its enjoyment. He went

about the house whistling more exuberantly than ever. There was no speck

on his horizon; no fly in his pot of ointment. It was he who urged that

the child should be christened promptly, though Dr. Glynn was not

disposed to dwell on the clerical barbarism as to the destiny of

unbaptized infants. Babcock was cultivating a conservative method: He

realized that there was no object in taking chances. Illogical as was

the theory that a healthy dog which had bitten him should be killed at

once, lest it subsequently go mad and he contract hydrophobia, he was

too happy and complacent to run the risk of letting it live. So it was

with regard to baby. But Selma chose the name. Babcock preferred in this

order another Selma, Sophia, after his mother, or a compliment to the

wife of the President of the United States. But Selma, as the result of

grave thought, selected Muriel Grace. Without knowing exactly why, she

asked Mrs. Taylor to be godmother. The ceremony was solemn and inspiring

to her. She knew from the glass in her room that she was looking very

pretty. But she was weak and emotional. The baby behaved admirably, even

when Lewis, trembling with pride, held it out to Mr. Glynn for baptism

and held it so that the blood rushed to its head. "I baptize thee in the

name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost." She was happy and the

tears were in her eyes. The divine blessing was upon her and her house,

and, after all, baby was a darling and her husband a kind, manly soul.

With the help of heaven she would prove herself their good angel.

When they returned home there was a whistle of old silver of light,

graceful design, a present from Mrs. Taylor to Muriel. Her aunt, Mrs.

Farley, compared this to its disparagement with one already purchased by

Lewis, on the gaudily embossed stem of which perched a squirrel with a

nut in its mouth. But Selma shook her head. "Both of you are wrong," she

said with authority. "This is a beauty."

"It doesn't look new to my eyes," protested Mrs. Parley.

"Of course it isn't new. I shouldn't wonder if she bought it while

travelling abroad in Europe. It's artistic, and--and I shan't let baby

destroy it."

Babcock glanced from one gift to the other quizzically. Then by way of

disposing of the subject he seized his daughter in his arms and dandling

her toward the ceiling cried, "If it's artistic things we must have,

this is the most artistic thing which I know of in the wide world.

Aren't you, little sugar-plum?"

Mrs. Farley, with motherly distrust of man, apprehensively followed with

her eyes and arms the gyrations of rise and fall; but Selma, though she

saw, pursued the current of her own thought which prompted her to

examine her wedding-ring. She was thinking that, compared with Mrs.

Taylor's, it was a cart wheel--a clumsy, conspicuous band of metal,

instead of a delicate hoop. She wondered if Lewis would object to

exchange it for another.

With the return of her strength, Selma took up again eagerly the tenor

of her former life, aiding and abetting Mrs. Earle in the development of

the Institute. The president was absorbed in enlarging its scope by the

enrollment of more members, and the establishment of classes in a

variety of topics--such as literature, science, philosophy, current

events, history, art, and political economy. She aimed to construct a

club which should be social and educational in the broadest sense by

mutual co-operation and energy. Selma, in her eagerness to make the most

of the opportunities for culture offered, committed herself to two of

the new topic classes--"Italian and Grecian Art," and "The Governments

of Civilization," and as a consequence found some difficulty in

accommodating her baby's nursing hours to these engagements. It was

indeed a relief to her when the doctor presently pronounced the supply

of her breast-milk inadequate. She was able to assuage Lewis' regret

that Muriel should be brought up by hand with the information that a

large percentage of Benham and American mothers were similarly barren

and that bottle babies were exceedingly healthy. She had gleaned the

first fact from the physician, the second from Mrs. Earle, and her own

conclusion on the subject was that a lack of milk was an indication of

feminine evolution from the status of the brute creation, a sign of

spiritual as opposed to animal quality. Selma found Mrs. Earle

sympathetic on this point, and also practical in her suggestions as to

the rearing of infants by artificial means, recommendations concerning

which were contained in one of her series of papers entitled "Mother

Lore."

The theory of the new classes was co-operation. That is, the members

successively, turn by turn, lectured on the topic, and all were expected

to study in the interim so as to be able to ask questions and discuss

the views of the lecturer. Concerning both Italian and Grecian Art and

the Governments of Civilization, Selma knew that she had convictions in

the abstract, but when she found herself face to face with a specific

lecture on each subject, it occurred to her as wise to supplement her

ideas by a little preparation. The nucleus of a public library had been

recently established by Joel Flagg and placed at the disposal of Benham.

Here, by means of an encyclopædia and two hand-books, Selma was able in

three forenoons to compile a paper satisfactory to her self-esteem on

the dynasties of Europe and their inferiority to the United States, but

her other task was illumined for her by a happy incident, the promise of

Littleton to lend her books. Indeed he seemed delightfully interested in

both of her classes, which was especially gratifying in view of the fact

that Mrs. Taylor, who was a member of the Institute, had combated the

new programme on the plea that they were attempting too much and that it

would encourage superficiality. But Littleton seemed appreciative of the

value of the undertaking, and he made his promise good forthwith by

forwarding to her a package of books on art, among them two volumes of

Ruskin. Selma, who had read quotations from Ruskin on one or two

occasions and believed herself an admirer of, and tolerably familiar

with, his writings, was thrilled. She promptly immersed herself in

"Stones of Venice" and "Seven Lamps of Architecture," sitting up late at

night to finish them. When she had read these and the article in the

encyclopædia under the head of Art, she felt bursting with her subject

and eager to air her knowledge before the class. Her lecture was

acknowledged to be the most stirring and thorough of the course.

Reports of its success came back to her from Littleton, who offered to

assist his pupil further by practical demonstration of the eternal

architectural fitness and unfitness of things--especially the latter--in

walks through the streets of Benham. But six times in as many months,

however. There was no suggestion of coquetry on either side in these

excursions, yet each enjoyed them. Littleton's own work was beginning to

assume definite form, and his visits to Benham became of necessity more

frequent; flying trips, but he generally managed to obtain a few words

with Selma. He continued to lend her books, and he invited her criticism

on the slowly growing church edifice. The responsibility of critic was

an absorbing sensation to her, but the stark glibness of tongue which

stood her in good stead before the classes of the Institute failed her

in his presence--the presence of real knowledge. She wished to praise,

but to praise discriminatingly, with the cant of æsthetic appreciation,

so that he should believe that she knew. As for the church itself, she

was interested in it; it was fine, of course, but that was a secondary

consideration compared with her emotions. His predilection in her favor,

however, readily made him deaf in regard to her utterances. He scarcely

heeded her halting, solemn, counterfeit transcendentalisms; or rather

they passed muster as subtle and genuine, so spell bound was he by the

Delphic beauty of her criticising expression. It was enough for him to

watch her as she stood with her head on one side and the worried

archangel look transfiguring her profile. What she said was lost in his

reverie as to what she was--what she represented in his contemplation.

As she looked upon his handiwork he was able to view it with different

eyes, to discern its weaknesses and to gain fresh inspiration from her

presence. He felt that it was growing on his hands and that he should be

proud of it, and though, perhaps, he was conscious in his inner soul

that she was more to him than another man's wife should be, he knew too,

that no word or look of his had offended against the absent husband.

CHAPTER VI.

By the end of another six months Littleton's work was practically

completed. Only the finishing touches to the interior decoration

remained to be done. The members of Rev. Mr. Glynn's congregation,

including Mrs. Hallett Taylor, were thoroughly satisfied with the

appearance of the new church. It was attractive in its lines, yet it was

simple and, consequently, in keeping with the resources of the treasury.

There was no large bill for extras to be audited, as possibly would have

been the case had a hard-headed designer like Mr. Pierce been employed.

The committee felt itself entitled to the congratulations of the

community. Nor was the community on the whole disposed to grumble, for

home talent had been employed by the architect; under rigorous

supervision, to be sure, so that poor material and slap-dash workmanship

were out of the question. Still, payments had been prompt, and Benham

was able to admire competent virtue. The church was a monument of

suggestion in various ways, artistic and ethical, and it shone neatly

with Babcock varnish.

One morning Selma set forth by agreement with Littleton, in order to

inspect some fresco work. Muriel Grace was ailing slightly, but as she

would be home by mid-day, she bade the hired girl be watchful of baby,

and kept her appointment. The child had grown dear to her, for Muriel

was a charming little dot, and Selma had already begun to enjoy the

maternal delight of human doll dressing, an extravagance in which she

was lavishly encouraged by her husband. Babcock was glad of any excuse

to spend money on his daughter, who seemed to him, from day to day, a

greater marvel of precocity--such a child as became Selma's beauty and

cleverness and his own practical common-sense.

Selma was in a pensive frame of mind this morning. Two days before she

had read a paper at the Institute on "Motherhood," which had been

enthusiastically received. Mrs. Earle had printed a flattering item

concerning it in the _Benham Sentinel_. It was agreeable to her to be

going to meet Littleton, for he was the most interesting masculine

figure in her life. She was sure of Lewis. He was her husband and she

knew herself to be the apple of his eye; but she knew exactly what he

was going to say before he said it, and much of what he said grated on

her. She was almost equally sure of Littleton; that is of his

admiration. His companionship was a constant pleasure to her. As a

married woman, and as a Christian and American woman, she desired no

more than this. But on the other hand, she would fain have this admiring

companionship continue; and yet it could not. Littleton had told her the

day before that he was going back to New York and that it was doubtful

if he would return. She would miss him. She would have the Institute and

Mrs. Earle still, but her life would be less full.

Littleton was waiting for her at the church entrance. She followed him

down the nave to the chancel where she listened dreamily to his

presentation of the merits of the new decoration. He seemed inclined to

talk, and from this presently branched off to describe with enthusiasm

the plates of a French book on interior architecture, which he had

recently bought as a long-resisted but triumphant piece of extravagance.

Mechanically, they turned from the chancel and slowly made the round of

the aisles. A short silence succeeded his professional ardor. His

current of thought, in its reversion to home matters, had reminded him

afresh of what was perpetually this morning uppermost in his

consciousness--his coming departure.

"Now," he said, abruptly, "is the most favorable opportunity I shall

have, Mrs. Babcock, to tell you how much I am your debtor. I shan't

despair of our meeting again, for the world is small, and good friends

are sure to meet sooner or later. But the past is secure to me at any

rate. If this church is in some measure what I have dreamed and wished

it to be, if my work with all its faults is a satisfaction to myself, I

wish you to know how much you have contributed to make it what it is."

The words were as a melody in Selma's ears, and she listened greedily.

Littleton paused, as one seriously moved will pause before giving the

details of an important announcement. She, thinking he had finished,

interjected with a touch of modesty, "I'm so glad. But my suggestions

and criticisms have not been what I meant them to be. It was all new to

me, you know."

"Oh, yes. It hasn't been so much what you have said in words which has

helped me, though that has been always intelligent and uplifting. I did

not look for technical knowledge. You do not possess that, of course.

There are women in New York who would be able to confuse you with their

familiarity with these things. And yet it is by way of contrast with

those very women--fine women, too, in their way--that you have been my

good angel. There is no harm in saying that. I should be an ingrate,

surely, if I would not let you know that your sane, simple outlook upon

life, your independent vision, has kept my brain clear and my soul free.

I am a better artist and a better man for the experience. Good-by, and

may all happiness attend you. If once in a while you should find time to

write to a struggling architect named Littleton, he will be charmed to

do your bidding--to send you books and to place his professional

knowledge at your service. Good-by."

He held out his hand with frank effusion. He was obviously happy at

having given utterance to his sense of obligation. Selma was tingling

from head to foot and a womanly blush was on her cheek, though the

serious seraph spoke in her words and eyes. She felt moved to a wave of

unreserved speech.

"What you have said is very interesting to me. I wish to tell you how

much I, too, have enjoyed our friendship. The first time we met I felt

sure we should be sympathetic, and we have been, haven't we? One of the

fine things about friendships between men and women in this country is

that they can really get to know each other without--er--harm to either.

Isn't it? It's such a pleasure to know people really, and I feel as if I

had known you, as if we had known each other really. I've never known

any man exactly in that way, and I have always wanted to. Except, of

course, my husband. And he's extremely different--that is, his tastes

are not like yours. It's a happiness to me to feel that I have been of

assistance to you in your work, and you have been equally helpful to me

in mine. As you say, I have never had the opportunity to learn the

technical parts of art, and your books have instructed me as to that. I

have never been in New York, but I understand what you meant about your

friends, those other women. I suppose society people must be constantly

diverted from serious work--from the intellectual and spiritual life. Oh

yes, we ought to write. Our friendship mustn't languish. We must let

each other know what we are thinking and doing. Good-by."

As Selma walked along the street her heart was in her mouth. She felt

pity for herself. To just the right person she would have confessed the

discovery that she had made a mistake and tied herself for life to the

wrong man. It was not so much that she fancied Littleton which

distressed her, for, indeed, she was but mildly conscious of

infatuation. What disturbed her was the contrast between him and

Babcock, which definite separation now forced upon her attention. An

indefinable impression that Littleton might think less of her if she

were to state this soul truth had restrained her at the last moment from

disclosing the secret. Not for an instant did she entertain the idea of

being false to Lewis. Her confession would have been but a dissertation

on the inexorable irony of fate, calling only for sympathy, and in no

way derogating from her dignity and self-respect as a wife. Still, she

had restrained herself, and stopped just short of the confidence. He was

gone, and she would probably not see him again for years. That was

endurable. Indeed, a recognition of the contrary would not have seemed

to her consistent with wifely virtue. What brought the tears to her eyes

was the vision of continued wedlock, until death intervened, with a

husband who could not understand. Could she bear this? Must she endure

it? There was but one answer: She must. At the thought she bit her lip

with the intensity and sternness of a martyr. She would be faithful to

her marriage vows, but she would not let Lewis's low aims interfere with

the free development of her own life.

It was after noon when she reached home. She was met at the door by the

hired girl with the worried ejaculation that baby was choking. The

doctor was hastily summoned. He at once pronounced that Muriel Grace had

membranous croup, and was desperately ill. Remedies of various sorts

were tried, and a consulting physician called, but when Babcock returned

from his office her condition was evidently hopeless. The child died in

the early night. Selma was relieved to hear the doctor tell her husband

that it was a malignant case from the first, and that nothing could have

averted the result. In response to questions from Lewis, however, she

was obliged to admit that she had not been at home when the acute

symptoms appeared. This afforded Babcock an outlet for his suffering. He

spoke to her roughly for the first time in his life, bitterly suggesting

neglect on her part.

"You knew she wasn't all right this morning, yet you had to go

fiddle-faddling with that architect instead of staying at home where you

belonged. And now she's dead. My little girl, my little girl!" And the

big man burst out sobbing.

Selma grew deadly pale. No one had ever spoken to her like that before

in her life. To the horror of her grief was added the consciousness that

she was being unjustly dealt with. Lewis had heard the doctor's

statement, and yet he dared address her in such terms. As if the loss of

the child did not fall equally on her.

"If it were to be done over again, I should do just the same," she

answered, with righteous quietness. "To all appearances she had nothing

but a little cold. You have no right to lay the blame on me, her

mother." At the last word she looked ready to cry, too.

Babcock regarded her like a miserable tame bull. "I didn't mean to," he

blubbered. "She's taken away from me, and I'm so wretched that I don't

know what I'm saying. I'm sorry, Selma."

He held out his arms to her. She was ready to go to them, for the angel

of death had entered her home and pierced her heart, where it should be

most tender. She loved her baby. Yet, when she had time to think, she

was not sure that she wished to have another. When the bitterness of his

grief had passed away, that was the hope which Lewis ventured to

express, at first in a whisper, and later with reiterated boldness.

Selma acquiesced externally, but she had her own opinions. Certain

things which were not included in "Mother Lore," had been confided by

Mrs. Margaret Rodney Earle by word of mouth in the fulness of their

mutual soul-scourings, and had remained pigeon-holed for future

reference in Selma's inner consciousness. Another baby just at this time

meant interference with everything elevating. There was time enough. In

a year or two, when she had established herself more securely in the

social sphere of Benham, she would present her husband with a second

child. It was best for them both to wait, for her success was his

success; but it would be useless to try to make that clear to him in his

present mood.

So she put away her baby things, dropping tears over the little socks

and other reminders of her sorrow, and took up her life again, keeping

her own counsel. The sympathy offered her was an interesting experience.

Mrs. Earle came to her at once, and took her to her bosom; Mrs. Taylor

sent her flowers with a kind note, which set Selma thinking whether she

ought not to buy mourning note-paper; and within a week she received a

visit of condolence from Mr. Glynn, rather a ghastly visit. Ghastly,

because Lewis sat through it all with red eyes, very much as though he

were listening to a touching exhortation in church. To be sure, he

gripped the pastor's hand like a vice, at the end, and thanked him for

coming, but his silent, afflicted presence had interfered with the free

interchange of thought which would have been possible had she been alone

with the clergyman. The subject of death, and the whole train of

reflections incident to it, were uppermost in her mind, and she would

have been glad to probe the mysteries of the subject by controversial

argument, instead of listening to hearty, sonorous platitudes. She

listened rather contemptuously, for she recognized that Mr. Glynn was

saying the stereotyped thing in the stereotyped way, without realizing

that it was nothing but sacerdotal pap, little adapted to an intelligent

soul. What was suited to Lewis was not fit for her. And yet her baby's

death had served to dissipate somewhat the immediate discontent which

she felt with her husband. His strong grief had touched her in spite of

herself, and, though she blamed him still for his inconsiderate

accusation, she was fond of him as she might have been fond of some

loving Newfoundland, which, splendid in awkward bulk, caressed her and

licked her hand. It was pleasant enough to be in his arms, for the touch

of man--even the wrong man--was, at times, a comfort.

She took up again with determined interest her relations to the

Institute, joining additional classes and pursuing a variety of topics

of study, in regard to some of which she consulted Littleton. She missed

his presence less than she had expected, especially after they had begun

to correspond and were able to keep in touch by letter. His letters were

delightful. They served her in her lecture courses, for they so clearly

and concisely expressed her views that she was able to use long extracts

from them word for word. And every now and then they contained a

respectful allusion which showed that he still retained a personal

interest in her. So the weeks slipped away and she was reasonably happy.

She was absorbed and there was nothing new to mar the tenor of her life,

though she was vaguely conscious that the loss of their little girl had

widened the breach between her and her husband--widened it for the

reason that now, for the first time, he perceived how lonely he was. The

baby had furnished him with constant delight and preoccupation. He had

looked forward all day to seeing it at night, and questions relating to

it had supplied a never-ceasing small change of conversation between him

and her. He had let her go her way with a smile on his face. Selma did

not choose to dwell on the situation, but it was obvious that Lewis

continued to look glum, and that there were apt to be long silences

between them at meals. Now and again he would show some impatience at

the continuous recurrence of the Institute classes as a bar to some

project of domesticity or recreation, as though she had not been an

active member of the Institute before baby was born.

One of the plans in which Mrs. Earle was most interested was a Congress

of Women's Clubs, and in the early summer of the same year--some four

months subsequent to the death of Muriel Grace--a small beginning toward

this end was arranged to take place in Chicago. There were to be six

delegates from each club, and Selma was unanimously selected as one of

the delegation from the Benham Women's Institute. The opinion was

generally expressed that a change would do her good, and there was no

question that she was admirably fitted to represent the club. Selma, who

had not travelled a hundred miles beyond Benham in her life, was elated

at the prospect of the expedition; so much so that she proudly recounted

to Lewis the same evening the news of her appointment. It never occurred

to her that he would wish to accompany her, and when he presently

informed her that he had been wishing to go to Chicago on business for

some time, and that the date proposed would suit him admirably, she was

dumfounded. Half of the interest of the expedition would consist in

travelling as an independent delegation. A husband would be in the way

and spoil the savor of the occasion. It would never do, and so Selma

proceeded to explain. She wished to go alone.

"A pack of six women travel by themselves?" blurted Lewis. "Suppose

there were an accident?" he added, after searching his brain for a less

feeble argument.

"We should either be killed or we shouldn't be," said Selma firmly. "We

are perfectly well able to take care of ourselves. Women travel alone

everywhere every-day--that is, intelligent American women."

Lewis looked a little sad. "I thought, perhaps, it would seem nice for

you to go with me, Selma. We haven't been off since we were married, and

I can get away now just as well as not."

"So it would have been if I weren't one of the delegation. I should

think you would see, Lewis, that your coming is out of the question."

So it proved. Selma set forth for Chicago on the appointed day, made

many new acquaintances among the delegates, and was pleased to be

introduced and referred to publicly as Mrs. Selma Babcock--a form of

address to which she was unaccustomed at Benham. On the night before her

departure, being in pleasant spirits, she told Lewis that her absence

would do him good, and that he would appreciate her all the more on her

return.

She was to be gone a week. The first twenty-four hours passed gloomily

for Babcock. Then he began to take notice. He noticed that the county

fair was fixed for the following days. He had hoped to carry Selma

there, but, as she was not to be had, it seemed to him sensible to get

what enjoyment from it he could alone. Then it happened that a former

companion of his bachelor days and his bachelor habits, a commercial

traveller, whom he had not seen since his marriage, appeared on the

scene.

"The very man for me!" he ejaculated, jubilantly.

The obscurity of this remark was presently made clear to his friend, who

had hoped perhaps to enjoy a snug evening at Babcock's domestic hearth,

but who was not averse to playing a different part--that of cheering up

a father who had lost his baby, and whose wife had left him in the

lurch. He assured Babcock that a regular old time outing--a shaking

up--would do him good, and Babcock was ready to agree with him,

intending thereby a free-handed two days at the fair. As has been

intimated, his manner of life before marriage had not been

irreproachable, but he had been glad of an opportunity to put an end to

the mildly riotous and coarse bouts which disfigured his otherwise

commonplace existence. He had no intention now of misbehaving himself,

but he felt the need of being enlivened. His companion was a man who

delighted in what he called a lark, and whose only method of insuring a

lark was by starting in with whiskey and keeping it up. That had been

also Babcock's former conception of a good time, and though he had dimly

in mind that he was now a husband and church-member, he strove to

conduct himself in such a manner as to maintain his self-respect without

becoming a spoil sport.

During the first day at the fair Babcock managed to preserve this nice

distinction. On the second, he lost account of his conduct, and by the

late afternoon was sauntering with his friend among the booths in the

company of two suspicions looking women. With these same women the pair

of revellers drove off in top buggies just before dusk, and vanished in

the direction of the open country.

CHAPTER VII.

Babcock returned to his home twenty-four hours later like a whipped cur.

He was disgusted with himself. It seemed to him incredible that he

should have fallen so low. He had sinned against his wife and his own

self-respect without excuse; for it was no excuse that he had let

himself be led to drink too much. His heart ached and his cheek burned

at the recollection of his two days of debauchery. What was to be done?

If only he were able to cut this ugly sore in his soul out with a knife

and have done with it forever! But that was impossible. It stared him in

the face, a haunting reality. In his distress he asked himself whether

he would not go to Mr. Glynn and make a clean breast of it; but his

practical instincts answered him that he would none the less have made a

beast of himself. He held his head between his hands, and stared

dejectedly at his desk. Some relief came to him at last only from the

reflection that it was a single fault, and that it need never--it should

never be repeated. Selma need not know, and he would henceforth avoid

all such temptations. Terrible as it was, it was a slip, not a

deliberate fault, and his love for his wife was not in question.

Thus reasoning, he managed by the third day after his return to reach a

less despondent frame of mind. While busy writing in his office a lady

was announced, and looking up he encountered the meretricious smile of

the courtesan with whom he had forgotten himself. She had taken a fancy

to her victim, and having learned that he was well to do, she had come

in order to establish, if possible, on a more permanent basis, her

relations with him. She was a young woman, who had been drifting from

place to place, and whose professional inclination for a protector was

heightened by the liking which she had conceived for him. Babcock

recalled in her smile merely his shame, and regarded her reappearance as

effrontery. He was blind to her prettiness and her sentimental mood. He

asked her roughly what she wanted, and rising from his chair, he bade

her be gone before she had time to answer. Nine out of ten women of her

class would have taken their dismissal lightly. Some might have answered

back in tones loud enough to enlighten the clerks, and thus have

accomplished a pretty revenge in the course of retreat. This particular

Lesbian was in no humor to be harshly treated. She was a little

desperate and Babcock had pleased her. It piqued her to be treated in

such a fashion; accordingly, she held her ground and sat down. She tried

upon him, alternately, irony and pathos. He was angry but confused under

the first, he became savage and merciless under the second, throwing

back in her teeth the suggestion of her fondness, and stigmatizing her

coarsely. Then she became angry in her turn--angry as a woman whose

proffered love is spurned. The method for revenge was obvious, and she

told him plainly what she intended. His wife should know at once how her

husband passed his time during her absence. She had posted herself, and

she saw that her shaft hurt. Babcock winced, but mad and incredulous, he

threatened her with arrest and drove her from the room. She went out

smiling, but with an ominous look in her eyes, the remembrance of which

made him ask himself now and again if she could be vicious enough, or

fool enough, to keep her promise. He dismissed the idea as improbable;

still the bare chance worried him. Selma was to arrive early the next

morning, and he had reconciled himself to the conclusion that she need

never know, and that he would henceforth be a faithful husband. Had he

not given an earnest of his good faith in his reception of his visitor?

Surely, no such untoward and unnatural accident would dash the cup of

returning happiness from his lips. A more clever man would have gone

straight to police headquarters, instead of trusting to chance.

A night's rest reassured him as to the idleness of the threat, so that

he was able to welcome Selma at the railroad station with a

comparatively light heart. She was in high spirits over the success of

her expedition, and yet graciously ready to admit that she was glad to

return home--meaning thereby, to her own bed and bathing facilities; but

the general term seemed to poor Lewis a declaration of wifely devotion.

He went to his business with the mien of a man who had passed through an

ordeal and is beginning life again; but when he returned at night, as

soon as he beheld Selma, he suspected what had happened.

She was awaiting him in the parlor. Though he saw at a glance that she

looked grave, he went forward to kiss her, but she rose and, stepping

behind the table, put out her hand forbiddingly.

"What is the matter?" he faltered.

"That woman has been here," was her slow, scornful response.

"Selma, I--" A confusing sense of hopelessness as to what to say choked

Babcock's attempt to articulate. There was a brief silence, while he

looked at her imploringly and miserably.

"Is it true what she says? Have you been false to your marriage vows?

Have you committed adultery?"

"My God! Selma, you don't understand."

"It is an easy question to answer, yes or no?"

"I forgot myself, Selma. I was drunk and crazy. I ask your pardon."

She shook her head coldly. "I shall have nothing more to do with you. I

cannot live with you any longer."

"Not live with me?"

"Would you live with me if it were I who had forgotten myself?"

"I think I would, Selma. You don't understand. I was a brute. I have

been wretched ever since. But it was a slip--an accident. I drank too

much, and it happened. I love you, Selma, with all my heart. I have

never been false to you in my affection."

"It is a strange time to talk of affection. I went away for a week, and

in my absence you insulted me by debauchery with a creature like that.

Love? You have no conception of the meaning of the word. Oh no, I shall

never live with you again."

Babcock clinched his palms in his distress and walked up and down. She

stood pale and determined looking into space. Presently he turned to her

and asked with quiet but intense solicitude, "You don't mean that you're

going to leave me for one fault, we being husband and wife and the

little girl in her grave? I said you don't understand and you don't. A

man's a man, and there are times when he's been drinking when he's

liable to yield to temptation, and that though he's so fond of his wife

that life without her would be misery. This sounds strange to a woman,

and it's a poor excuse. But it ought to count, Selma, when it comes to a

question of our separating. There would be happy years before us yet if

you give me another chance."

"Not happy years for me," she replied concisely. "The American woman

does not choose to live with the sort of man you describe. She demands

from her husband what he demands from her, faithfulness to the marriage

tie. We could never be happy again. Our ideal of life is different. I

have made excuses for you in other things, but my soul revolts at this."

Babcock looked at her for a moment in silence, then he said, a little

sternly, "You shouldn't have gone away and left me. I'm not blaming you,

but you shouldn't have gone." He walked to the window but he saw

nothing. His heart was racked. He had been eager to humiliate himself

before her to prove his deep contrition, but he had come to the end of

his resources, and yet she was adamant. Her charge that she had been

making excuses for him hitherto reminded him that they had not been

really sympathetic for some time past. With his back turned to her he

heard her answer:

"It was understood before I agreed to marry you that I was to be free to

follow my tastes and interests. It is a paltry excuse that, because I

left you alone for a week in pursuit of them, I am accessory to your

sin."

Babcock faced her sadly. "The sin's all mine," he said. "I can't deny

that. But, Selma, I guess I've been pretty lonely ever since the baby

died."

"Lonely?" she echoed. "Then my leaving you will not matter so much.

Here," she said, slipping off her wedding-ring, "this belongs to you."

She remembered Mrs. Earle's proceeding, and though she had not yet

decided what course to pursue in order to maintain her liberty, she

regarded this as the significant and definite act. She held out the

ring, but Babcock shook his head.

"The law doesn't work as quick as that, nor the church either. You can

get a divorce if you're set on it, Selma. But we're husband and wife

yet."

"Only the husk of our marriage is left. The spirit is dead," she said

sententiously. "I am going away. I cannot pass another night in this

house. If you will not take this ring, I shall leave it here."

Babcock turned to hide the tears which blinded his eyes. Selma regarded

him a moment gravely, then she laid her wedding-ring on the table and

went from the room.

She put her immediate belongings into a bag and left the house. She had

decided to go to Mrs. Earle's lodgings where she would be certain to

find shelter and sympathy. Were she to go to her aunt's she would be

exposed to importunity on her husband's behalf from Mrs. Farley, who was

partial to Lewis. Her mind was entirely made up that there could be no

question of reconciliation. Her duty was plain; and she would be doing

herself an injustice were she to continue to live with one so weak and

regardless of the honor which she had a right to demand of the man to

whom she had given her society and her body. His gross conduct had

entitled her to her liberty, and to neglect to seize it would be to

condemn herself to continuous unhappiness, for this overt act of his was

merely a definite proof of the lack of sympathy between them, of which

she had for some time been well aware at heart. As she walked along the

street she was conscious that it was a relief to her to be sloughing off

the garment of an uncongenial relationship and to be starting life

afresh. There was nothing in her immediate surroundings from which she

was not glad to escape. Their house was full of blemishes from the

stand-point of her later knowledge, and she yearned to dissociate

herself, once and for all, from the trammels of her pitiful mistake. She

barely entertained the thought that she was without means. She would

have to support herself, of course, but it never occurred to her to

doubt her ability to do so, and the necessity added a zest to her

decision. It would be plain sailing, for Mrs. Earle had more than once

invited her to send copy to the _Benham Sentinel_, and there was no form

of occupation which would be more to her liking than newspaper work. It

was almost with the mien of a prisoner escaped from jail that she walked

in upon her friend and said:

"I have left my husband. He has been unfaithful to me."

In Mrs. Earle, conventional feminine instincts were apt, before she had

time to think, to get the upper hand of her set theories. "You, poor,

poor child," she cried extending her arms.

Selma had not intended to weep. Still the opportunity was convenient,

and her nerves were on edge. She found herself sobbing with her head on

Mrs. Earle's, bosom, and telling her sad story.

"He was never good enough for you. I have always said so," Mrs. Earle

murmured stroking her hair.

"I ought to have known from the first that it was impossible for us to

be happy. Why did I ever marry him? He said he loved me, and I let

myself be badgered into it," Selma answered through her tears. "Well,

it's all over now," she added, sitting up and drying her eyes. "He has

given me back my liberty. I am a free woman."

"Yes, dear, if you are perfectly sure of yourself, there is only one

course to pursue. Only you should consider the matter solemnly. Perhaps

in a few days, after he has apologized and shown proper contrition, you

might feel willing to give him another chance."

Selma was unprepared for Mrs. Earle's sentimentality. "Surely," she

exclaimed with tragic earnestness, "you wouldn't have me live with him

after what occurred? Contrition? He said everything he could think of to

get me to stay, but I made my decision then and there."

Mrs. Earle put her own handkerchief to her eyes. "Women have forgiven

such things; but I respect you all the more for not being weak. I know

how you feel. It is hard to do, but if I had it to do over again, I

would act just the same--just the same. It's a serious responsibility to

encourage any one to desert a home, but under the circumstances I would

not live with him another minute, my child--not another minute."

Thereupon Mrs. Earle protruded her bosom to celebrate the triumph of

justice in her own mental processes over conventional and maudlin

scruples. "You will apply for a divorce, I suppose?"

"I have not considered that. All I care for is never to see him again."

"Oh yes, you must get a divorce. It is much better, you know. In my case

I couldn't, for he did nothing public. A divorce settles matters, and

puts you back where you were before. You might wish some day to marry

again."

"I have had enough of marriage."

"It isn't any harm to be a free woman--free in the eye of the law as

well as of conscience. I know an excellent lawyer--a Mr. Lyons, a

sympathetic and able man. Besides your husband is bound to support you.

You must get alimony."

"I wouldn't touch a dollar of his money," Selma answered with scorn. "I

intend to support myself. I shall write--work."

"Of course you will, dear; and it will be a boon and a blessing to me to

have you in our ranks--one of the new army of self-supporting,

self-respecting women. I suppose you are right. I have never had a

sixpence. But your husband deserves to be punished. Perhaps it is

punishment enough to lose you."

"He will get over that. It is enough for me," she exclaimed, ardently,

after a dreamy pause, "that I am separated from him forever--that I am

free--free--free."

A night's sleep served to intensify Selma's determination, and she awoke

clearly of the opinion that a divorce was desirable. Why remain fettered

by a bare legal tie to one who was a husband only in name? Accordingly,

in company with Mrs. Earle, she visited the office of James O. Lyons,

and took the initiatory steps to dissolve the marriage.

Mr. Lyons was a large, full-bodied man of thirty-five, with a fat,

cleanly-shaven, cherubic countenance, an aspect of candor, and keen,

solemn eyes. His manner was impressive and slightly pontificial; his

voice resonant and engaging. He knew when to joke and when to be grave

as an owl. He wore in every-day life a shiny, black frock-coat, a

standing collar, which yawned at the throat, and a narrow, black tie.

His general effect was that of a cross between a parson and a shrewd

Yankee--a happy suggestion of righteous, plain, serious-mindedness,

protected against the wiles of human society--and able to protect

others--by a canny intelligence. For a young man he had already a

considerable clientage. A certain class of people, notably the

hard-headed, God-fearing, felt themselves safe in his hands. His

magnetic yet grave manner of conducting business pleased Benham,

attracting also both the distressed and the bilious portions of the

community, and the farmers from the surrounding country. As Mrs. Earle

informed Selma, he was in sympathy with all progressive and stimulating

ideas, and he already figured in the newspapers politically, and before

the courts as a friend of the masses, and a fluent advocate of social

reforms. His method of handling Selma's case was smooth. To begin with,

he was sympathetic within proper limits, giving her tacitly to

understand that, though as a man and brother, he deplored the necessity

of extreme measures, he recognized that she had made up her mind, and

that compromise was out of the question. To put it concisely, his manner

was grieved, but practical. He told her that he would represent to

Babcock the futility of contesting a cause, which, on the evidence, must

be hopeless, and that, in all probability, the matter could be disposed

of easily and without publicity. He seemed to Selma a very sensible and

capable man, and it was agreeable to her to feel that he appreciated

that, though divorce in the abstract was deplorable, her experience

justified and called for the protection of the law.

In the meantime Babcock was very unhappy, and was casting about for a

method to induce his wife to return. He wrote to her a pitiful letter,

setting forth once more the sorry facts in the best light which he could

bring to bear on them, and implored her forgiveness. He applied to her

aunt, Mrs. Farley, and got her to supplement his plea with her

good-natured intervention. "There are lots of men like that," she

confided to Selma, "and he's a kind, devoted creature." When this

failed, he sought Rev. Mr. Glynn as a last resort, and, after he had

listened to a stern and fervid rating from the clergyman on the lust of

the flesh, he found his pastor on his side. Mr. Glynn was opposed to

divorce on general ecclesiastical principles; moreover, he had been

educated under the law of England, by which a woman cannot obtain a

divorce from her husband for the cause of adultery unless it be coupled

with cruelty--a clever distinction between the sexes, which was

doubtless intended as a cloak for occasional lapses on the part of man.

It was plain to him, as a Christian and as a hearty soul, that there had

been an untoward accident--a bestial fault, a soul-debasing carnal sin,

but still an accident, and hence to be forgiven by God and woman. It was

his duty to interfere; and so, having disciplined the husband, he

essayed the more delicate matter of propitiating the wife. And he

essayed it without a thought of failure.

"I'm afraid she's determined to leave me, and that there's not much

hope," said Babcock, despondently, as he gripped the clergyman's hand in

token of his gratitude.

"Nonsense, my man," asserted Mr. Glynn briskly. "All she needs is an

exhortation from me, and she will take you back."

Selma was opposed to divorce in theory. That is, she had accepted on

trust the traditional prejudice against it as she had accepted

Shakespeare and Boston. But theory stood for nothing in her regard

before the crying needs of her own experience. She had not the least

intention of living with her husband again. No one could oblige her to

do that. In addition, the law offered her a formal escape from his

control and name. Why not avail herself of it? She recollected, besides,

that her husband's church recognized infidelity as a lawful ground of

release from the so-called sacrament of marriage. This had come into her

mind as an additional sanction to her own decision. But it had not

contributed to that decision. Consequently, when she was confronted in

Mrs. Earle's lodgings by the errand of Mr. Glynn, she felt that his

coming was superfluous. Still, she was glad of the opportunity to

measure ideas with him in a thorough interview free from interruption.

Mr. Glynn's confidence was based on his intention to appeal to the ever

womanly quality of pity. He expected to encounter some resistance, for

indisputably here was a woman whose sensibilities had been justly and

severely shocked--a woman of finer tissue than her husband, as he had

noted in other American couples. She was entitled to her day in

court--to a stubborn, righteous respite of indignation. But he expected

to carry the day in the end, amid a rush of tears, with which his own

might be mingled. He trusted to what he regarded as the innate

reluctance of the wife to abandon the man she loved, and to the leaven

of feminine Christian charity.

As a conscientious hater of sin, he did not attempt to minimize

Babcock's act or the insult put upon her. That done, he was free to

intercede fervently for him and to extol the virtue and the advisability

of forgiveness. This plea, however cogent, was narrow, and once stated

admitted merely of duplication in the same form. It was indeed no

argument, merely an appeal, and, in proportion as it failed to move the

listener, became feeble. Selma listened to him with a tense face, her

hands clasped before her in the guise of an interested and

self-scrutinizing spirit. But she betrayed no sign of yielding, or

symptom of doubt. She shook her head once or twice as he proceeded, and,

when he paused, asked why she should return to a man who had broken

faith with her; asked it in such a genuine tone of conviction that Dr.

Glynn realized the weakness of his own case, and became slightly nettled

at the same time.

"True," he said, rather sternly, "your husband has committed a hideous,

carnal sin, but he is genuinely repentant. Do you wish to ruin his life

forever?"

"His life?" said Selma. "It would ruin my life to return to him. I have

other plans--plans which will bring me happiness. I could never be happy

with him."

The clergyman was baffled. Other plans! The words offended him, and yet

he could not dispute her right to do as she chose. Still he saw fit to

murmur: "He that findeth his life shall lose it, and he that loseth his

life for my sake shall find it."

Selma flushed. To be accused of acting contrary to Christian precepts

was painful and surprising to her. "Mr. Glynn," she said, "I see you

don't understand. My husband and I ought never to have married. It has

all been a dreadful mistake. We have not the same tastes and interests.

I am sorry for him, but I can never consent to return to him. To do so

would condemn us both to a life of unhappiness. We were not intended for

husband and wife, and it is best--yes, more Christian--for us to

separate. We American women do not feel justified in letting a mistake

ruin our lives when there is a chance to escape."

Mr. Glynn regarded her in silence for a moment. He was accustomed to

convince, and he had not succeeded, which to a clergyman is more

annoying than to most men. Still what she said made his plea seem

doubtful wisdom.

"Then you do not love your husband?" he said.

"No," said Selma quietly, "I do not love him. It is best to be frank

with one's self--with you, in such a matter, isn't it? So you see that

what you ask is out of the question."

Mr. Glynn rose. Clearly his mission had failed, and there was nothing

more to be said. Being a just man, he hesitated to pass an unkind

judgment on this bright-faced, pensive woman. She was within her moral

rights, and he must be careful to keep within his. But he went away

bewildered and discomfited. Selma would have liked to dismiss the

subject and keep him longer. She would have been glad to branch off on

to other ethical topics and discuss them. She was satisfied with the

result of the interview, for she had vindicated her position and spiked

Lewis's last gun.

So, indeed, it proved. Mr. Glynn sent for Babcock and told him the naked

truth, that his wife's love for him was dead and reconciliation

impossible. He properly refrained from expressing the doubt lurking in

his own mind as to whether Selma had ever loved her husband. Thus

convinced of the hopelessness of his predicament, Babcock agreed to Mr.

Lyons's suggestion not to contest the legal proceedings. The lawyer had

been diligent, and the necessary evidence--the testimony of the

woman--was secure. She was ready to carry her revenge to the end,

hoping, perhaps, that the victim of it would return to her when he had

lost his wife. Accordingly, a few weeks later, Selma was granted a

divorce nisi and the right to resume her maiden name. She had decided,

however, to retain the badge of marriage as a decorous social prefix,

and to call herself Mrs. Selma White.

CHAPTER VIII.

The consciousness that she was dependent for the means of support solely

on her own exertions was a genuine pleasure to Selma, and she applied

herself with confidence and enthusiasm to the problem of earning her

livelihood. She had remained steadfast to her decision to accept nothing

from her husband except the legal costs of the proceedings, though Mr.

Lyons explained to her that alimony was a natural and moral increment of

divorce. Still, after her refusal, he informed her as a man and a friend

that he respected and admired the independence of her action, which was

an agreeable tribute. She had fixed definitely on newspaper work as the

most inviting and congenial form of occupation. She believed herself to

be well fitted for it. It would afford her an immediate income, and it

would give her the opportunity which she craved for giving public

expression to her ideas and fixing attention on herself. There was room

for more than one Mrs. Earle in Benham, for Benham was growing and

wide-awake and on the alert for originality of any kind--especially in

the way of reportorial and journalistic cleverness. Selma had no

intention of becoming a second Mrs. Earle. That is, she promised herself

to follow, but not to follow blindly; to imitate judiciously, but to

improve on a gradually diverging line of progress. This was mere

generalization as yet. It was an agreeable seething brain consciousness

for future development. For the moment, however, she counted on Mrs.

Earle to obtain for her a start by personal influence at the office of

the _Benham Sentinel_. This was provided forthwith in the form of an

invitation to prepare a weekly column under the caption of "What Women

Wear;" a summary of passing usages in clothes. The woman reporter in

charge of it had just died. Selma's first impulse was to decline the

work as unworthy of her abilities, yet she was in immediate need of

employment to avoid running in debt and she was assured by Mrs. Earle

that she would be very foolish to reject such an offer. Reflection

caused her to think more highly of the work itself. It would afford her

a chance to explain to the women of Benham, and indirectly to the

country at large, that taste in dress was not necessarily inconsistent

with virtue and serious intentions--a truth of which she herself had

become possessed since her marriage and which it seemed to her might be

utilized delightfully in her department. She would endeavor to treat

dress from the standpoint of ethical responsibility to society, and to

show that both extravagance and dowdy homeliness were to be avoided.

Clothes in themselves had grown to be a satisfaction to her, and any

association of vanity would be eliminated by the introduction of a

serious artistic purpose into a weekly commentary concerning them.

Accordingly she accepted the position and entered upon its duties with

grave zeal.

For each of these contributions Selma was to receive eight dollars--four

hundred a year, which she hoped to expand to a thousand by creative

literary production--preferably essays and poetry. She hired a room in

the same neighborhood as Mrs. Earle, in the boarding-house district

appurtenant to Central Avenue--that is to say, on the ragged edge of

Benham's social artery, and set up her new household gods. The interest

of preparing the first paper absorbed her to the exclusion of everything

else. She visited all the dress-making and dry-goods establishments in

town, examined, at a hint from Mrs. Earle, the fashion departments of

the New York papers, and then, pen in hand, gave herself up to her

subject. The result seemed to her a happy blending of timely philosophy

and suggestions as to toilette, and she took it in person to the editor.

He saw fit to read it on the spot. His brow wrinkled at first and he

looked dubious. He re-read it and said with some gusto, "It's a novelty,

but I guess they'll like it. Our women readers have been used to fashion

notes which are crisp and to the point, and the big houses expect to

have attention called to the goods they wish to sell. If you'll run over

this again and set your cold facts in little paragraphs by themselves

every now and then, I shouldn't wonder if the rest were a sort of

lecture course which will catch them. It's a good idea. Next time you

could work in a pathetic story--some references to a dead

baby--verses--anecdotes--a little variety. You perceive the idea?"

"Oh, yes," said Selma, appropriately sober at the allusion yet ecstatic.

"That's just what I should like to do. It would give me more scope. I

wish my articles to be of real use--to help people to live better, and

to dress better."

"That's right, that's right; and if they make the paper sell, we'll know

that folks like them," responded the editor with Delphic urbanity.

The first article was a success. That is, Selma's method was not

interfered with, and she had the satisfaction of reading in the

_Sentinel_ during the week an item calling gratified attention to the

change in its "What Women Wear" column, and indicating that it would

contain new features from week to week. It gave her a pleasant thrill to

see her name, "Selma White," signed at the end of the printed column,

and she set to work eagerly to carry out the editor's suggestions. At

the same time she tried her hand at a short story--the story of an

American girl who went to Paris to study art, refused to alter her mode

of life to suit foreign ideas of female propriety, displayed exceptional

talent as an artist, and finally married a fine-spirited young American,

to the utter discomfiture of a French member of the nobility, who had

begun by insulting her and ended with making her an offer of marriage.

This she sent to the _Eagle_, the other Benham newspaper, for its Sunday

edition.

It took her a month to compose this story, and after a week she received

it back with a memorandum to the effect that it was one-half too long,

but intimating that in a revised form it would be acceptable. This was a

little depressing, especially as it arrived at a time when the novelty

of her occupation had worn off and she was realizing the limitations of

her present life. She had begun to miss the advantages of a free purse

and the importance of a domestic establishment. She possessed her

liberty, and was fulfilling her mission as a social force, but her life

had been deprived of some of its savor, and, though she was thankful to

be rid of Babcock, she felt the lack of an element of personal devotion

to herself, an element which was not to be supplied by mere admiration

on the part of Mrs. Earle and the other members of the Institute. It did

not suit her not to be able to gratify her growing taste in clothes and

in other lines of expenditure, and there were moments when she

experienced the need of being petted and made much of by a man. She was

conscious of loneliness, and in this mood she pitied herself as a victim

of untoward circumstances, one who had wasted the freshness of her young

life, and missed the happiness which the American wife is apt to find

waiting for her. Under the spell of this nostalgia she wrote a poem

entitled "The Bitter Sweets of Solitude," and disposed of it for five

dollars to the _Sentinel_. The price shocked her, for the verses seemed

flesh of her flesh. Still, five dollars was better than nothing, and she

discerned from the manner of the newspaper editor that he cared little

whether she left them or not. It was on that evening that she received a

letter from Littleton, stating that he was on the eve of leaving New

York for Benham. He was coming to consult concerning certain further

interior decorations which the committee had decided to add to the

church.

Selma's nerves vibrated blissfully as she read the news. For some

reason, which she had never seen fit definitely to define, she had

chosen not to acquaint Littleton with the fact of her divorce. Their

letters had been infrequent during the last six months, for this visit

had been impending, having been put off from time to time because the

committee had been dilatory and he otherwise engaged. Perhaps her secret

motive had been to surprise him, to let him find himself confronted with

an accomplished fact, which would obviate argument and reveal her

established in her new career, a happy, independent citizen, without

ties. At any rate she smiled now at the address on the envelope--Mrs.

Lewis Babcock. Obviously he was still in the dark as to the truth, and

it would be her privilege to enlighten him. She began to wonder what

would be the upshot of his coming, and tears came to her eyes, tears of

self-congratulation that the narrow tenor of her daily life was to be

irradiated by a sympathetic spirit.

When Littleton duly appeared at the committee meeting on the following

day, Selma saw at a glance that he was unaware of what had happened. He

looked slightly puzzled when one of the members addressed her as Mrs.

White, but evidently he regarded this as a slip of the tongue. Selma

looked, as she felt, contented and vivacious. She had dressed herself

simply, but with effective trigness. To those who knew her experience,

her appearance indicated courage and becoming self-respect. Public

opinion, even as embodied in the church committee, while deploring the

necessity, was not disposed to question the propriety of her action.

That is, all except Mrs. Taylor. In her, Selma thought she had detected

signs of coldness, a sort of suspicious reservation of judgment, which

contrasted itself unpleasantly with the sympathetic attitude of the

others, who were fain to refer to her, in not altogether muffled

whispers, as a plucky, independent, little woman. Hence, she was glad

that Mrs. Taylor happened to be detained at home by illness on this

afternoon, and that, accordingly, she was free to enjoy unreservedly the

dramatic nature of the situation. Her heart beat a little faster as the

chairman, turning to her to ask a question, addressed her unmistakably

as Mrs. White. She could not refrain from casting half-amused,

half-pathetic sheep's eyes at Littleton. He started visibly, regarded

her for, a moment in obvious amazement, then flushed to the roots of his

hair. She felt the blood rising to her own cheeks, and a sensation of

mild triumph. The meeting was over and the members were merely lingering

to tie up the loose threads of the matter arranged for. In a few moments

Selma found herself with the architect sufficiently apart from the

others for him to ask:

"Two persons have addressed you this afternoon as Mrs. White. I do not

understand."

She cast down her eyes, as a woman will when a question of modesty is

involved, then she raised them and said: "You did not know, then, that I

had left my husband?"

"Left him?"

"Yes. I have obtained a divorce. He was unfaithful to me."

"I see"--said Littleton with a sort of gasp--"I see. I did not know. You

never wrote to me."

"I did not feel like writing to any body. There was nothing to be done

but that."

Littleton regarded her with a perturbed, restless air.

"Then you live no longer at 25 Onslow Avenue?"

"Oh, no. I left there more than six months ago. I live in lodgings. I am

supporting myself by literary work. I am Mrs. Selma White now, and my

divorce has been absolute more than a month."

She spoke gravely and quietly, with less than her usual assurance, for

she felt the spell of his keen, eager scrutiny and was not averse to

yield at the moment to the propensity of her sex. She wondered what he

was thinking about. Did he blame her? Did he sympathize with her?

"Where are you going when you leave here?" he asked.

"Home--to my new home. Will you walk along with me?"

"That is what I should like. I am astonished by what you have told me,

and am anxious to hear more about it, if to speak of it would not wound

you. Divorced! How you must have suffered! And I did not have the chance

to offer you my help--my sympathy."

"Yes, I have suffered. But that is all over now. I am a free woman. I am

beginning my life over again."

It was a beautiful afternoon, and by mutual consent, which neither put

into words, they diverged from the exact route to Selma's lodging house

and turned their steps to the open country beyond the city limits--the

picturesque dell which has since become the site of Benham's public

park. There they seated themselves where they would not be interrupted.

Selma told him on the way the few vital facts in her painful story, to

which he listened in a tense silence, broken chiefly by an occasional

ejaculation expressive of his contempt for the man who had brought such

unhappiness upon her. She let him understand, too, that her married

life, from the first, had been far less happy than he had

imagined--wretched makeshift for the true relation of husband and wife.

She spoke of her future buoyantly, yet with a touch of sadness, as

though to indicate that she was aware that the triumphs of intelligence

and individuality could not entirely be a substitute for a happy home.

"And what do you expect to do?" he inquired in a bewildered fashion, as

though her delineation of her hopes had been lost on him.

"Do? Support myself by my own exertions, as I have told you. By writing

I expect. I am doing very well already. Do you question my ability to

continue?"

"Oh, no; not that. Only--"

"Only what? Surely you are not one of the men who grudge women the

chance to prove what is in them--who would treat us like china dolls and

circumscribe us by conventions? I know you are not, because I have heard

you inveigh against that very sort of narrow mindedness. Only what?"

"I can't make up my mind to it. And I suppose the reason is that it

means so much to me--that you mean so much to me. What is the use of my

dodging the truth, Selma--seeking to conceal it because such a short

time has elapsed since you ceased to be a wife? Forgive me if I hurt

you, if it seem indelicate to speak of love at the very moment when you

are happy in your liberty. I can't help it; it's my nature to speak

openly. And there's no bar now. The fact that you are free makes clear

to me what I have not dared to countenance before, that you are the one

woman in the world for me--the woman I have dreamed of--and longed to

meet--the woman whose influence has blessed me already, and without whom

I shall lack the greatest happiness which life can give. Selma, I love

you--I adore you."

Selma listened with greedy ears, which she could scarcely believe. It

seemed to her that she was in dream-land, so unexpected, yet entrancing,

was his avowal. She had been vaguely aware that he admired her more than

he had allowed himself to disclose, and conscious, too, that his

presence was agreeable to her; but in an instant now she recognized that

this was love--the love she had sought, the love she had yearned to

inspire and to feel. Compared with it, Babcock's clumsy ecstasy and her

own sufferance of it had been a sham and a delusion. Of so much she was

conscious in a twinkling, and yet what she deemed proper self-respect

restrained her from casting herself into his arms. It was, indeed, soon,

and she had been happy in her liberty. At least, she had supposed

herself so; and she owed it to her own plans and hopes not to act

hastily, though she knew what she intended to do. She had been lonely,

yes starving, for lack of true companionship, and here was the soul

which would be a true mate to hers.

They were sitting on a grassy bank. He was bending toward her with

clasped hands, a picture of fervor. She could see him out of the corner

of her glance, though she looked into space with her gaze of seraphic

worry. Yet her lips were ready to lend themselves to a smile of blissful

satisfaction and her eyes to fill with the melting mood of the thought

that at last happiness had come to her.

The silence was very brief, but Littleton, as would have seemed fitting

to her, feared lest she were shocked.

"I distress you," he said. "Forgive me. Listen--will you listen?" Selma

was glad to listen. The words of love, such love as this, were

delicious, and she felt she owed it to herself not to be won too easily.

"I am listening," she answered softly with the voice of one face to face

with an array of doubts.

"Before I met you, Selma, woman but was a name to me. My life brought me

little into contact with them, except my dear sister, and I had no

temptation to regret that I could not support a wife. Yet I dreamed of

woman and of love and of a joy which might some day come to me if I

could meet one who fulfilled my ideal of what a true woman should be. So

I dreamed until I met you. The first time I saw you, Selma, I knew in my

heart that you were a woman whom I could love. Perhaps I should have

recognized more clearly as time went on that you were more to me even

then than I had a right to allow; yet I call heaven to witness that I

did not, by word or sign, do a wrong to him who has done such a cruel

wrong to you."

"Never by word or sign," echoed Selma solemnly. The bare suggestion that

Babcock had cause to complain of either of them seemed to her

preposterous. Yet she was saying to herself that it was easy to perceive

that he had loved her from the first.

"And since I love you with all my soul must I--should I in justice to

myself--to my own hopes of happiness, refrain from speaking merely

because you have so recently been divorced? I must speak--I am speaking.

It is too soon, I dare say, for you to be willing to think of marriage

again--but I offer you the love and protection of a husband. My means

are small, but I am able now to support a wife in decent comfort. Selma,

give me some hope. Tell me, that in time you may be willing to trust

yourself to my love. You wish to work--to distinguish yourself. Would I

be a hindrance to that? Indeed, you must know that I would do every

thing in my power to promote your desire to be of service to the world."

The time for her smile and her tears had come. He had argued his case

and her own, and it was clear to her mind that delay would be futile.

Since happiness was at hand, why not grasp it? As for her work, he need

not interfere with that. And, after all, now that she had tried it, was

she so sure that newspaper work--hack work, such as she was pursuing,

was what she wished? As a wife, re-established in the security of a

home, she could pick and choose her method of expression. Perhaps,

indeed, it would not be writing, except occasionally. Was not New York a

wide, fruitful field, for a reforming social influence? She saw herself

in her mind's eye a leader of movements and of progress. And that with a

man she loved--yes, adored even as he adored her.

So she turned to Littleton with her smile and in tears--the image of

bewitching but pathetic self-justification and surrender. Her mind was

made up; hence why procrastinate and coyly postpone the desirable, and

the inevitable? That was what she had the shrewdness to formulate in the

ecstasy of her transport; and so eloquent was the mute revelation of her

love that Littleton, diffident reverencer of the modesty of woman as he

was, without a word from her clasped her to his breast, a victor in a

breath. As, regardless of the possible invasion of interlopers, he took

her in his embrace, she felt with satisfaction once more the grasp of

masculine arms. She let her head fall on his shoulder in delighted

contentment. While he murmured in succession inarticulate terms of

endearment, she revelled in the thrill of her nerves and approved her

own sagacious and commendable behavior.

"Dearest," she whispered, "you are right. We are right. Since we love

each other, why should we not say so? I love you--I love you. The ugly

hateful past shall not keep us apart longer. You say you loved me from

the first; so did I love you, though I did not know it then. We were

meant for each other--God meant us--did he not? It is right, and we

shall be so happy, Wilbur."

"Yes, Selma." Words seemed to him an inadequate means for expressing his

emotions. He pressed his lips upon hers with the adoring respect of a

worshipper touching his god, yet with the energy of a man. She sighed

and compared him in her thought with Babcock. How gentle this new lover!

How refined and sensitive and appreciative! How intelligent and

gentlemanly!

"If I had my wish, darling," he said, "we should be married to-night and

I would carry you away from here forever."

She remembered that Babcock had uttered the same wish on the occasion

when he had offered himself. To grant it then had been out of the

question. To do so now would be convenient--a prompt and satisfactory

blotting out of her past and present life--a happy method of solving

many minor problems of ways and means connected with waiting to be

married. Besides it would be romantic, and a delicious, fitting crowning

of her present blissful mood.

He mistook her silence for womanly scruples, and he recounted with a

little laugh the predicament in which he should find himself on his own

account were they to be so precipitate. "What would my sister think if

she were to get a telegram--'Married to-night. Expect us to-morrow?' She

would think I had lost my senses. So I have, darling; and you are the

cause. She knows about you. I have talked to her about you."

"But she thinks I am Mrs. Babcock."

"Oh yes. Ha! ha! It would never do to state to whom I was married,

unless I sent a telegram as long as my arm. Dear Pauline! She will be

radiant. It is all arranged that she is to stay where she is in the old

quarters, and I am to take you to a new house. We've decided on that,

time and again, when we've chanced to talk of what might happen--of 'the

fair, the chaste and unexpressive she'--my she. Dearest, I wondered if I

should ever find her. Pauline has always said that she would never run

the risk of spoiling everything by living with us."

"It would be very nice--and very simple," responded Selma, slowly. "You

wouldn't think any the worse of me, Wilbur, if I were to marry you

to-night?"

"The worse of you? It is what I would like of all things. Whom does it

concern but us? Why should we wait in order to make a public spectacle

of ourselves?"

"I shouldn't wish that. I should insist on being married very quietly.

Under all the circumstances there is really no reason--it seems to me it

would be easier if we were to be married as soon as possible. It would

avoid explanations and talk, wouldn't it? That is, if you are perfectly

sure."

"Sure? That I love you? Oh Selma!"

She shut her eyes under the thrill which his kiss gave her. "Then we

will be married whenever you wish," she said.

It was already late in the afternoon, so that the prospects of obtaining

a license did not seem favorable. Still it happened that Littleton knew

a clergyman of his own faith--Unitarian--in Benham, a college classmate,

whom he suggested as soon as he understood that Selma preferred not to

be married by Mr. Glynn. They found him at home, and by diligent

personal effort on his part the necessary legal forms were complied with

and they were made husband and wife three hours before the departure of

the evening train for New York. After the ceremony they stepped

buoyantly, arm in arm in the dusk, along the street to send the telegram

to Miss Littleton, and to snatch a hasty meal before Selma went to her

lodgings to pack. There were others in the restaurant, so having

discovered that they were not hungry, they bought sandwiches and

bananas, and resumed their travels. The suddenness and surprise of it

all made Selma feel as if on wings. It seemed to her to be of the

essence of new and exquisite romance to be walking at the side of her

fond, clever lover in the democratic simplicity of two paper bags of

provender and an open, yet almost headlong marriage. She felt that at

last she was yoked to a spirit who comprehended her and who would

stimulate instead of repress the fire of originality within her. She had

found love and she was happy. Meanwhile she had decided to leave Benham

without a word to anyone, even Mrs. Earle. She would write and explain

what had happened.

BOOK II.

THE STRUGGLE

CHAPTER I.

Littleton had not expected that Selma would accede to his request to be

married at once, but he was delighted at her decision. He had uttered

his wish in sincerity, for there was really no reason for waiting, and

by an immediate marriage they would escape the tedium of an engagement

during which they could hope to see each other but rarely. He was able

to support a wife provided they were to live simply and economically. He

felt sure that Selma understood his circumstances and was no less ready

than he to forego luxuries in order that they might be all in all to

each other spiritually as husband and wife. Besides he had hopes that

his clientage would continue to grow so that he would be able to provide

all reasonable comforts for his new home. Consequently he drove up from

the station in New York with a light heart, fondly pointing out to his

wife this and that building and other objects of interest. He mistook

her pensive silence for diffidence at the idea of descending suddenly on

another woman's home--a matter which in this instance gave him no

concern, for he had unlimited confidence in Pauline's executive ability

and her tendency not to get ruffled. She had been his good angel,

domestically speaking, and, indeed, in every way, since they had first

begun to keep house together, and it had rather amused him to let fall

such a bombshell as the contents of his telegram upon the regularity of

her daily life.

"Don't be nervous, darling," he said gayly. "You will find Pauline

bubbling over with joy at our coming, and everything arranged as though

we were expected to live there all our lives."

Selma looked at him blankly and then remembered. She was not feeling

nervous, and Pauline was not in her thoughts. She had been lost in her

own reflections--lost in the happy consciousness of the contrast between

her new and her old husband, and in the increasing satisfaction that she

was actually in New York. How bright and busy the streets looked! The

throng of eager passers and jostling vehicles against the background of

brilliant shop-windows bewildered and stimulated her. She was saying to

herself that here was the place where she was suited to live, and mutely

acknowledging its superiority to Benham as a centre of life. This was a

rash, swift conclusion, but Selma prided herself on her capacity to

arrive at wise judgments by rapid mental processes. So absorbed was she

in the glittering, stirring panorama that Wilbur's efforts at

enlightenment were practically wasted. She was in no humor for details;

she was glorying in the exalted impression which the whole vivid scene

produced upon her.

His remark caused her to realize that they must be near their

destination. She had no misgivings on the score of her own reception,

but she was interested and curious to see Pauline, this wonderful sister

of whom Wilbur was so fond and so proud. Then her husband cried, "Here

we are!" and in another moment she found herself in the hearty embrace

of a large, comely woman who met her at the door. This of course must be

Pauline. Selma was just a little shocked by the fervor of the greeting;

for though she delighted in rapid intimacies, unexpected liberties with

her person were contrary to her conceptions of propriety. Still it was

delightful to be welcomed so heartily. She returned the embrace warmly

but with dignity, and allowed herself to be convoyed into the house arm

in arm with her new relation who seemed, indeed, to be bubbling over

with joy. It was not until they were in the same room that Selma could

get a good look at her.

Pauline Littleton was fine looking rather than pretty. She was tall and

substantial, with an agreeable face, an intelligent brow, a firm yet

sweet mouth, and steady, honest eyes which now sparkled with pleasure.

Her physique was very different from her brother's. Selma noticed that

she was taller than herself and only a little shorter than Wilbur. She

had Wilbur's smile too, suggesting a disposition to take things

humorously; but her expression lacked the poetic cast which made him so

attractive and congenial to herself and excused the existence of the

lighter vein. Selma did not admire women who were inclined to be stout.

She associated spareness of person with high thinking, and an abundance

of flesh as an indication of material or commonplace aims. She reflected

that Pauline was presumably business-like and a good house-keeper, and,

very likely, an industrious teacher in her classes, but she set her down

in her mind as deficient in the finer sensibilities of the spirit

belonging to herself and Wilbur. It was instinctive with Selma to form a

prompt estimate of every one she met, and it was a relief to her to come

to the agreeable conclusion that there was nothing in her

sister-in-law's appearance to make her discontented with herself. This

warmed her heart at once toward Pauline. To be sure Pauline manifested

the same sort of social grace which distinguished Mrs. Hallett Taylor,

but Selma, though she still regarded this with suspicion, for the reason

that she had not yet become mistress of it, was secretly content to know

that she had married into a family which possessed it. Altogether she

was agreeably impressed by her scrutiny of her new sister, who, in her

opinion, would not be an irritating rival either in looks or character,

and yet who was a pleasing and sufficiently serious-minded person--in

short just the sort of sister-in-law which she yearned to have.

Pauline, on her part, was duly fascinated by the delicate and inspiring

beauty of her brother's wife. She understood at once why Wilbur had

chosen her in preference to any one of his own circle. Selma obviously

symbolized by her grave, tense, thin face the serious ideals of living

and womanhood, which had been dear to his meditation as a youth and a

part of his heritage from his New England ancestors. It made her joyous

to feel that he had found a wife who would be a constant source of

inspiration to him, for she knew that Wilbur would not be happy with any

one who fell short of his ideal as to what a woman should be. She knew

her brother well, and she understood how deeply in earnest he was to

make the most of his life, and what an exalted vision he entertained as

to the possibilities for mutual sympathy and help between husband and

wife.

Partly as a consequence of their limited means, partly owing to

absorption in their respective studies and interests, the Littletons,

though of gentle stock, lived simple lives according to New York

standards. They were aware of the growth of luxury resulting from the

accumulation of big fortunes since the war. As an architect, Wilbur saw

larger and more elaborate public and private buildings being erected on

every side. As a house-keeper and a woman with social interests, Pauline

knew that the power of money was revolutionizing the public taste in the

matter of household expenditure; that in the details of domestic life

there was more color and more circumstance, and that people who were

well-to-do, and many who were not, were requiring as daily comforts all

sorts of things to which they had been unaccustomed. But though they

both thus knew vaguely that the temper of society had changed, and that

sober citizens and their wives, who, twenty years before, would have

prated solemnly against a host of gay, enlivening or pretty customs as

incompatible with American virtue, were now adopting these as rapidly as

money could procure them--the brother and sister had remained

comparatively unaffected by the consequences of the transformation

scene. Certainly their home had. It was old-fashioned in its garniture

and its gentility. It spoke of a day, not so many years before, when

high thinking had led to blinking where domestic decoration was

concerned, and people had bought ugly wooden and worsted things to live

with because only the things of the spirit seemed of real importance.

Still time, with its marvellous touch, has often the gift of making

furniture and upholstery, which were hideous when bought, look

interesting and cosey when they have become old-fashioned. In this way

Pauline Wilbur's parlor was a delightful relic of a day gone by. There

was scarcely a pretty thing in it, as Wilbur himself well knew, yet, as

a whole, it had an atmosphere--an atmosphere of simple unaffected

refinement. Their domestic belongings had come to them from their

parents, and they had never had the means to replenish them. When, in

due time, they had realized their artistic worthlessness, they had held

to them through affection, humorously conscious of the incongruity that

two such modern individuals as themselves should be living in a domestic

museum. Then, presto! friends had begun to congratulate them on the

uniqueness of their establishment, and to express affection for it. It

had become a favorite resort for many modern spirits--artists, literary

men, musicians, self-supporting women--and Pauline's oyster suppers,

cooked in her grandmother's blazer, were still a stimulus to high

thinking.

So matters stood when Selma entered it as a bride. Her coming signified

the breaking up of the household and the establishment. Pauline had

thought that out in her clear brain over night since receiving Wilbur's

telegram. Wilbur must move into a modern house, and she into a modern

flat. She would keep the very old things, such as the blazer and some

andirons and a pair of candlesticks, for they were ancient enough to be

really artistic, but the furniture of the immediate past, her father and

mother's generation, should be sold at auction. Wilbur and she must, if

only for Selma's sake, become modern in material matters as well as in

their mental interests.

Pauline proceeded to unfold this at the dinner-table that evening. She

had heard in the meanwhile from her brother, the story of Selma's

divorce and the explanation of his sudden marriage; and in consequence,

she felt the more solicitous that her sister-in-law's new venture should

begin propitiously. It was agreed that Wilbur should make inquiries at

once about houses further uptown, and that his present lease from year

to year should not be renewed. She said to Selma:

"You have saved us from becoming an old-fashioned bachelor and maid. Our

friends began to leave this neighborhood five years ago, and there is no

one left. We are surrounded by boarding-houses and shops. We were

comfortable, and we were too busy to care. But it would never do for a

young married couple to begin house-keeping here. You must have a brand

new house uptown, Selma. You must insist on that. Don't be alarmed,

Wilbur. I know it will have to be small, but I noticed the other day

several blocks of new houses going up on the side streets west of the

Park, which looked attractive and cheap."

"I will look at them," said Wilbur. "Since you seem determined not to

live with us, and we are obliged to move, we will follow the procession.

But Selma and I could be happy anywhere." He turned from his sister to

her as he spoke with a proud, happy look.

Selma said nothing to mar his confidence. She had no intention of living

either with Pauline or in their present house, and she felt that her

sister-in-law had shown good sense in recognizing that neither was

possible. She necessarily had vague ideas as to New York houses and

locations, but she had seen enough in her drive from the station to

understand that it was a wonderful and decorative place. Although her

experience of Benham had taught her that some old things--such as Mrs.

Hallett Taylor's gleanings from Europe--were desirable, she associated

new things with progress--especially American progress. Consequently the

Littleton household possessions had puzzled her, for though she thought

them ugly, she was resolved not to commit herself too hastily. But now

that Pauline had sounded a note of warning, the situation was clear.

They had suffered themselves to fall behind the times, and she was to be

her husband's good angel by helping him to catch up with them. And it

was evident that Pauline would be her ally. Selma for the first time

asked herself whether it might be that Wilbur was a little visionary.

Meanwhile he was saying: "Pauline is right, Selma. I had already asked

myself if it would not be fairer to you to move uptown where we should

be in the van and in touch with what is going on. Pauline is gently

hinting to you that you must not humor me as she has done, and let me

eat bread and milk out of a bowl in this old curiosity shop, instead of

following in the wake of fashion. She has spoiled me and now she deserts

me at the critical moment of my life. Selma, you shall have the most

charming modern house in New York within my means. It must be love in a

cottage, but the cottage shall have the latest improvements--hot and

cold water, tiles, hygienic plumbing and dados."

"Bravo!" said Pauline. "He says I have spoiled him, Selma. Perhaps I

have. It will be your turn now. You will fail to convert him as I have

failed, and the world will be the better for it. There are too few men

who think noble thoughts and practice them, who are true to themselves

and the light which is in them through thick and thin. But you see, he

admits himself that he needs to mix with the world a little more.

Otherwise he is perfect. You know that perhaps, already, Selma. But I

wish to tell it to you before him. Take care of him, dear, won't you?"

"It was because I felt that his thoughts were nobler than most men's

that I wished to marry him," Selma replied, seraphically. "But I can see

that it is sensible to live where your friends live. I shall try not to

spoil him, Pauline." She was already conscious of a mission which

appealed to her. She had been content until now in the ardor of her love

to regard Wilbur as flawless--as in some respects superior to herself;

but it was a gratification to her to detect this failing, and to

perceive her opportunity for usefulness. Surely it was important for her

husband to be progressive and not merely a dreamer.

Littleton looked from one to the other fondly. "Not many men are blessed

with the love of two such women," he said. "I put myself in your hands.

I bow my neck to the yoke."

In New York in the early seventies the fashionable quarter lay between

Eighth and Fortieth Streets, bounded on either side by Fourth and Sixth

Avenues. Central Park was completed, but the region west of it was, from

the social stand-point, still a wilderness, and Fifth Avenue in the

neighborhood of Twenty-third Street was the centre of elegant social

life. Selma took her first view of this brilliant street on the

following day on her way to hunt for houses in the outlying district.

The roar and bustle of the city, which thrilled yet dazed her, seemed

here softened by the rows of tall, imposing residences in brown stone.

Along the sunny sidewalks passed with jaunty tread an ever-hurrying

procession of stylishly clad men and women; and along the roadbed sped

an array of private carriages conducted by coachmen in livery. It was a

brilliant day, and New Yorkers were making the most of it.

Selma had never seen such a sight before. Benham faded into

insignificance in comparison. She was excited, and she gazed eagerly at

the spectacle. Yet her look, though absorbed, was stern. This sort of

thing was unlike anything American within her personal experience. This

avenue of grand houses and this procession of fine individuals and fine

vehicles made her think of that small section of Benham into which she

had never been invited, and the thought affected her disagreeably.

"Who are the people who live in these houses?" she asked, presently.

Littleton had already told her that it was the most fashionable street

in the city.

"Oh, the rich and prosperous."

"Those who gamble in stocks, I suppose." Selma wished to be assured that

this was so.

"Some of them," said Littleton, with a laugh. "They belong to people who

have made money in various ways or have inherited it--our well-to-do

class, among them the first families in New York, and many of them our

best citizens."

"Are they friends of yours?"

Littleton laughed again. "A few--not many. Society here is divided into

sets, and they are not in my set. I prefer mine, and fortunately, for I

can't afford to belong to theirs."

"Oh!"

The frigidity and dryness of the exclamation Littleton ascribed to

Selma's intuitive enmity to the vanities of life.

"You mustn't pass judgment on them too hastily," he said. "New York is a

wonderful place, and it's likely to shock you before you learn to

appreciate what is interesting and fine here. I will tell you a secret,

Selma. Every one likes to make money. Even clergymen feel it their duty

to accept a call from the congregation which offers the best salary, and

probing men of science do not hesitate to reap the harvest from a

wonderful invention. Yet it is the fashion with most of the people in

this country who possess little to prate about the wickedness of

money-getters and to think evil of the rich. That proceeds chiefly from

envy, and it is sheer cant. The people of the United States are engaged

in an eager struggle to advance themselves--to gain individual

distinction, comfort, success, and in New York to a greater extent than

in any other place can the capable man or woman sell his or her wares to

the best advantage--be they what they may, stocks, merchandise, law,

medicine, pictures. The world pays well for the things it wants--and the

world is pretty just in the long run. If it doesn't like my designs,

that will be because they're not worth buying. The great thing--the

difficult thing to guard against in the whirl of this great city, where

we are all striving to get ahead--is not to sell one's self for money,

not to sacrifice the thing worth doing for mere pecuniary advantage.

It's the great temptation to some to do so, for only money can buy fine

houses, and carriages and jewels--yes, and in a certain sense, social

preferment. The problem is presented in a different form to every man.

Some can grow rich honestly, and some have to remain poor in order to be

true to themselves. We may have to remain poor, Selma mia." He spoke

gayly, as though that prospect did not disturb him in the least.

"And we shall be just as good as the people who own these houses." She

said it gravely, as if it were a declaration of principles, and at the

same moment her gaze was caught and disturbed by a pair of blithe,

fashionably dressed young women gliding by her with the quiet,

unconscious grace of good-breeding. She was inwardly aware, though she

would never acknowledge it by word or sign, that such people troubled

her. More even than Mrs. Taylor had troubled her. They were different

from her and they tantalized her.

At the same moment her husband was saying in reply, "Just as good, but

not necessarily any better. No--other things being equal--not so good.

We mustn't deceive ourselves with that piece of cant. Some of them are

frivolous enough, and dishonest enough, heaven knows, but so there are

frivolous and dishonest people in every class. But there are many more

who endeavor to be good citizens--are good citizens, our best citizens.

The possession of money gives them the opportunity to become arbiters of

morals and taste, and to seek culture under the best advantages. After

all, an accumulation of money represents brains and energy in some one.

Look at this swell," he continued, indicating an attractive looking

young man who was passing. "His grandfather was one of the ablest men in

the city--an intelligent, self-respecting, shrewd, industrious,

public-spirited citizen who made a large fortune. The son has had

advantages which I have never had, and I happen to know that he is a

fine fellow and a very able one. If it came to comparisons, I should be

obliged to admit that he's a more ornamental member of society than

Jones, Brown, or Robinson, and certainly no less useful. Do I shock

you--you sweet, unswerving little democrat of the democrats?"

It always pleased Selma to be called endearing names, and it suited her

in her present frame of mind to be dubbed a democrat, for it did not

suit her to be painfully realizing that she was unable, at one brilliant

swoop, to take her place as a leader in social influence. Somehow she

had expected to do this, despite her first difficulties at Benham, for

she had thought of New York as a place where, as the wife of Littleton,

the architect, she would at once be a figure of importance. She shook

her head and said, "It's hard to believe that these people are really in

earnest; that they are serious in purpose and spirit." Meanwhile she was

being haunted by the irritating reflection that her clothes and her

bearing were inferior to those of the women she was passing. Secretly

she was making a resolve to imitate them, though she believed that she

despised them. She put her hand through her husband's arm and added,

almost fiercely, as she pressed closer to him, "We needn't trouble our

heads about them, Wilbur. We can get along without being rich and

fashionable, you and I. In spite of what you say, I don't consider this

sort of thing American."

"Get along? Darling, I was merely trying to be just to them; to let you

see that they are not so black as they're painted. We will forget them

forever. We have nothing in common with them. Get along? I feel that my

life will be a paradise living with you and trying to make some

impression on the life of this big, striving city. But as to its not

being American to live like these people--well you know they are

Americans and that New York is the Mecca of the hard-fisted sons of toil

from all over the country who have made money. But you're right, Selma.

Those who go in for show and extravagance are not the best

Americans--the Americans whom you and I believe in. Sometimes I get

discouraged when I stop to think, and now I shall have you to keep me

steadfast to our faith."

"Yes, Wilbur. And how far from here are we to live?"

"Oh, a mile or more. On some side street where the land is cheap and the

rent low. What do we care for that, Selma mia?"

CHAPTER II.

Shortly before Selma Littleton took up her abode in New York, Miss

Florence, or, as she was familiarly known, Miss Flossy Price, was an

inhabitant of a New Jersey city. Her father was a second cousin of

Morton Price, whose family at that time was socially conspicuous in

fashionable New York society. Not aggressively conspicuous, as ultra

fashionable people are to-day, by dint of frequent newspaper

advertisement, but in consequence of elegant, conservative

respectability, fortified by and cushioned on a huge income. In the

early seventies to know the Morton Prices was a social passport, and by

no means every one socially ambitious knew them. Morton Price's

great-grandfather had been a peddler, his grandfather a tea merchant,

his father a tea merchant and bank organizer, and he himself did nothing

mercantile, but was a director in diverse institutions, representing

trusts or philantrophy, and was regarded by many, including himself, as

the embodiment of ornamental and admirable citizenship. He could talk by

the hour on the degeneracy of state and city politics and the evil deeds

of Congress, and was, generally speaking, a conservative, fastidious,

well-dressed, well-fed man, who had a winning way with women and a happy

faculty of looking wise and saying nothing rash in the presence of men.

Some of the younger generation were apt, with the lack of reverence

belonging to youth, to speak of him covertly as "a stuffed club," but no

echo of this epithet had ever reached the ear of his cousin, David

Price, in New Jersey. For him, as for most of the world within a radius

of two hundred miles, he was above criticism and a monument of social

power.

David Price, Miss Flossy's father, was the president of a small and

unprogressive but eminently solid bank. Respectable routine was his

motto, and he lived up to it, and, as a consequence, no more sound

institution of the kind existed in his neighborhood. He and his

directors were slow to adopt innovations of any kind; they put stumbling

blocks in the path of business convenience whenever they could; in

short, David Price in his humble way was a righteous, narrow, hide-bound

retarder of progress and worshipper of established local custom.

Therefore it was a constant source of surprise and worry to him that he

should have a progressive daughter. There were four other children,

patterns of quiet, plodding conservatism, but--such is the irony of

fate--the youngest, prettiest, and his favorite, was an independent,

opinionated young woman, who seemed to turn a deaf ear to paternal and

maternal advice of safest New Jersey type. In her father's words, she

had no reverence for any thing or any body, which was approximately

true, for she did not hesitate to speak disrespectfully even of the head

of the house in New York.

"Poppa," she said one day, "Cousin Morton doesn't care for any of us a

little bit. I know what you're going to say," she added; "that he sends

you two turkeys every Thanksgiving. The last were terribly tough. I'm

sure he thinks that we never see turkeys here in New Jersey, and that he

considers us poor relations and that we live in a hole. If one of us

should call on him, I know it would distress him awfully. He's right in

thinking that this is a hole. Nothing ever happens here, and when I

marry I intend to live in New York."

This was when she was seventeen. Her father was greatly shocked,

especially as he suspected in his secret soul that the tirade was true

in substance. He had been the recipient of Thanksgiving turkeys for

nearly twenty years on the plea that they had been grown on the donor's

farm in Westchester county, and he had seen fit to invite his

fellow-directors annually to dine off one of them as a modest notice

that he was on friendly terms with his aristocratic New York cousin. But

in all these twenty years turkeys had been the only medium of

intercourse between them. David Price, on the few occasions when he had

visited New York, had not found it convenient to call. Once he had

walked by on the other side of Fifth avenue and looked at the house, but

shyness and the thought that he had no evening clothes in his valise had

restrained him from ringing the doorbell.

"You do your cousin Morton great injustice--great injustice, Florence,"

he answered. "He never forgets to send the turkeys, and as to the rest

of your speech, I have only to say that it is very disrespectful and

very foolish. The next time I go to New York I will take you to call on

your cousins."

"And what would I say to them? No thank you, poppa." The young woman

shook her head decisively, and then she added, "I'm not going to call on

them, until I'm fit to. There!"

The ambiguity of this remark gave Mr. Price the opportunity to say that,

in view of her immediate shortcomings, it was a wise conclusion, but he

knew what she really meant and was distressed. His feeling toward his

cousin, though mildly envious, did not extend to self-depreciation, nor

had it served to undermine his faith in the innate dignity and worth of

New Jersey family life. He could not only with a straight face, but with

a kindling eye inveigh against the perils of New York fashionable life,

and express gratification that no son or daughter of his had wandered so

far from the fold. It distressed him to think that Florence should be

casting sheep's eyes at the flesh-pots of Gotham, and so failing to

appreciate the blessings and safety of a quiet American home.

Miss Flossy continued to entertain and to express opinions of her own,

and as a result became socially interesting. At eighteen, by her beauty,

her engaging frankness and lack of self-consciousness, she spread havoc

among the young men of her native city, several of whom offered her

marriage. But marriage was far from her thoughts. Life seemed too

interesting and she wished to see the world. She was erect and alert

looking, with a compact figure of medium height, large brown eyes and

rich red hair, and a laughing mouth; also an innocent demeanor, which

served to give her, by moonlight, the effect of an angel. She succeeded

in visiting Bar Harbor, where she promptly became a bright particular

star among the galaxy of young women who at that period were

establishing the reputation of the summer girl. She continued to be a

summer girl for four seasons without injury to her own peace of mind. At

the end of the fourth summer she appeared on close scrutiny to be a

little worn, and her innocent air seemed a trifle deliberate. She

returned to her home in New Jersey in not quite her usual spirits. In

fact she became pensive. She had seen the world, and lo! she found it

stuffed with sawdust. She was ready to settle down, but the only man

with whom she would have been willing to settle had never asked her. He

was the brother of one of the girls who had been forbidden by her mother

to stay out in canoes with young men after nine at night. The rumor had

reached Flossy that this same mother had referred to her in "the fish

pond" at Rodick's as "that dreadful girl." It would have pleased her

after that to have wrung an offer of marriage from the son and heir, who

knew her cousins, the Morton Prices, and to whom she would have been

willing to engage herself temporarily at all events. He was very

devoted; they stayed out in his canoe until past midnight; he wrote

verses to her and told her his innermost thoughts; but he stopped there.

He went away without committing himself, and she was left to chew the

cud of reflection. It was bitter, not because she was in love with him,

for she was not. In her heart she knew he bored her a little. But she

was piqued. Evidently he had been afraid to marry "that dreadful girl."

She was piqued and she was sad. She recognized that it was another case

of not being fit. When would she be fit? What was she to do in order to

become fit--fit like the girl who was not allowed to stay on the water

after nine o'clock? She had ceased to think of the young man, but the

image of his sister haunted her. How stylish she was, yet how simple and

quiet! "I wonder," thought Flossy to herself, "if I could ever become

like her." The reflection threw her into a brown study in which she

remained for weeks, and during which she refused the hand of a staid and

respectable townsman, who, in her father's words, was ready to take her

with all her follies. David Price was disappointed. He loved this

independent daughter, and he had hopes that her demure and reticent

deportment signified that the effervescence of youth had evaporated. But

it was only an effort on Flossy's part to imitate the young man's

sister.

At this juncture and just when she was bored and dispirited by the

process, Gregory Williams appeared on the scene. Flossy met him at a

dancing party. He had a very tall collar, a very friendly, confident,

and (toward her) devoted manner, and good looks. It was whispered among

the girls that he was a banker from New York. He was obviously not over

thirty, which was young for a banker, but so he presently described

himself to Flossy with hints of impending prosperity. He spoke glibly

and picturesquely. He had a convincing eloquence of gesture--a wave of

the hand which suggested energy and compelled confidence. He had picked

her out at once to be introduced to, and sympathy between them was

speedily established. Her wearing, as a red-headed girl, a white horse

in the form of a pin, in order to prevent the attention of the men to

whom she talked from wandering, delighted him. He said to himself that

here was a girl after his own heart. He had admired her looks at the

outset, but he gazed at her now more critically. He danced every dance

with her, and they sat together at supper, apart from everybody else.

Flossy's resolutions were swept away. That is, she had become in an

instant indifferent to the fact that the New York girl she had yearned

to imitate would not have made herself so conspicuous. Her excuse was

that she could not help herself. It was a case of genuine, violent

attraction, which she made no effort to straggle against.

The attraction was violent on both sides. Gregory Williams was not

seeking to be married. He had been, until within six months, a broker's

clerk, and had become a banker on the strength of ten thousand dollars

bequeathed to him by a grandmother. He and a clerk from another broker's

office, J. Willett VanHorne, had recently formed a partnership as

Williams & VanHorne, Bankers and Dealers in Stocks and Bonds. He was not

seeking to be married, but he intended to be married some day, and it

was no part of his scheme of life to deny himself anything he wished.

Support a wife? Of course he could; and support her in the same

grandiose fashion which he had adopted for himself since he had begun

business on his own account. He had chosen as a philosophy of life the

smart paradox, which he enjoyed uttering, that he spent what he needed

first and supplied the means later; and at the same time he let it be

understood that the system worked wonderfully. He possessed unlimited

confidence in himself, and though he was dimly aware that a very small

turn of the wheel of fortune in the wrong direction would ruin him

financially, he chose to close his eyes to the possibilities of disaster

and to assume a bold and important bearing before the world. He had

implicit faith in his own special line of ability, and he appreciated

the worth of his partner, VanHorne. He had joined forces with VanHorne

because he knew that he was the opposite of himself--that he was a

delving, thorough, shrewd, keen office man--and able too. How genuinely

able Williams did not yet know. He himself was to be the showy partner,

the originator of schemes and procurer of business, the brilliant man

before the world. So there was some method in his madness. And with it

all went a cheery, incisive, humorous point of view which was congenial

and diverting to Flossy.

He went away, but he came back once--twice--thrice in quick succession.

On business, so he said casually to Mr. and Mrs. Price, but his language

to their daughter was a declaration of personal devotion. It remained

for her to say whether she would marry him or no. Of one thing she was

sure without need of reflection, that she loved him ardently. As a

consequence she surrendered at once, though, curiously enough, she was

conscious when she permitted him to kiss her with effusion that he was

not the sort of man she had intended to marry--that he was not fit in

her sense of the word. Yet she was determined to marry him, and from the

moment their troth was plighted she found herself his eager and faithful

ally, dreaming and scheming on their joint account. She would help him

to succeed; they would conquer the world together; she would never doubt

his ability to conquer it. And in time--yes, in time they would make

even the Morton Prices notice them.

And so after some bewildered opposition on the part of Mr. Price, who

was alternately appalled and fascinated by the magniloquent language of

his would-be son-in-law, they were married. Flossy gave but a single

sign to her husband that she understood him and recognized what they

really represented. It was one evening a few months after they had set

up housekeeping while they were walking home from the theatre. They had

previously dined at Delmonico's, and the cost of the evening's

entertainment, including a bottle of champagne at dinner, their tickets

and a corsage bouquet of violets for Flossy, had been fifteen dollars.

Flossy wore a resplendent theatre hat and fashionable cape--one of the

several stylish costumes with which her husband had hastened to present

her, and Gregory was convoying her along the Avenue with the air of a

man not averse to have the world recognize that they were a well set up

and prosperous couple. Flossy had put her arm well inside his and was

doing her best to help him produce the effect which he desired, when she

suddenly said:

"I wonder, Gregory, how long it will be before we're really anybody.

Now, of course, we're only make believe swell."

Gregory gave an amused laugh. "What a clever little woman! That's just

what we are. We'll keep it a secret, though, and won't advertise it to

the world."

"Mum's the word," she replied, giving his arm a squeeze. "I only wished

you to know that I was not being fooled; that I understood."

Fate ordained that the Williamses and the Littletons should take houses

side by side in the same block. It was a new block, and at first they

were the sole occupants. Williams bought his house, giving a mortgage

back to the seller for all the man would accept, and obtaining a second

mortgage from a money lender in consideration of a higher rate of

interest, for practically the remaining value. He furnished his house

ornately from top to bottom in the latest fashion, incurring bills for a

portion of the effects, and arranging to pay on the instalment plan

where he could not obtain full credit. His reasoning was convincing to

himself and did not alarm Flossy, who was glad to feel that they were

the owners of the house and attractive furniture. It was that the land

was sure to improve in value before the mortgage became due, and as for

the carpets and curtains and other outlays, a few points in the stock

market would pay for them at any time.

Wilbur Littleton did not possess the ready money to buy; consequently he

took a lease of his new house for three years, and paid promptly for the

furniture he bought, the selection of which was gradual. Gregory

Williams had a marvellous way of entering a shop and buying everything

which pleased his eye at one fell swoop, but Wilbur, who desired to

accomplish the best æsthetic effects possible consistent with his

limited means, trotted Selma from one shop to another before choosing.

This process of selecting slowly the things with which they were to pass

their lives was a pleasure to him, and, as he supposed, to Selma. She

did enjoy keenly at first beholding the enticing contents of the various

stores which they entered in the process of procuring wall-papers,

carpets, and the other essentials for house-keeping. It was a revelation

to her that such beautiful things existed, and her inclination was to

purchase the most showy and the most costly articles. In the adornment

of her former home Babcock had given her a free hand. That is, his

disposition had been to buy the finest things which the shopkeepers of

Benham called to his attention. She understood now that his taste and

the taste of Benham, and even her's, had been at fault, but she found

herself hampered now by a new and annoying limitation, the smallness of

their means. Almost every thing was very expensive, and she was obliged

to pass by the patterns and materials she desired to possess, and accept

articles of a more sober and less engaging character. Many of these, to

be sure, were declared by Wilbur to be artistically charming and more

suitable than many which she preferred, but it would have suited her

better to fix on the rich upholstery and solid furniture, which were

evidently the latest fashion in household decoration, rather than go

mousing from place to place, only at last to pick up in the back corner

of some store this or that object which was both reasonably pretty and

reasonably cheap. When it was all over Selma was pleased with the effect

of her establishment, but she had eaten of the tree of knowledge. She

had visited the New York shops. These, in her capacity of a God-fearing

American, she would have been ready to anathematize in a speech or in a

newspaper article, but the memory of them haunted her imagination and

left her domestic yearnings not wholly satisfied.

Wilbur Littleton's scheme of domestic life was essentially spiritual,

and in the development of it he felt that he was consulting his wife's

tastes and theories no less than his own. He knew that she understood

that he was ambitious to make a name for himself as an architect; but to

make it only by virtue of work of a high order; that he was unwilling to

become a time-server or to lower his professional standards merely to

make temporary progress, which in the end would mar a success worth

having. He had no doubt that he had made this clear to her and that she

sympathized with him. As a married man it was his desire and intention

not to allow his interest in this ambition to interfere with the

enjoyment of the new great happiness which had come into his life. He

would be a professional recluse no longer. He would cast off his work

when he left his office, and devote his evenings to the æsthetic

delights of Selma's society. They would read aloud; he would tell her

his plans and ask her advice; they would go now and then to the theatre;

and, in justice to her, they would occasionally entertain their friends

and accept invitations from them. With this outlook in mind he had made

such an outlay as would render his home attractive and cosey--simple as

became a couple just beginning life, yet the abode of a gentleman and a

lover of inspiring and pretty things.

As has been mentioned, Littleton was a Unitarian, and one effect of his

faith had been to make his point of view broad and straightforward. He

detested hypocrisy and cant, subterfuge and self-delusion. He was

content to let other people live according to their own lights without

too much distress on their account, but he was too honest and too

clear-headed to be able to deceive himself as to his own motives and his

own conduct. He had no intention to be morbid, but he saw clearly that

it was his privilege and his duty to be true to both his loves, his wife

and his profession, and that if he neglected either, he would be so far

false to his best needs and aspirations. Yet he felt that for the moment

it was incumbent on him to err on the side of devotion to his wife until

she should become accustomed to her new surroundings.

The problem of the proper arrangement and subdivision of life in a large

city and in these seething, modern times is perplexing to all of us.

There are so many things we would like to do which we cannot; so many

things which we do against our wills. We are perpetually squinting at

happiness, but just as we get a delightful vision before our eyes we are

whisked off by duty or ambition or the force of social momentum to try a

different view. Consequently our perennial regret is apt to be that we

have seen our real interests and our real friends as in a panorama, for

a fleeting moment, and then no more until the next time. For Littleton

this was less true than for most. His life was deep and stable rather

than many-sided. To be sure his brain experienced, now and then, the

dazing effects of trying to confront all the problems of the universe

and adapt his architectural endeavors to his interpretation of them; and

he knew well the bewildering difficulties of the process of adjusting

professional theories to the sterile conditions which workaday practice

often presented. But this crowding of his mental canvas was all in the

line of his life purpose. The days were too short, and sometimes left

him perplexed and harassed by their rush; yet he was still pursuing the

tenor of his way. The interest of marriage was not, therefore, in his

case a fresh burden on a soul already laden with a variety of side

pursuits. He was neither socially nor philanthropically active; he was

not a club man, nor an athletic enthusiast; he was on no committees; he

voted on election days, but he did not take an active part in politics.

For Selma's sake all this must be changed; and he was glad to

acknowledge that he owed it to himself as well as to her to widen his

sympathies.

As a first step in reform he began to leave his office daily at five

instead of six, and, on Saturdays, as soon after two as possible. For a

few months these brands of time snatched from the furnace of his

professional ardor were devoted to the shopping relative to

house-furnishing. When that was over, to walking with Selma; sometimes

as a sheer round of exercise in company, sometimes to visit a

print-shop, exhibition of pictures, book-store, or other attraction of

the hour. But the evening was for him the ideal portion of the day;

when, after dinner was done, they made themselves comfortable in the new

library, their living room, and it became his privilege to read aloud to

her or to compare ideas with her regarding books and pictures and what

was going on in the world. It had been a dream of Littleton's that some

day he would re-read consecutively the British poets, and as soon as the

furniture was all in place and the questions of choice of rugs and

chairs and pictures had been settled by purchase, he proposed it as a

definite occupation whenever they had nothing else in view. It delighted

him that Selma received this suggestion with enthusiasm. Accordingly,

they devoted their spare evenings to the undertaking, reading aloud in

turn. Littleton's enunciation was clear and intelligent, and as a happy

lover he was in a mood to fit poetic thoughts to his own experience, and

to utter them ardently. While he read, Selma knew that she was ever the

heroine of his imagination, which was agreeable, and she recognized

besides that his performance in itself was æsthetically attractive. Yet

in spite of the personal tribute, Selma preferred the evenings when she

herself was the elocutionist. She enjoyed the sound of her own voice,

and she enjoyed the emotions which her utterance of the rhythmic stanzas

set coursing through her brain. It was obvious to her that Wilbur was

captivated by her reading, and she delighted in giving herself up to the

spirit of the text with the reservations appropriate to an enlightened

but virtuous soul. For instance, in the case of Shelley, she gloried in

his soaring, but did not let herself forget that fire-worship was not

practical; in the case of Byron, though she yielded her senses to the

spell of his passionate imagery, she reflected approvingly that she was

a married woman.

But Littleton appreciated also that his wife should have the society of

others beside himself. Pauline introduced her promptly to her own small

but intelligent feminine circle, and pending Pauline's removal to a

flat, the Saturday evening suppers were maintained at the old

establishment. Here Selma made the acquaintance of her husband's and his

sister's friends, both men and women, who dropped in often after the

play and without ceremony for a weekly interchange of thought and

comradeship. Selma looked forward to the first of these occasions with

an eager curiosity. She expected a renewal of the Benham Institute, only

in a more impressive form, as befitted a great literary centre; that

papers would be read, original compositions recited, and many

interesting people of both sexes perform according to their specialties.

She confidently hoped to have the opportunity to declaim, "Oh, why

should the spirit of mortal be proud?" "Curfew must not ring to-night,"

or some other of her literary pieces.

Therefore, it was almost a shock to her that the affair was so informal,

and that the company seemed chiefly occupied in behaving gayly--in

making sallies at each other's expense, which were greeted with

merriment. They seemed to her like a lot of children let loose from

school. There were no exercises, and no allusion was made to the

attainments of the various guests beyond an occasional word of

introduction by Pauline or Wilbur; and this word was apt to be of

serio-comic import. Selma realized that among the fifteen people present

there were representatives of various interesting crafts--writers,

artists, a magazine editor, two critics of the stage, a prominent

musician, and a college professor--but none of them seemed to her to act

a part or to have their accomplishments in evidence, as she would have

liked. Every one was very cordial to her, and appeared desirous to

recognize her as a permanent member of their circle, but she could not

help feeling disappointed at the absence of ceremony and formal events.

There was no president or secretary, and presently the party went into

the dining-room and sat around a table, at either end of which Pauline

and Wilbur presided over a blazer. Interest centred on the preparation

of a rabbit and creamed oysters, and pleasant badinage flew from tongue

to tongue. Selma found herself between the magazine editor and a large,

powerfully built man with a broad, rotund, strong face, who was

introduced to her as Dr. Page, and who was called George by every one

else. He had arrived late, just as they were going in to supper, and his

appearance had been greeted with a murmur of satisfaction. He had placed

himself between Pauline and her, and he showed himself, to Selma's

thinking, one of the least dignified of the company.

"My dear Mrs. Littleton," he said, with a counterfeit of great gravity,

"you are now witnessing an impressive example of the politeness of true

friendship. There are cynics who assert that the American people are

lacking in courtesy, and cast in our teeth the superiority of Japanese

manners. I wish they were here to-night. There is not a single

individual present, male or female, married or single, who does not

secretly cherish the amiable belief that he or she can cook things on a

blazer better than any one else. And yet we abstain from criticism; we

offer no suggestions; we accept, without a murmur, the proportions of

cheese and beer and butter inflicted upon us by our hostess and her

brother, and are silent. We shall even become complimentary later. Can

the Japanese vie with this?"

The contrast between his eager, grave gaze, and the levity of his words,

puzzled Selma. He looked interesting, but his speech seemed to her

trivial and unworthy of the occasion. Still she appreciated that she

must not be a spoil-sport, and that it was incumbent on her to resign

herself to the situation, so she smiled gayly, and said: "I am the only

one then not suffering from self-restraint. I never made a Welsh rabbit,

nor cooked on a blazer." Then, in her desire for more serious

conversation, she added: "Do you really think that we, as a people, are

less polite than the Japanese?"

The doctor regarded her with solemn interest for an instant, as though

he were pondering the question. As a matter of fact, he was thinking

that she was remarkably pretty. Then he put his finger on his lips, and

in a hoarse whisper, said, "Sh! Be careful. If the editorial ear should

catch your proposition the editorial man would appropriate it. There!"

he added, as her left-hand neighbor bent toward them in response to the

summons, "he has heard, and your opportunity to sell an idea to the

magazine is lost. It is all very fine for him to protest that he has

heard nothing. That is a trick of his trade. Let us see now if he will

agree to buy. If he refuses, it will be a clear case that he has heard

and purloined it. Come, Dennison, here's a chance for a ten

thousand-word symposium debate, 'Are we, as a nation, less polite than

the Japanese?' We offer it for a hundred and fifty cash, and cheap at

the price."

Mr. Dennison, who was a keen-eyed, quiet man, with a brown, closely-cut

beard, had paused in his occupation of buttering hot toast for the

impending rabbit, and was smiling quizzically. "If you have literary

secrets to dispose of, Mrs. Littleton, let me warn you against making a

confidant of Dr. Page. Had you spoken to me first, there is no knowing

what I might have--"

"What did I tell you?" broke in the doctor. "A one hundred and

fifty-dollar idea ruthlessly appropriated. These editors, these

editors!"

It was tantalizing to Selma to be skirting the edge of themes she would

have enjoyed to hear treated seriously. She hoped that Mr. Dennison

would inquire if she really wrote, and at least he would tell her

something about his magazine and literary life in New York. But he took

up again his task of buttering toast, and sought to interest her in

that. Presently she was unable to resist the temptation of remarking

that the editorship of a magazine must be one of the most interesting of

all occupations; but he looked at her with his quizzical smile, and

answered:

"Between you and me, Mrs. Littleton, I will confide to you that a

considerable portion of the time it is a confounded bore. To tell the

truth, I much prefer to sit next to you and butter toast."

This was depressing and puzzling to Selma; but after the consumption of

the rabbit and the oysters there was some improvement in the general

tone of the conversation. Yet, not so far as she was concerned. Mr.

Dennison neglected to confide to her the secrets of his prison house,

and Dr. Page ruthlessly refused to discuss medicine, philosophy, or the

Japanese. But here and there allusion was made by one or another of the

company to something which had been done in the world of letters, or

art, or music, which possessed merit or deserved discouragement. What

was said was uttered simply, often trenchantly and lightly, but never as

a dogma, or with the solemnity which Mrs. Earle had been wont to impart

to her opinions. Just as the party was about to break up, Dr. Page

approached Selma and offered her his hand. "It is a great pleasure to me

to have met you," he said, looking into her face with his honest eyes.

"A good wife was just what Wilbur needed to insure him happiness and a

fine career. His friends have great confidence in his ability, and we

intrust him to you in the belief that the world will hear from him--and

I, for one, shall be very grateful to you."

He spoke now with evident feeling, and his manner suggested the desire

to be her friend. Selma admired his large physique and felt the

attraction of his searching gaze.

"Perhaps he did need a wife," she answered with an attempt at the

sprightliness which he had laid aside. "I shall try not to let him be

too indifferent to practical considerations."

CHAPTER III.

"Who is Dr. Page?" asked Selma of her husband when they left the house.

"One of our best friends, and one of the leading physicians in the city.

The energy of that man is tireless. He is absorbed in his profession.

The only respite he allows himself are these Saturday evenings, and his

devotion to his little son who has hip disease. He told me to-night that

he had finished his day's work only just before he came in. What did you

think of him? He likes to tease."

"Then he is married?"

"He is a widower."

"He seems interested in you. He was good enough to say that he thought

you needed a wife."

"Then he must have admired you, Selma. Poor fellow! I wish he might have

that happiness himself. I'll tell you a secret: He has desired to marry

Pauline for years. They are devoted friends--but until now that is all.

His wife was an actress--a handsome creature. Two years after they were

married she ran away with another man and left him. Left him with one

little boy, a cripple, on whom he lavishes all the love of his big

nature."

"How dreadful!"

"Yes, it is a sad story. That was ten years ago. He was very young and

the woman was very beautiful. It has been the making of him, though, in

one way. He had the pride and confidence of ability, but he lacked

sympathy. His experience and the appealing presence of his son have

developed his nature and given him tenderness. He has not been

imbittered; he has simply become gentle. And how he works! He is already

famous in his profession."

"Does Pauline care for him?"

"I don't know her feelings. I am sure she is fond of him, and admires

him. I fancy, though, that she hesitates to renounce her own ambitions.

As you are aware, she is greatly interested in her classes, and in

matters pertaining to the higher education of women. George Page knew

her at the time of his marriage. I do not mean that he paid her serious

attention then, but he had the opportunity to ask her instead of the

other. Now, when she has become absorbed in her life-work, she would

naturally decline to give it up unless she felt sure that she could not

be happy without him."

"I would not marry him if I were she," said Selma. "He has given his

best to the other woman. He is the one at fault, not Pauline. Why should

she sacrifice her own career in order to console him?"

"She might love him sufficiently to be willing to do so, Selma. Love

makes women blind to faults. But poor George was scarcely at fault. It

was a misfortune."

"He made his choice and was deceived. It would be weak of her to give up

her own life merely because he is lonely. We modern women have too much

self-respect for that. Love is love, and it is not to be trifled with."

"Yes, love is love," murmured Littleton, "and I am happy in mine."

"That is because neither of us has loved before, you foolish boy. But as

to this evening, it wasn't at all what I expected. Are your friends

always like that?"

Littleton laughed. "Did they seem to you frivolous and undignified,

then?"

"Almost. They certainly said nothing serious."

"It is their holiday--their evening out. They have to be serious during

the rest of the week--busy with problems and cares, for they are a set

of hard workers. The stress of life is so rigorous and constant here in

New York that we have learned not to take our pleasure sadly. When you

become accustomed to their way you will realize that they are no less

serious at heart because they frolic now and then."

Selma was silent a moment; then she said, "That reminds me; have you

found out about our next-door neighbors yet?"

"He is a banker named Williams, I believe."

"I saw his wife pass the window this morning. She was beautifully

dressed. They must be rich."

"I dare say."

"But they live in the same style of house as ours."

"Bankers have mysterious ways of making money. We cannot compete with

those."

"I suppose not. I was thinking that she had the same manner as some of

your friends this evening, only more pronounced. She stopped to speak to

some one just in front of the house, so I could observe her. I should

think she was frivolous, but fascinating. That must be the New York

manner, and, consequently, she may be very much in earnest."

"It isn't given to every woman to be attractive all the time just

because she looks in earnest, as it is to you, dearest. But you musn't

be too severe on the others."

"On the contrary, I think I shall like Mrs. Williams. She may teach us

to be practical. You know that is what your friends would like to have

me help you to be, Wilbur."

"Then they did talk a word or two of sense?"

"They said that. Do you think it is true that you are visionary?"

"It is your duty to tell me so, Selma, when you think it, just as I have

told you that we can afford to laugh now and then. Come, begin."

"I haven't been your wife long enough yet. I shall know better by the

end of another six months."

A fortnight elapsed before Selma made the acquaintance of Mrs. Gregory

Williams. It was not a chance meeting. Flossy rang the bell deliberately

one afternoon and was ushered in, thereby bridging over summarily the

yawning chasm which may continue to exist for an indefinite period

between families in the same block who are waiting to be introduced.

"I said to my husband last night, Mrs. Littleton, that it was ridiculous

for us to be living side by side without knowing one another, and that I

was going to call. We moved in three weeks before you, so I'm the one

who ought to break the ice. Otherwise we might have stared at each other

blankly for three months, looked at each other sheepishly out of the

corner of our eyes for another three, half bowed for six months, and

finally, perhaps, reached the stage where we are now. Neighbors should

be neighborly, don't you think so?"

"Indeed I do. Of course I knew you by sight; and I felt I should like to

make your acquaintance." Selma spoke with enthusiasm. Here was some one

whose social deftness was no less marked than Mrs. Hallett Taylor's,

and, to her mind, more brilliant, yet whom she felt at once to be

congenial. Though she perceived that her neighbor's clothes made her own

apparel seem dull, and was accordingly disposed to be on her guard, she

realized instinctively that she was attracted by the visitor.

"That is very nice of you," said Flossy. "I told my

husband--Gregory--the other day that I was sure you were something

literary--I mean Mr. Littleton, of course--and when he found out that he

was I said we must certainly cultivate you as an antidote to the banking

business. Gregory's a banker. It must be delightful to plan houses. This

room is so pretty and tasteful."

"It isn't wholly furnished yet. We are buying things by degrees, as we

find pieces which we like."

"We bought all our things in two days at one fell swoop," said Flossy

with a gay laugh. "Gregory gave the dealers carte blanche. That's his

way," she added with a touch of pride. "I dare say the house would have

been prettier if we could have taken more time. However, it is all paid

for now. Some of it was bought on the instalment plan, but Gregory

bought or sold something in stocks the next week which covered the

furniture and paid for a present for me of this besides," she said,

indicating her seal-skin cape. "Wasn't he a dear?"

Selma did not know precisely what the instalment plan was, but she

understood that Mr. Williams had been distinctly clever in his wife's

estimation. She perceived that Mrs. Williams had the same light, half

jocular manner displayed by Wilbur's friends, and that she spoke with

bubbling, jaunty assurance, which was suggestive of frivolity. Still

Wilbur had intimated that this might be the New York manner, and clearly

her neighbor had come in a friendly spirit and was duly appreciative of

the distinction of being literary. Besides, her ready disposition to

talk about herself and her affairs seemed to Selma the sign of a

willingness to be truly friendly. The seal-skin cape she wore was very

handsome, and she was more conspicuously attired from head to foot than

any woman with whom Selma had ever conversed. She was pretty, too--a

type of beauty less spiritual than her own--with piquant, eager

features, laughing, restless gray eyes, and light hair which escaped

from her coquettish bonnet in airy ringlets. If they had met three years

earlier Selma would certainly have regarded her as an incarnation of

volatility and servility to foreign fashions. Now, though she classed

her promptly as a frivolous person, she regarded her with a keen

curiosity not unmixed with self-distress, and the reflection came to her

that a little of the New York manner might perhaps be desirable when in

New York.

"Yes, it's beautiful," she replied, referring to the cape.

"Gregory is always making me presents like that. He gave me this

bracelet yesterday. He saw it in the shop-window and went in and bought

it. Speaking of husbands, you won't mind my saying that I think Mr.

Littleton is very distinguished looking? I often see him pass the window

in the morning."

"Of course _I_ think so," said Selma. "I suppose it would seem flat if I

were to say that I admired Mr. Williams's appearance also."

"The truth is no harm. Wouldn't it be nice if we should happen to become

friends? We are the pioneers in this block, but I hear three other

houses have been sold. I suppose you own your house?"

"I believe not. We have a lease of it."

"That's a pity, because Gregory bought ours on a mortgage, thinking the

land is sure to become more valuable. He hopes to be able to sell some

day for a great deal more than he paid for it. May I ask where you lived

before you were married?"

Selma told her briefly.

"Then you are almost Western. I felt sure you weren't a New Yorker, and

I didn't think you were from Boston. You have the Boston earnest

expression, but somehow you're different. You don't mind my analyzing

you, do you? That's a Boston habit by the way. But I'm not from Boston.

I've lived all my life in New Jersey. So we are both strangers in New

York. That is, I'm the same as a stranger, though my father is a cousin

of the Morton Prices. We sent them wedding cards and they called one day

when I was out. I shall return the call and find them out, and that will

be the last move on either side until Gregory does something remarkable.

I'm rather glad I wasn't at home, because it would have been awkward.

They wouldn't have known what to say to me, and they might have felt

that they ought to ask me to dinner, and I don't care to have them ask

me until they're obliged to. Do I shock you running on so about my own

affairs?" Flossy asked, noticing Selma draw herself up sternly.

"Oh no, I like that. I was only thinking that it was very strange of

your cousins. You are as good as they, aren't you?"

"Mercy, no. We both know it, and that's what makes the situation so

awkward. As Christians, they had to call on me, but I really think they

are justified in stopping there. Socially I'm nobody."

"In this country we are all free and equal."

"You're a dear--a delicious dear," retorted Flossy, with a caressing

laugh. "There's something of the sort in the Declaration of

Independence, but, as Gregory says, that was put in as a bluff to

console salesladies. Was everybody equal in Benham, Mrs. Littleton?"

"Practically so," said Selma, with an air of haughtiness, which was

evoked by her recollection of the group of houses on Benham's River

Drive into which she had never been invited. "There were some people who

were richer than others, but that didn't make them better than any one

else."

"Well, in New York it's different. Of course, every body has the same

right to vote or to be elected President of the United States, but

equality ends there. People here are either in society or out of it, and

society itself is divided into sets. There's the conservative

aristocratic set, the smart rapid set, the set which hasn't much money,

but has Knickerbocker or other highly respectable ancestors, the new

millionaire set, the literary set, the intellectual philanthropic set,

and so on, according to one's means or tastes. Each has its little

circle which shades away into the others, and every now and then there

is a big entertainment to which they all go."

"I see," said Selma, coldly.

"Now, to make it plain, I will confide to you in strictest confidence

that Gregory and I aren't yet really in any set. We are trying to get a

footing and are holding on by our teeth to the fringe of the social

merry-go-round. I wouldn't admit it to any one but you; but as you are a

stranger like myself and in the same block, I am glad to initiate you

into the customs of this part of the country," Flossy gave a merry toss

to her head which set her ringlets bobbing, and rose to go.

"And in what set are your cousins?" asked Selma.

"If you wish to hear about them, I shall have to sit down again. The

Morton-Prices belong to the ultra-conservative, solid, stupid,

aristocratic set--the most dignified and august of all. They are almost

as sacred as Hindoo gods, and some people would walk over red-hot coals

to gain admission to their house. And really, it's quite just in one way

that incense should be burnt before them. You mustn't look so disgusted,

because there's some sense in it all. As Gregory says, it's best to look

things squarely in the face. Most of the people in these different sets

are somebodies because either their grandfathers or they have done

something well--better than other people, and made money as a

consequence. And when a family has made money or won distinction by its

brains and then has brushed its teeth twice a day religiously for two

generations, the members of it, even though dull, are entitled to

respect, don't you think so?"

Selma, who brushed her teeth but once a day, looked a little sharp at

Flossy.

"It makes money of too much importance and it establishes class

distinctions. I don't approve of such a condition of affairs at all."

Flossy shrugged her shoulders. "I have never thought whether I approve

of it or not. I am only telling you what exists. I don't deny that money

counts for a great deal, for, as Gregory says, money is the measure of

success. But money isn't everything. Brains count and refinement, and

nice honorable ways of looking at things. Of course, I'm only telling

you what my ambition is. People have different kinds of bees in their

bonnets. Some men have the presidential bee; I have the social bee. I

should like to be recognized as a prominent member of the charmed circle

on my own merits and show my cousins that I am really worthy of their

attention. There are a few who are able to be superior to that sort of

thing, who go on living their own lives attractively and finely, without

thinking of society, and who suddenly wake up some day to find

themselves socially famous--to find that they have been taken up. That's

the best way, but one requires to be the right sort of person and to

have a lot of moral courage. I can imagine it happening to you and your

husband. But it would never happen to Gregory and me. We shall have to

make money and cut a dash in order to attract attention, and by-and-by,

if we are persistent and clever enough, we may be recognized as

somebodies, provided there is something original or interesting about

us. There! I have told you my secret and shocked you into the bargain. I

really must be going. But I'll tell you another secret first: It'll be a

pleasure to me to see you, if I may, because you look at things

differently and haven't a social bee. I wish I were like that--really

like it. But then, as Gregory would say, I shouldn't be myself, and not

to be one's self is worse than anything else after all, isn't it? You

and your husband must come and dine with us soon."

After Mrs. Williams had gone, Selma fell into a brown study. She had

listened to sentiments of which she thoroughly disapproved, and which

were at variance with all her theories and conceptions. What her

friendly, frivolous visitor had told her with engaging frankness

offended her conscience and patriotism. She did not choose to admit the

existence of these class-distinctions, and she knew that even if they

did exist, they could not possibly concern Wilbur and herself. Even Mrs.

Williams had appreciated that Wilbur and her literary superiority put

them above and beyond the application of any snobbish, artificial,

social measuring-tape. And yet Selma's brow was clouded. Her thought

reverted to the row of stately houses on either side of Fifth Avenue,

into none of which she had the right of free access, in spite of the

fact that she was leading her life attractively and finely, without

regard to society. She thought instinctively of Sodom and Gomorrah, and

she saw righteously with her mind's eye for a moment an angel with a

flaming sword consigning to destruction these offending mansions and

their owners as symbols of mammon and contraband to God.

That evening she told Wilbur of Mrs. Williams's visit. "She's a bright,

amusing person, and quite pretty. We took a fancy to each other. But

what do you suppose she said? She intimated that we haven't any social

position."

"Very kind of her, I'm sure. She must be a woman of

discrimination--likewise something of a character."

"She's smart. So you think it's true?"

"What? About our social position? Ours is as good as theirs, I fancy."

"Oh yes, Wilbur. She acknowledges that herself. She admires us both and

she thinks it fine that we don't care for that sort of thing. What she

said was chiefly in connection with herself, but she intimated that

neither they, nor we, are the--er--equals of the people who live on

Fifth Avenue and thereabouts. She's a cousin of the Morton Prices,

whoever they may be, and she declared perfectly frankly that they were

better than she. Wasn't it funny?"

"You seem to have made considerable progress for one visit."

"I like that, you know, Wilbur. I prefer people who are willing to tell

me their real feelings at once."

"Morton Price is one of the big bugs. His great grandfather was among

the wise, shrewd pioneers in the commercial progress of the city. The

present generation are eminently respectable, very dignified, mildly

philanthropic, somewhat self-indulgent, reasonably harmless, decidedly

ornamental and rather dull."

"But Mrs. Williams says that she will never be happy until her relations

and the people of that set are obliged to take notice of her, and that

she and her husband are going to cut a dash to attract attention. It's

her secret."

"The cat which she let out of the bag is a familiar one. She must be

amusing, provided she is not vulgar."

"I don't think she's vulgar, Wilbur. She wears gorgeous clothes, but

they're extremely pretty. She said that she called on me because she

thought that we were literary, and that she desired an antidote to the

banker's business, which shows she isn't altogether worldly. She wishes

us to dine with them soon."

"That's neighborly."

"Why was it, Wilbur, that you didn't buy our house instead of hiring

it?"

"Because I hadn't money enough to pay for it."

"The Williamses bought theirs. But I don't believe they paid for it

altogether. She says her husband thinks the land will increase in value,

and they hope some day to make money by the rise. I imagine Mr. Williams

must be shrewd."

"He's a business man. Probably he bought, and gave a mortgage back. I

might have done that, but we weren't sure we should like the location,

and it isn't certain yet that fashion will move in just this direction.

I have very little, and I preferred not to tie up everything in a house

we might not wish to keep."

"I see. She appreciates that people may take us up any time. She thinks

you are distinguished looking."

"If she isn't careful, I shall make you jealous, Selma. Was there

anything you didn't discuss?"

"I regard you as the peer of any Morton Price alive. Why aren't you?"

"Far be it from me to discourage such a wifely conclusion. Provided you

think so, I don't care for any one else's opinion."

"But you agree with her. That is, you consider because people of that

sort don't invite us to their houses, they are better than we."

"Nothing of the kind. But there's no use denying the existence of social

classes in this city, and that, though I flatter myself you and I are

trying to make the most of our lives in accordance with the talents and

means at our disposal, we are not and are not likely to become, for the

present at any rate, socially prominent. That's what you have in mind, I

think. I don't know those people; they don't know me. Consequently they

do not ask me to their beautiful and costly entertainments. Some day,

perhaps, if I am very successful as an architect, we may come more in

contact with them, and they will have a chance to discover what a

charming wife I have. But from the point of view of society, your

neighbor Mrs. Williams is right. She evidently has a clear head on her

shoulders and knows what she desires. You and I believe that we can get

more happiness out of life by pursuing the even tenor of our way in the

position in which we happen to find ourselves."

"I don't understand it," said Selma, shaking her head and looking into

space with her spiritual expression. "It troubles me. It isn't American.

I didn't think such distinctions existed in this country. Is it all a

question of money, then? Do intelligence and--er--purpose count for

nothing?"

"My dear girl, it simply means that the people who are on top--the

people who, by force of success, or ability, or money, are most

prominent in the community, associate together, and the world gives a

certain prominence to their doings. Here, where fortunes have been made

so rapidly, and we have no formal aristocracy, money undoubtedly plays a

conspicuous part in giving access to what is known as society. But it is

only an entering wedge. Money supplies the means to cultivate manners

and the right way of looking at things, and good society represents the

best manners and, on the whole, the best way of looking at things."

"Yes. But you say that we don't belong to it."

"We do in the broad, but not in the narrow sense. We have neither the

means nor the time to take part in fashionable society. Surely, Selma,

you have no such ambition?"

"I? You know I disapprove of everything of the sort. It is like Europe.

There's nothing American in it."

"I don't know about that. The people concerned in it are Americans. If a

man has made money there is no reason why he shouldn't build a handsome

house, maintain a fine establishment, give his children the best

educational advantages, and choose his own friends. So the next

generation becomes more civilized. It isn't the best Americanism to

waste one's time in pursuing frivolities and excessive luxury, as some

of these people do; but there's nothing un-American in making the most

of one's opportunities. As I've said to you before, Selma, it's the way

in which one rises that's the important thing in the individual

equation, and every man must choose for himself what that shall be. My

ambition is to excel in my profession, and to mould my life to that end

without neglecting my duties as a citizen or a husband. If, in the end,

I win fame and fortune, so much the better. But there's no use in

worrying because other people are more fashionable than we."

"Of course. You speak as if you thought I was envious of them, Wilbur.

What I don't understand is why such people should be allowed to exist in

this country."

"We're a free people, Selma. I'm a good democrat, but you must agree

that the day-laborer in his muddy garb would not find himself at ease in

a Fifth Avenue drawing-room. On that account shall we abolish the

drawing-room?"

"We are not day-laborers."

"Not precisely; but we have our spurs to win. And, unlike some people in

our respectable, but humble station, we have each other's love to give

us courage to fight the battle of life bravely. I had a fresh order

to-day--and I have bought tickets for to-night at the theatre."

CHAPTER IV.

Almost the first persons at the theatre on whom Selma's eyes rested were

the Gregory Williamses. They were in a box with two other people, and

both Flossy and her husband were talking with the festive air peculiar

to those who are willing to be noticed and conscious that their wish is

being gratified. Flossy wore a gay bonnet and a stylish frock,

supplemented by a huge bunch of violets, and her husband's evening dress

betrayed a slight exaggeration of the prevailing fashion in respect to

his standing collar and necktie. Selma had never had a thorough look at

him before, and she reflected that he was decidedly impressive and

handsome. His face was full and pleasant, his mustache large and

gracefully curved, and his figure manly. His most distinguishing

characteristic was a dignity of bearing uncommon in so young a man,

suggesting that he carried, if not the destiny of republics on his

shoulders, at least, important financial secrets in his brain. The man

and woman with them were almost elderly and gave the effect of being

strangers to the city. They were Mr. and Mrs. Silas S. Parsons. Mr.

Parsons was a prosperous Western business man, who now and then visited

New York, and who had recently become a customer of Williams's. He had

dealt in the office where Williams was a clerk, and, having taken a

fancy to him, was disposed to help the new firm. Gregory had invited

them to dinner and to the theatre, by way of being attentive, and had

taken a box instead of stalls, in order to make his civility as

magnificent as the occasion would permit. A box, besides being a

delicate testimonial to his guest, would cause the audience to notice

him and his wife and to ask who they were.

In the gradual development of the social appetite in this country a

certain class has been evolved whose drawing-room is the floor of the

leading theatres. Society consists for them chiefly in being present

often at theatrical performances in sumptuous dress, not merely to

witness the play, but to be participants in a social function which

enhances their self-esteem. To be looked at and to look on these

occasions takes the place with them of balls and dinner parties. They

are not theatregoers in the proper sense, but social aspirants, and the

boxes and stalls are for them an arena in which for a price they can

show themselves in their finery and attractions, for lack of other

opportunities.

Our theatres are now in the full blaze of this harmless appropriation

for quasi-ballroom uses. At the time when Selma was a New York bride the

movement was in its infancy. The people who went to the theatre for

spectacular purposes no less than to see the actors on the stage were

comparatively few in number. Still the device was practised, and from

the very fact that it was not freely employed, was apt to dazzle the

eyes of the uninitiated public more unreservedly than to-day. The sight

of Mrs. Williams in a box, in the glory of her becoming frock and her

violets, caused even so stern a patriot and admirer of simplicity as

Selma to seize her husband's arm and whisper:

"Look." What is more she caught herself a moment later blushing with

satisfaction on account of the friendly bow which was bestowed on her.

Wilbur Littleton's ambitions were so definite and congenial that the

sight of his neighbors' splendor neither offended nor irritated him. He

did not feel obliged to pass judgment on them while deriving amusement

from their display, nor did he experience any qualms of regret that he

was not able to imitate them. He regarded Flossy and her husband with

the tolerant gaze of one content to allow other people to work out their

salvation, without officious criticism, provided he were allowed the

same privilege, and ready to enjoy any features of the situation which

appealed to his sense of humor or to his human sympathy. Flossy's frank,

open nod and ingenuous face won his favor at once, especially as he

appreciated that she and Selma had found each other attractive, and

though he tabooed luxury and fashionable paraphernalia where he was

immediately concerned, it occurred to him that this evidently

wide-awake, vivacious-looking couple might, as friends, introduce just

the right element of variety into their lives. He had no wish to be a

banker himself, nor to hire boxes at the theatre, but he was disposed to

meet half-way these entertaining and gorgeous neighbors.

Selma, in spite of her wish to watch the play, found her glance

returning again and again to the occupants of the box, though she

endeavored to dispose of the matter by remarking presently that she

could not understand why people should care to make themselves so

conspicuous, particularly as the seats in the boxes were less desirable

for seeing the stage than their own.

"We wouldn't care for it, but probably it's just what they like," said

Wilbur. "Some society reporter may notice them; in which case we shall

see in the Sunday newspaper that Mr. Gregory Williams and party occupied

a private box at the Empire Theatre last Tuesday evening, which will be

another straw toward helping them to carry out their project of

attracting attention. I like the face of your new friend, my dear. I

mean to say that she looks unaffected and honest, and as if she had a

sense of humor. With those three virtues a woman can afford to have some

faults. I suppose she has hers."

Littleton felt that Selma was disposed to fancy her neighbor, but was

restrained by conscientious scruples due to her dislike for society

concerns. He had fallen in love with and married his wife because he

believed her to be free from and superior to the petty weaknesses of the

feminine social creed; but though extremely proud of her uncompromising

standards, he had begun to fear lest she might indulge her point of view

so far as to be unjust. Her scornful references from time to time to

those who had made money and occupied fine houses had wounded his own

sense of justice. He had endeavored to explain that virtue was not the

exclusive prerogative of the noble-minded poor, and now he welcomed an

opportunity of letting her realize from personal experience that society

was not so bad as it was painted.

Selma returned Mrs. Williams's call during the week, but did not find

her at home. A few days later arrived a note stamped with a purple and

gold monogram inviting them to dinner. When the evening arrived they

found only a party of four. A third couple had given out at the last

minute, so they were alone with their hosts. The Williams house in its

decoration and upholstery was very different from their own. The

drawing-room was bright with color. The furniture was covered with light

blue plush; there were blue and yellow curtains, gay cushions, and a

profusion of gilt ornamentation. A bear-skin, a show picture on an

easel, and a variety of florid bric-à-brac completed the brilliant

aspect of the apartment. Selma reflected at once that that this was the

sort of drawing-room which would have pleased her had she been given her

head and a full purse. It suggested her home at Benham refurnished by

the light of her later experience undimmed by the shadow of economy. On

the way down to dinner she noticed in the corner of the hall a suit of

old armor, and she was able to perceive that the little room on one side

of the front door, which they learned subsequently was Mr. Williams's

den, contained Japanese curiosities. The dinner-table shone with glass

and silver ware, and was lighted by four candles screened by small pink

shades. By the side of Flossy's plate and her own was a small bunch of

violets, and there was a rosebud for each of the men. The dinner, which

was elaborate, was served by two trig maids. There were champagne and

frozen pudding. Selma felt almost as if she were in fairy-land. She had

never experienced anything just like this before; but her exacting

conscience was kept at bay by the reflection that this must be a further

manifestation of the New York manner, and her self-respect was

propitiated by the cordiality of her entertainers. The conversation was

bubbling and light-hearted on the part of both Mr. and Mrs. Williams.

They kept up a running prattle on the current fads of the day, the

theatre, the doings of well-known social personages, and their own

household possessions, which they naïvely called to the attention of

their guests, that they might be admired. But Selma enjoyed more than

the general conversation her talk with the master of the house, who

possessed all the friendly suavity of his wife and also the valuable

masculine trait of seeming to be utterly absorbed in any woman to whom

he was talking. Gregory had a great deal of manner and a confidential

fluency of style, which gave distinction even to commonplace remarks.

His method did not condescend to nudging when he wished to note a point,

but it fell only so far short of it as he thought social elegance

required. His conversation presently drifted, or more properly speaking,

flowed into a graphic and frank account of his own progress as a banker.

He referred to past successful undertakings, descanted on his present

roseate responsibilities, and hinted sagely at impending operations

which would eclipse in importance any in which he had hitherto been

engaged. In answer to Selma's questions he discoursed alluringly

concerning the methods of the Stock Exchange, and gave her to understand

that for an intelligent and enterprising man speculation was the high

road to fortune. No doubt for fools and for people of mediocre or torpid

abilities it was a dangerous trade; but for keen and bold intellects

what pursuit offered such dazzling opportunities?

Selma listened, abhorrent yet fascinated. It worried her to be told that

what she had been accustomed to regard as gambling should be so quickly

and richly rewarded. Yet the fairy scene around her manifestly confirmed

the prosperous language of her host and left no room for doubt that her

neighbors were making brilliant progress. Apparently, too, this business

of speculation and of vast combinations of railroad and other capital,

the details of which were very vague to her, was, in his opinion, the

most desirable and profitable of callings.

"Do you know," she said, "that I have been taught to believe that to

speculate in stocks is rather dreadful, and that the people of the

country don't approve of it." She spoke smilingly, for the leaven of the

New York manner was working, but she could not refrain from testifying

on behalf of righteousness.

"The people of the country!" exclaimed Gregory, with a smile of

complacent amusement. "My dear Mrs. Littleton, you must not let yourself

be deceived by the Sunday school, Fourth of July, legislative or other

public utterances of the American people. It isn't necessary to shout it

on the house-tops, but I will confide to you that, whatever they may

declaim or publish to the contrary, the American people are at heart a

nation of gamblers. They don't play little horses and other games in

public for francs, like the French, for the law forbids it, but I don't

believe that any one, except we bankers and brokers, realizes how widely

exists the habit of playing the stock-market. Thousands of people, big

and little, sanctimonious and highly respectable, put up their margins

and reap their profits or their losses. Oh no, the country doesn't

approve of it, especially those who lose. I assure you that the letters

which pass through the post-office from the godly, freeborn voters in

the rural districts would tell an eloquent story concerning the wishes

of the people of the country in regard to speculation."

Flossy was rising from table as he finished, so he accompanied the close

of his statement with a sweeping bow which comported with his jaunty

dignity.

"I am afraid you are a wicked man. You ought not to slander the American

people like that," Selma answered, pleased as she spoke at the light

touch which she was able to impart to her speech.

"It's true. Every word of it is true," he said as she passed him. He

added in a low tone--"I would almost even venture to wager a pair of

gloves that at some time or other your husband has had a finger in the

pie."

"Never," retorted Selma.

"What is that Gregory is saying?" interrupted Flossy, putting her arm

inside Selma's. "I can see by his look that he has been plaguing you."

"Yes, he has been trying to shatter my ideals, and now he is trying to

induce me to make an odious bet with him."

"Don't, for you would be certain to lose. Gregory is in great luck

nowadays."

"That is evident, for he has had the good fortune to make the

acquaintance of Mrs. Littleton," said Williams gallantly.

The two men were left alone with their cigars. After these were lighted,

as if he were carrying out his previous train of thought, Gregory

remarked, oracularly, at the end of a puff: "Louisville and Nashville is

certain to sell higher."

Littleton looked blank for a moment. He knew so little of stocks that at

first he did not understand what was meant. Then he said, politely:

"Indeed!"

"It is good for a ten-point rise in my opinion," Williams continued

after another puff. He was of a liberal nature, and was making a present

of this tip to his guest in the same spirit of hospitality as he had

proffered the dinner and the champagne. He was willing to take for

granted that Littleton, as a gentleman, would give him the order in case

he decided to buy, which would add another customer to his list. But his

suggestion was chiefly disinterested.

"I'm afraid I know very little about such matters," Littleton responded

with a smile. "I never owned but ten shares of stock in my life." Then,

by way, perhaps, of showing that he was not indifferent to all the good

things which the occasion afforded, he said, indicating a picture on the

opposite wall: "That is a fine piece of color."

Williams, having discharged his obligations as a host, was willing to

exchange the stock-market as a topic for his own capacity as a lightning

appreciator and purchaser of objects of art.

"Yes," he said, urbanely, "that is a good thing. I saw it in the

shop-window, asked the price and bought it. I bought two other pictures

at the same time. 'I'll take that, and that, and that,' I said, pointing

with my cane. The dealer looked astonished. He was used, I suppose, to

having people come in and look at a picture every day for a fortnight

before deciding. When I like a thing I know it. The three cost me

eighteen hundred dollars, and I paid for them within a week by a turn in

the market."

"You were very fortunate," said Littleton, who wished to seem

sympathetic.

Meanwhile the two wives had returned to the drawing-room arm in arm, and

established themselves on one of those small sofas for two, constructed

so that the sitters are face to face. They had taken a strong fancy to

each other, especially Flossy to Selma, and in the half hour which

followed they made rapid progress toward intimacy. Before they parted

each had agreed to call the other by her Christian name, and Selma had

confided the story of her divorce. Flossy listened with absorbed

interest and murmured at the close:

"Who would have thought it? You look so pure and gentle and refined that

a man must have been a brute to treat you like that. But you are happy

now, thank goodness. You have a husband worthy of you."

Each had a host of things still unsaid when Littleton and Williams

joined them.

"Well, my dear," said Wilbur as they left the house, "that was a sort of

Arabian Nights entertainment for us, wasn't it? A little barbaric, but

handsome and well intentioned. I hope it didn't shock you too much."

"It struck me as very pleasant, Wilbur. I think I am beginning to

understand New York a little better. Every thing costs so much here that

it seems necessary to make money, doesn't it? I don't see exactly how

poor people get along. Do you know, Mr. Williams wished to bet me a pair

of gloves that you buy stocks sometimes."

"He would have lost his bet."

"So I told him at once. But he didn't seem to believe me. I was sure you

never did. He appears to be very successful; but I let him see that I

knew it was gambling. You consider it gambling, don't you?"

"Not quite so bad as that. Some stock-brokers are gamblers; but the

occupation of buying and selling stocks for a commission is a well

recognized and fashionable business."

"Mr. Williams thinks that a great many Americans make money in

stocks--that we are gamblers as a nation."

"I am, in my heart, of the same opinion."

"Oh, Wilbur. I find you are not so good a patriot as I supposed."

"I hate bunkum."

"What is that?"

"Saying things for effect, and professing virtue which we do not

possess."

Selma was silent a moment. "What does champagne cost a bottle?"

"About three dollars and a half."

"Do you really think their house barbaric?"

"It certainly suggests to me heterogeneous barbaric splendor. They

bought their upholstery as they did their pictures, with free-handed

self-confidence. Occasionally they made a brilliant shot, but oftener

they never hit the target at all."

"I think I like brighter colors than you do, Wilbur," mused Selma. "I

used to consider things like that as wrong; but I suppose that was

because our fathers wished Europe to understand that we disapproved of

the luxury of courts and the empty lives of the nobility. But if people

here with purpose have money, it would seem sensible to furnish their

houses prettily."

"Subject always to the crucifying canons of art," laughed Littleton.

"I'm glad you're coming round to my view, Selma. Only I deny the ability

of the free-born American, with the overflowing purse, to indulge his

newly acquired taste for gorgeous effects without professional

assistance."

"I suppose so. I can see that their house is crude, though I do think

that they have some handsome things. It must be interesting to walk

through shops and say: 'I'll take that,' just because it pleases you."

During her first marriage Selma had found the problem of dollars and

cents a simple one. The income of Lewis Babcock was always larger than

the demands made upon it, and though she kept house and was familiar

with the domestic disbursements, questions of expenditure solved

themselves readily. She had never been obliged to ask herself whether

they could afford this or that outlay. Her husband had been only too

eager to give her anything she desired. Consideration of the cost of

things had seemed to her beneath her notice, and as the concern of the

providing man rather than the thoughtful American wife and mother. After

she had been divorced the difficulty in supplying herself readily with

money had been a dismaying incident of her single life. Dismaying

because it had seemed to her a limitation unworthy of her aspirations

and abilities. She had married Littleton because she believed him her

ideal of what a man should be, but she had been glad that he would be

able to support her and exempt her from the necessity of asking what

things cost.

By the end of their first year and a half of marriage, Selma realized

that this necessity still stood, almost like a wolf at the door, between

her and the free development of her desires and aspirations. New York

prices were appalling; the demands of life in New York still more so.

They had started house-keeping on a more elaborate scale than she had

been used to in Benham. As Mrs. Babcock she had kept one hired girl; but

in her new kitchen there were two servants, in deference to the desire

of Littleton, who did not wish her to perform the manual work of the

establishment. Men rarely appreciate in advance to the full extent the

extra cost of married life, and Littleton, though intending to be

prudent, found his bills larger than he had expected. He was able to pay

them promptly and without worry, but he was obliged to make evident to

Selma that the margin over and above their carefully considered expenses

was very small. The task of watching the butcher's book and the

provision list, and thinking twice before making any new outlay, was

something she had not bargained for. All through her early life as a

girl, the question of money had been kept in the background by the

simplicity of her surroundings. In her country town at home they had

kept no servants. A woman relative had done the work, and she had been

free to pursue her mental interests and devote herself to her father.

She had thought then that the existence of domestic servants was an act

of treason against the institutions of the country by those who kept

them. Yet she had accepted, with glee, the hired-girl whom Babcock had

provided, satisfying her own democratic scruples by dubbing her "help,"

and by occasionally offering her a book to read or catechising her as to

her moral needs. There is probably no one in the civilized world more

proud of the possession of a domestic servant than the American woman

who has never had one, and no one more prompt to consign her to the

obscurity of the kitchen after a feeble pretence at making her feel at

home. Selma was delighted to have two instead of one, and, after

beholding Mrs. Williams's trig maids, was eager to see her own arrayed

in white caps and black alpaca dresses. Yet, though she had become keen

to cultivate the New York manner, and had succeeded in reconciling her

conscience to the possession of beautiful things by people with a

purpose, it irked her to feel that she was hampered in living up to her

new-found faith by the bugbear of a lean purse. She had expected, as

Wilbur's wife, to figure quickly and gracefully in the van of New York

intellectual and social progress. Instead, she was one among thousands,

living in a new and undeveloped locality, unrecognized by the people of

whom she read in the newspapers, and without opportunities for

displaying her own individuality and talents. It depressed her to see

the long lines of houses, street after street, and to think that she was

merely a unit, unknown by name, in this great sea of humanity--she,

Selma Littleton, free-born American, conscious of virtue and power. This

must not be; and she divined clearer and clearer every day that it need

not be if she had more money.

It began to be annoying to her that Wilbur's professional progress was

not more rapid. To be sure he had warned her that he could not hope to

reach the front rank at once; that recognition must be gradual; and that

he must needs work slowly in order to do himself justice. She had

accepted this chiefly as a manifestation of modesty, not doubting that

many orders would be forthcoming, especially now that he had the new

stimulus of her love and inspiration. Instead there had been no marked

increase in the number of his commissions; moreover he had been

unsuccessful in two out of three competitions for minor public buildings

for which he had submitted designs. From both the pecuniary and

professional point of view these failures had been a disappointment. He

was in good spirits and obviously happy, and declared that he was doing

as well as he could reasonably expect; yet on his discouraged days he

admitted that the cost of retaining his draughtsmen was a drain on the

profit side of his ledger.

In contrast with this the prosperity of her neighbors the Williamses was

a little hard to bear. The sudden friendship developed into neighborly

intimacy, and she and Flossy saw much of each other, dropping in

familiarly, and often walking and shopping together. The two men were on

sufficiently cordial terms, each being tolerant of the other's

limitations, and seeking to recognize his good points for the sake of

the bond between their wives. The return dinner was duly given, and

Selma, hopeless of imitating the barbaric splendor, sought refuge in the

reflection that the æsthetic and intellectual atmosphere of her table

would atone for the lack of material magnificence, and limited her

efforts to a few minor details such as providing candles with colored

shades and some bonbon dishes. It was plain that Flossy admired her

because she recognized her to be a fine and superior soul, and the

appreciation of this served to make it more easy not to repine at the

difference between their entertainments. Still the constant acquisition

of pretty things by her frank and engaging friend was an ordeal which

only a soul endowed with high, stern democratic faith and purpose could

hope to endure with equanimity. Flossy bought new adornments for her

house and her person with an amiable lavishness which required no

confession to demonstrate that her husband was making money. She made

the confession, though, from time to time with a bubbling pride, never

suspecting that it could harass or tempt her spiritual looking friend.

She prattled artlessly of theatre parties followed by a supper at one of

the fashionable restaurants, and of new acquaintances whom she

entertained, and through whom her social circle was enlarged, without

divining that the sprightly narration was a thorn in the flesh of her

hearer. Selma was capricious in her reception of these reports of

progress. At times she listened to them with grave, cold eyes, which

Flossy took for signals of noble disdain and sought to deprecate by

wooing promises to be less worldly. At others she asked questions with a

feverish, searching curiosity, which stimulated Mrs. Williams's free and

independent style into running commentaries on the current course of

social events and the doings and idiosyncracies of contemporary leaders

of fashion whom she had viewed from afar. One afternoon Selma saw from

her window Flossy and her husband drive jubilantly away in a high cart

with yellow wheels drawn by a sleek cob, and at the same moment she

became definitely aware that her draught from the cup of life had a

bitter taste. Why should these people drive in their own vehicle rather

than she? It seemed clear to her that Wilbur could not be making the

best use of his talents, and that she had both a grievance against him

and a sacred duty to perform in his and her own behalf. Justice and

self-respect demanded that their mutual light should no longer be hid

under a bushel.

CHAPTER V.

Pauline Littleton was now established in her new lodgings. Having been

freed by her brother's marriage from the responsibilities of a

housewife, she was able to concentrate her attention on the work in

which she was interested. Her classes absorbed a large portion of her

time. The remainder was devoted to writing to girls in other cities who

sought her advice in regard to courses of study, and to correspondence,

consultation, and committee meetings with a group of women in New York

and elsewhere, who like herself were engrossed in educational matters.

She was glad to have the additional time thus afforded her for pursuing

her own tastes, and the days seemed too short for what she wished to

accomplish. She occupied two pleasant rooms within easy walking distance

of her brother's house. Her classes took her from home four days in the

week, and two mornings in every seven were spent at her desk with her

books and papers, in the agreeable labor of planning and correspondence.

Naturally one of her chief desires was to be on loving terms with her

brother's wife, and to do everything in her power to add to Selma's

happiness. She summoned her women friends to meet her sister-in-law at

afternoon tea. All of these called on the bride, and some of them

invited her to their houses. They were busy women like Pauline herself,

intent in their several ways on their vocations or avocations. They were

disposed to extend the right hand of fellowship to Mrs. Littleton, whom

they without exception regarded as interesting in appearance, but they

had no leisure for immediate intimacy with her. Having been introduced

to her and having scheduled her in their minds as a new and desirable

acquaintance, they went their ways, trusting chiefly to time to renew

the meeting and to supply the evidence as to the stranger's social

value. Busy people in a large city are obliged to argue that new-comers

should win their spurs, and that great minds, valuable opinions, and

moving social graces are never crushed by inhumanity, but are certain

sooner or later to gain recognition. Therefore after being very cordial

and expressing the hope of seeing more of her in the future, every one

departed and left Selma to her duties and her opportunities as

Littleton's wife, without having the courtesy to indicate that they

considered her a superior woman.

Pauline regarded this behavior on the part of her friends as normal, and

having done her social duty in the afternoon tea line, without a

suspicion that Selma was disappointed by the experience, she gave

herself up to the congenial undertaking of becoming intimate with her

sister-in-law. She ascribed Selma's reserve, and cold, serious manner

partly to shyness due to her new surroundings, and partly to the

spiritual rigor of the puritan conscience and point of view. She had

often been told that individuals of this temperament possessed more

depth of character than more emotional and socially facile people, and

she was prepared to woo. In comparison with Wilbur, Pauline was

accustomed to regard herself as a practical and easy-going soul, but she

was essentially a woman of fine and vigorous moral and mental purpose.

Like many of her associates in active life, however, she had become too

occupied with concrete possibilities to be able to give much thought to

her own soul anatomy, and she was glad to look up to her brother's wife

as a spiritual superior and to recognize that the burden lay on herself

to demonstrate her own worthiness to be admitted to close intimacy on

equal terms. Wilbur was to her a creature of light, and she had no doubt

that his wife was of the same ethereal composition.

Pauline was glad, too, of the opportunity really to know a countrywoman

of a type so different from her own friends. She, like Wilbur, had heard

all her life of these interesting and inspiring beings; intense,

marvellously capable, peerless, free-born creatures panoplied in

chastity and endowed with congenital mental power and bodily charms, who

were able to cook, educate children, control society and write

literature in the course of the day's employment. The newspapers and

popular opinion had given her to understand that these were the true

Americans, and caused her to ask herself whether the circle to which she

herself belonged was not retrograde from a nobler ideal. In what way she

did not precisely understand, except that she and her friends did not

altogether disdain nice social usages and conventional womanly ways.

But, nevertheless, the impression had remained in her mind that she must

be at fault somehow, and it interested her that she would now be able to

understand wherein she was inferior.

She went to see Selma as often as she could, and encouraged her to call

at her lodgings on the mornings when she was at home, expecting that it

might please her sister-in-law to become familiar with the budding

educational enterprises, and that thus a fresh bond of sympathy would be

established between them. Selma presented herself three or four times in

the course of the next three months, and on the first occasion expressed

gratifying appreciation of the cosiness of the new lodgings.

"I almost envy you," she said, "your freedom to live your own life and

do just what you like. It must be delightful away up here where you can

see over the tops of the houses and almost touch the sky, and there is

no one to disturb the current of your thoughts. It must be a glorious

place to work and write. I shall ask you to let me come up here

sometimes when I wish to be alone with my own ideas."

"As often as you like. You shall have a pass key."

"I should think," said Selma, continuing to gaze, with her far away

look, over the vista of roofs which the top story of the apartment house

commanded, "that you would be a great deal happier than if you had

married him."

The pause which ensued caused her to look round, and add jauntily, "I

have heard, you know, about Dr. Page."

A wave of crimson spread over Pauline's face--the crimson of wounded

surprise, which froze Selma's genial intentions to the core.

"I didn't think you'd mind talking about it," she said stiffly.

"There's nothing to talk about. Since you have mentioned it, Dr. Page is

a dear friend of mine, and will always continue to be, I hope."

"Oh, I knew you were nothing but friends now," Selma answered. She felt

wounded in her turn. She had come with the wish to be gracious and

companionable, and it had seemed to her a happy thought to congratulate

Pauline on the wisdom of her decision. She did not like people who were

not ready to be communicative and discuss their intimate concerns.

The episode impaired the success of the first morning visit. At the

next, which occurred a fortnight later, Pauline announced that she had a

piece of interesting news.

"Do you know a Mr. Joel Flagg in Benham?"

"I know who he is," said Selma. "I have met his daughter."

"It seems he has made a fortune in oil and real estate, and is desirous

to build a college for women in memory of his mother, Sarah Wetmore. One

of my friends has just received a letter from a Mrs. Hallett Taylor, to

whom Mr. Flagg appears to have applied for counsel, and who wishes some

of us who are interested in educational matters to serve as an advisory

committee. Probably you know Mrs. Taylor too?"

"Oh yes. I have been at her house, and I served with her on the

committee which awarded Wilbur the church."

"Why, then you are the very person to tell us all about her. I think I

remember now having heard Wilbur mention her name."

"Wilbur fancied her, I believe."

"Your tone rather implies that you did not. You must tell me everything

you know. My friend has corresponded with her before in regard to some

artistic matters, but she has never met her. Her letter suggests a

lady."

"I dare say you would like Mrs. Taylor," said Selma, gravely. "She is

attractive, I suppose, and seemed to know more or less about European

art and pictures, but we in Benham didn't consider her exactly an

American. If you really wish to know my opinion, I think that she was

too exclusive a person to have fine ideas."

"That's a pity."

"If she lived in New York she would like to be one of those society

ladies who live on Fifth Avenue; only she hasn't really any conception

of what true elegance is. Her house there, except for the ornaments she

had bought abroad, was not so well furnished as the one I lived in. I

wonder what she would think if she could look into the drawing-room of

my friend Mrs. Williams."

"I see," said Pauline, though in truth she was puzzled. "I am sorry if

she is a fine lady, but people like that, when they become interested,

are often excellent workers. It is a noble gift of Mr. Flagg's--$500,000

as a foundation fund. He's a good American at all events. Wilbur must

certainly compete for the buildings, and his having first met you there

ought to be an inspiration to him to do fine work."

Selma had been glad of the opportunity to criticise Mrs. Hallett Taylor,

whom she had learned, by the light of her superior social knowledge, to

regard as an unimportant person. Yet she had been conscious of a

righteous impulse in saying what she thought of her. She knew that she

had never liked Mrs. Taylor, and she was not pleased to hear that Mr.

Flagg had selected her from among the women of Benham to superintend the

administration of his splendid gift. Benham had come to seem to her

remote and primitive, yet she preferred, and was in the mood, to think

that it represented the principles which were dear to her, and that she

had been appreciated there far better than in her present sphere. She

was still tied to Benham by correspondence with Mrs. Earle. Selma had

written at once to explain her sudden departure, and letters passed

between them at intervals of a few weeks--letters on Selma's part fluent

with dazzled metropolitan condescension, yet containing every now and

then a stern charge against her new fellow-citizens on the score of

levity and worldliness.

The donation for the establishment of Wetmore College was made shortly

after another institution for the education of women in which Pauline

was interested--Everdean College--had been opened to students. The

number of applicants for admission to Everdean had been larger than the

authorities had anticipated, and Pauline, who had been one of the

promoters and most active workers in raising funds for and supervising

the construction of this labor of love, was jubilant over the outlook,

and busy in regard to a variety of new matters presented for solution by

the suddenly evolved needs of the situation. Among these was the

acquisition of two or three new women instructors; and it occurred to

Pauline at once that Selma might know of some desirable candidate. Selma

appeared to manifest but little interest in this inquiry at the time,

but a few months subsequent to their conversation in regard to Mrs.

Taylor she presented herself at Pauline's rooms one morning with the

announcement that she had found some one. Pauline, who was busy at her

desk, asked permission to finish a letter before listening; so there was

silence for a few minutes, and Selma, who wore a new costume of a more

fashionable guise than her last, reflected while she waited that the

details of such work as occupied her sister-in-law must be tedious.

Indeed, she had begun to entertain of late a sort of contempt for the

deliberate, delving processes of the Littletons. She was inclined to ask

herself if Wilbur and Pauline were not both plodders. Her own idea of

doing things was to do them quickly and brilliantly, arriving at

conclusions, as became an American, with prompt energy and despatch. It

seemed to her that Wilbur, in his work, was slow and elaborate, disposed

to hesitate and refine instead of producing boldly and immediately. And

his sister, with her studies and letter-writing, suggested the same

wearisome tendency. Why should not Wilbur, in his line, act with the

confident enterprise and capacity to produce immediate, ostensible

results which their neighbor, Gregory Williams, displayed? As for

Pauline, of course she had not Wilbur's talent and could not, perhaps,

be expected to shine conspicuously, but surely she might make more of

herself if only she would cease to spend so much time in details and

cogitation, with nothing tangible to show for her labor. Selma

remembered her own experience as a small school teacher, and her

thankfulness at her escape from a petty task unworthy of her

capabilities, and she smiled scornfully to herself, as she sat waiting,

at what she regarded Pauline's willingness to spend her energies in such

inconspicuous, self-effacing work. Indeed, when Pauline had finished her

letter and announced that she was now entirely at leisure, Selma felt

impelled to remark:

"I should think, Pauline, that you would give a course of lectures on

education. We should be glad to have them at our house, and your friends

ought to be able to dispose of a great many tickets." Such a thing had

never occurred to Selma until this moment, but it seemed to her, as she

heard her own words, a brilliant suggestion, both as a step forward for

Pauline and a social opportunity for herself.

"On education? My dear Selma, you have no idea of the depths of my

ignorance. Education is an enormous subject, and I am just beginning to

realize how little I know concerning it. People have talked and written

about education enough. What we need and what some of us are trying to

do is to study statistics and observe results. I am very much obliged to

you, but I should only make myself a laughing-stock."

"I don't think you would. You have spent a great deal of time in

learning about education, and you must have interesting things to say.

You are too modest and--don't you think it may be that you are not quite

enterprising enough? A course of lectures would call public attention to

you, and you would get ahead faster, perhaps. I think that you and

Wilbur are both inclined to hide your light under a bushel. It seems to

me that one can be conscientious and live up to one's ideals without

neglecting one's opportunities."

"The difficulty is," said Pauline, with a laugh, "that I shouldn't

regard it as an opportunity, and I am sure it wouldn't help me to get

ahead, as you call it, with the people I desire to impress, to give

afternoon tea or women-club lectures. I don't know enough to lecture

effectively. As to enterprise, I am busy from morning until night. What

more can a woman do? You mustn't hurry Wilbur, Selma. All he needs is

time to let the world see his light."

"Very likely. Of course, if you don't consider that you know enough

there is nothing to be said. I thought of it because I used to lecture

in Benham, at the Benham Institute, and I am sure it helped me to get

ahead. I used to think a great deal about educational matters, and

perhaps I will set you the example by giving some lectures myself."

"That would be very interesting. If a person has new ideas and has

confidence in them, it is natural to wish to let the world hear them."

Pauline spoke amiably, but she was disposed to regard her sister with

more critical eyes. She felt no annoyance at the patronizing tone toward

herself, but the reference to Wilbur made her blood rebel. Still she

could not bear to harbor distrust against that grave face with its

delicate beauty and spiritualized air, which was becomingly accommodated

to metropolitan conditions by a more festive bonnet than any which she

herself owned. Yet she noticed that the thin lips had an expression of

discontent, and she wondered why.

Recurring to the errand on which she had come, Selma explained that she

had just received a letter from Benham--from her friend, Mrs. Margaret

Rodney Earle, an authoress and a promulgator of advanced and original

ideas in respect to the cause of womanhood, asking if she happened to

know of an opening for a gifted young lady in any branch of intellectual

work.

"I thought at once of Everdean," said Selma, "and have come to give you

the opportunity of securing her."

Pauline expressed her thanks cordially, and inquired if Mrs. Earle had

referred to the candidate's experience or special fitness for the duties

of the position.

"She writes that she is very clever and gifted. I did not bring the

letter with me, but I think Mrs. Earle's language was that Miss Bailey

will perform brilliantly any duties which may be intrusted to her."

"That is rather general," said Pauline. "I am sorry that she didn't

specify what Miss Bailey's education has been, and whether she has

taught elsewhere."

"Mrs. Earle wouldn't have recommended her if she hadn't felt sure that

she was well educated. I remember seeing her at the Benham Institute on

one of the last occasions when I was present. She delivered a whistling

solo which every one thought clever and melodious."

"I dare say she is just the person we are looking for," said Pauline,

leniently. "It happens that Mrs. Grainger--my friend to whom Mrs. Taylor

wrote concerning Mr. Flagg's gift--is to make Mrs. Taylor a visit at

Benham next week, in order to consider the steps to be taken in regard

to Wetmore College. She and Miss Bailey can arrange to meet, and that

will save Miss Bailey the expense of a journey to New York, at the

possible risk of disappointment."

"I thought," said Selma, "that you would consider yourselves fortunate

to secure her services."

"I dare say we shall be very fortunate, Selma. But we cannot engage her

without seeing her and testing her qualifications."

Selma made no further demur at the delay, but she was obviously

surprised and piqued that her offer should be treated in this elaborate

fashion. She was obliged to acknowledge to herself that she could not

reasonably expect Pauline to make a definite decision without further

inquiry, but she had expected to be able to report to Mrs. Earle that

the matter was as good as settled--that, if Miss Bailey would give a few

particulars as to her accomplishments, the position would be hers.

Surely she and Mrs. Earle were qualified to choose a school-teacher.

Here was another instance of the Littleton tendency to waste time on

unimportant details. She reasoned that a woman with more wide-awake

perceptions would have recognized the opportunity as unusual, and would

have snapped up Miss Bailey on the spot.

The sequel was more serious. Neither Selma nor Pauline spoke of the

matter for a month. Then it was broached by Pauline, who wrote a few

lines to the effect that she was sorry to report that the authorities of

Everdean, after investigation, had concluded not to engage the services

of Miss Bailey as instructor. When Selma read the note her cheeks burned

with resentment. She regarded the decision as an affront. Pauline dined

with them on the evening of that day, and at table Selma was cold and

formal. When the two women were alone, Selma said at once, with an

attempt at calmness:

"What fault do you find with my candidate?"

"I think it possible that she might have been satisfactory from the mere

point of scholarship," judicially answered Pauline, who did not realize

in the least that her sister-in-law was offended, "though Mrs. Grainger

stopped short of close inquiry on that score, for the reason that Miss

Bailey failed to satisfy our requirements in another respect. I don't

wish to imply by what I am going to say anything against her character,

or her capacity for usefulness as a teacher under certain conditions,

but I confide to you frankly, Selma, that we make it an absolute

condition in the choice of instructors for our students that they should

be first of all lady-like in thought and speech, and here it was that

she fell short. Of course I have never seen Miss Bailey, but Mrs.

Grainger reported that she was--er--impossible."

"You mean that your friend does not consider her a lady? She isn't a

society lady, but I did not suppose an American girl would be refused a

position as a teacher for such a reason as that."

"A lady is a lady, whether she is what you term a society lady or not.

Mrs. Grainger told us that Miss Bailey's appearance and manners did not

suggest the womanly refinement which we deem indispensable in those who

are to teach our college students. Five years ago only scholarship and

cleverness were demanded, but experience has taught the educators of

women that this was a mistake."

"I presume," said Selma, with dramatic scorn, "that Mrs. Hallett Taylor

disapproved of her. I thought there would be some such outcome when I

heard that she was to be consulted."

"Mrs. Taylor's name was not mentioned," answered Pauline, in

astonishment. "I had no idea, Selma, that you regarded this as a

personal matter. You told me that you had seen Miss Bailey but once."

"I am interested in her because--because I do not like to see a cruel

wrong done. You do not understand her. You allow a prejudice, a

class-prejudice, to interfere with her career and the opportunity to

display her abilities. You should have trusted Mrs. Earle, Pauline, She

is my friend, and she recommended Miss Bailey because she believed in

her. It is a reflection on me and my friends to intimate that she is not

a lady."

She bent forward from the sofa with her hands clasped and her lips

tightly compressed. For a moment she gazed angrily at the bewildered

Pauline, then, as though she had suddenly bethought her of her New York

manner, she drew herself up and said with a forced laugh--"If the reason

you give were not so ridiculous, I should be seriously offended."

"Offended! Offended with Pauline," exclaimed Littleton, who entered the

room at the moment. "It cannot be that my two guardian angels have had a

falling out." He looked from one to the other brightly as if it were

really a joke.

"It is nothing," said Selma.

"It seems," said Pauline with fervor, "that I have unintentionally hurt

Selma's feelings. It is the last thing in the world I wish to do, and I

trust that when she thinks the matter over she will realize that I am

innocent. I am very, very sorry."

CHAPTER VI.

"Why don't you follow the advice of Mr. Williams and buy some shares of

stock?" asked Selma lightly, yet coaxingly, of her husband one day in

the third year of their marriage. The Williamses were dining with them

at the time, and a statement by Gregory, not altogether without motive,

as to the profits made by several people who had taken his advice,

called forth the question. He and his wife were amiably inclined toward

the Littletons, and were proud of the acquaintance. Among their other

friends they boasted of the delightful excursions into the literary

circle which the intimacy afforded them. They both would have been

pleased to see their neighbors more amply provided with money, and

Gregory, partly at the instance of Flossy, partly from sheer good-humor

in order to give a deserving but impractical fellow a chance to better

himself, threw out tips from time to time--crumbs from the rich man's

table, but bestowed in a friendly spirit. Whenever they were let fall,

Selma would look at Wilbur hoping for a sign of interest, but hitherto

they had evoked merely a smile of refusal or had been utterly ignored.

Her own question had been put on several occasions, both in the company

of the tempter and in the privacy of the domestic hearth, and both in

the gayly suggestive and the pensively argumentative key. Why might they

not, by means of a clever purchase in the stock market, occasionally

procure some of the agreeable extra pleasures of life--provide the ready

money for theatres, a larger wardrobe, trips from home, or a modest

equipage? Why not take advantage of the friendly advice given? Mr.

Williams had made clear that the purchase of stocks on a sufficient

margin was no more reprehensible as a moral proposition than the

purchase of cargoes of sugar, cotton, coffee or tea against which

merchants borrowed money at the bank. In neither instance did the

purchaser own outright what he sought to sell at an advance; merely in

one case it was shares, in the other merchandise. Of course it was

foolish for inexperienced country folk with small means to dabble in

stocks and bonds, but why should not city people who were clever and had

clever friends in the business eke out the cost of living by shrewd

investments? In an old-fashioned sense it might be considered gambling;

but, if it were true, as Wilbur and Mr. Williams both maintained, that

the American people were addicted to speculation, was not the existence

of the habit strong evidence that the prejudice against it must be

ill-founded? The logical and the patriotic conclusion must needs be that

business methods had changed, and that the American nation had been

clever enough to substitute dealings in shares of stock, and in

contracts relating to cereals and merchandise for the methods of their

grandfathers who delivered the properties in bulk.

To this condensation of Gregory's glib sophistries on the lips of his

wife, Wilbur had seemed to turn a deaf ear. It did not occur to him, at

first, that Selma was seriously in earnest. He regarded her suggestions

of neglected opportunities, which were often whimsically uttered, as

more than half playful--a sort of make-believe envy of the meteoric

progress in magnificence of their friendly neighbors. He was even glad

that she should show herself appreciative of the merits of civilized

comfort, for he had been afraid lest her ascetic scruples would lead her

judgments too far in the opposite direction. He welcomed them and

encouraged her small schemes to make the establishment more festive and

stylish in appearance, in modest imitation of the splendor next door.

But constant and more sombre reference to the growing fortunes of the

Williamses presently attracted his attention and made him more

observant. His income sufficed to pay the ordinary expenses of quiet

domestic life, and to leave a small margin for carefully, considered

amusements, but he reflected that if Selma were yearning for greater

luxury, he could not afford at present to increase materially her

allowance. It grieved him as a proud man to think that the woman he

loved should lack any thing she desired, and without a thought of

distrust he applied himself more strenuously to his work, hoping that

the sum of his commissions would enable him presently to gratify some of

her hankerings--such, for instance, as the possession of a horse and

vehicle. Selma had several times alluded with a sigh to the satisfaction

there must be in driving in the new park. Babcock had kept a horse, and

the Williamses now drove past the windows daily in a phaeton drawn by

two iron gray, champing steeds. He said to himself that he could

scarcely blame Selma if she coveted now and then Flossy's fine

possessions, and the thought that she was not altogether happy in

consequence of his failure to earn more kept recurring to his mind and

worried him. No children had been born to them, and he pictured with

growing concern his wife lonely at home on this account, yet without

extra income to make purchases which might enable her to forget at times

that there was no baby in the house. Flossy had two children, a boy and

a girl, two gorgeously bedizened little beings who were trundled along

the sidewalk in a black, highly varnished baby-wagon which was reputed

by the dealer who sold it to Gregory to have belonged to an English

nobleman. Wilbur more than once detected Selma looking at the babies

with a wistful glance. She was really admiring their clothes, yet the

thought of how prettily she would have been able to dress a baby of her

own was at times so pathetic as to bring tears to her eyes, and cause

her to deplore her own lack of children as a misfortune.

As the weeks slipped away and Wilbur realized that, though he was

gaining ground in his profession, more liberal expenditures were still

out of the question, he reached a frame of mind which made him yearn for

a means of relief. So it happened that, when Selma asked him once more

why he did not follow the advice proffered and buy some stocks, he

replied by smiling at Gregory and inquiring what he should buy. During

the dinner, which had been pleasant, Wilbur's eye had been attracted by

the brilliancy of some new jewels which Mrs. Williams wore, and he had

been conscious of the wish that he were able to make a present like that

to his own wife.

"You take my breath away. Wonders will never cease," responded Gregory,

while both the women clapped their hands. "But you musn't buy anything;

you must sell," he continued. "VanHorne and I both came to the

conclusion to-day that it is time for a turn on the short side of the

market. When the public are crazy and will buy any thing, then is the

time to let them have all they wish."

"What, then, am I to sell?" asked Wilbur "I am a complete lamb, you

know." He was already sorry that he had consented, but Selma's manifest

interest restrained him from turning the matter into a joke.

"Leave it all to me," said Williams with a magnificent gesture.

"But you will need some money from me."

"Not at all. If you would feel better, you may send me a check or a bond

for a thousand dollars. But it isn't necessary in your case."

"I will bring you in a bond to-morrow--one of the very few I own."

Wilbur having delivered his security the first thing in the morning,

heard nothing further from Williams for a fortnight. One day he received

a formal account of certain transactions executed by Williams and

VanHorne for Wilbur Littleton, Esq., and a check for two thousand

dollars. The flush which rose to his cheeks was induced partly by

pleasure, partly by shame. His inclination, as he reflected, was to

return the check, but he recognized presently that this was a foolish

idea, and that the only thing to be done was to deposit it. He wrote a

grateful note of acknowledgment to Williams, and then gave himself up to

the agreeable occupation of thinking what he should buy for Selma with

the money. He decided not to tell her of his good fortune, but to treat

her to a surprise. His first fancy was in favor of jewelry--some

necklace or lustrous ornament for the hair, which would charm the

feminine eye and might make Selma even more beautiful than she already

appeared in evening dress. His choice settled on a horse and buggy as

more genuinely useful. To be sure there was the feed of the animal to be

considered; but he would be able to reserve sufficient money to cover

this cost for some months, and by the end of that time he would perhaps

be able to afford the outlay from his income. Horse-flesh and vehicles

were not in his line, but he succeeded by investigation in procuring a

modest equipment for seven hundred dollars, which left him three hundred

for fodder, and the other thousand. This he had decided to hand over to

Selma as pin money. It was for her sake that he had consented to

speculate, and it seemed meet that she should have the satisfaction of

spending it.

He carried out his surprise by appearing one afternoon before the door

and inviting her to drive. Selma became radiant at the news that the

horse and buggy were hers, though, when the particulars of the purchase

were disclosed she said to herself that she wished Wilbur had allowed

her to choose the vehicle. She would have preferred one more stylish and

less domestic looking. She flung her arms about his neck and gave him a

kiss on their return to show her satisfaction.

"You see how easy it is, Wilbur," she said as she surveyed the check

which he had handed her.

"It was not I, it was Williams."

"No, but you could, if you would only think so. I have the greatest

confidence in you, dear," she added, looking eagerly into his face; "but

don't you sometimes go out of your way to avoid what is enterprising

and--er--modern, just because it is modern?"

"Gambling is as old as the hills, Selma."

"Yes. And if this were gambling--the sort of gambling you mean, do you

think I would allow you to do it? Do you think the American people would

tolerate it for a minute?" she asked triumphantly.

"It seems to me that your admiration for the American people sometimes

makes you a little weak in your logic," he answered with good-humor. He

was so pleased by Selma's gratification that he was disposed to exorcise

his scruples.

"I have always told you that I was more of a patriot than you, Wilbur."

The bond had not been returned by Williams at the time he sent the

money, and some fortnight later--only a few days in fact after this

drive, Littleton received another cheque for $500 and a request that he

call at the office.

"I thought you would like to see the instruments of torture at work--the

process of lamb-shearing in active operation," Williams explained as he

shook hands and waved him into his private room. After a few easy

remarks on the methods of doing business the broker continued, "I

flatter myself that for so small an investment and so short a time, I

have done tolerably well for you."

"I scarcely know how to express my thanks and my admiration for your

skill. Indeed I feel rather awkwardly about--"

"That's all right, my dear fellow. It's my business; I get my

commission. Still I admit friendly regard--and this is why I suggested

your dropping in--by introducing the personal equation, makes one

nervous. If instead of closing out your account, I had in each instance

held on, you would have made more money. I was glad to take this

responsibility at first because you were a neophyte at the business, but

I think it will be more satisfactory both for you and for me that in

future transactions you should give me the word when to reap the profit.

Of course you shall have all the information which I possess and my

advice will be at your command, but where a man's money is concerned his

own head is apt to be the wisest counsellor. Now I took the liberty

yesterday of selling for you two hundred shares of Reading railroad. You

can cover to-day at a profit of one point--about $200. I do not urge it.

On the contrary I believe that the market, barring occasional rallies,

is still on the downward track. I wish, however, to put you in a

position where you can, if you desire, take advantage of the full

opportunities of the financial situation and save myself from feeling

that I have robbed you by my friendly caution."

"In other words you don't wish to speculate with my money," said

Littleton. "You wish me to paddle my own canoe."

Williams' real desire was to escape the bother of personally

superintending an insignificant account. His circumlocution was a suave

way of stating that he had done all that could be expected of a neighbor

and benevolent friend, and that the ordinary relation of broker and

customer ought now be established. As for Littleton, he perceived that

he was not free to retire from the market on the profits of friendly

regard unless he was prepared to fly in the face of advice and buy in

his two hundred Reading railroad. To do so would be pusillanimous;

moreover to retire and abstain from further dealings would make

Williams' two cheques more obviously a charitable donation, and the

thought of them was becoming galling. Above all there were Selma's

feelings to be considered. The possession of the means to afford her

happiness was already a sweet argument in favor of further experiments.

And so it happened that during the next nine months Littleton became a

frequenter of the office of Williams & VanHorne. He was not among those

who hung over the tape and were to be seen there daily; but he found

himself attracted as the needle by the magnet to look in once or twice a

week to ascertain the state of the market. His ventures continued to be

small, and were conducted under the ken of Williams, and though the

occasional rallies referred to by the broker harassed Wilbur's spirit

when they occurred, the policy of selling short proved reasonably

remunerative in the course of half a dozen separate speculations. In

round figures he added another $2,500 to that which Williams had made

for him. The process kept him on pins and needles, and led him to scan

the list of stock quotations before reading anything else in the

newspaper. Selma was delighted at his success, and though he chose not

to tell her the details of his dealings, she watched him furtively,

followed the general tendency of the market, and when she perceived that

he was in good spirits, satisfied sufficiently her curiosity by

questions.

On the strength of this addition to their pecuniary resources, Selma

branched out into sundry mild extravagances. She augmented her wardrobe,

engaged an additional house-maid and a more expensive cook, and

entertained with greater freedom and elaboration. She was fond of going

to the theatre and supping afterward at some fashionable restaurant

where she could show her new plumage and be a part of the gay,

chattering rout at the tables consuming soft-shelled crabs and

champagne. She was gradually increasing her acquaintance, chiefly among

the friends of the Williamses, people who were fond of display and

luxury and who seemed to have plenty of money. In this connection she

was glad to avail herself of the reputation of belonging to the literary

circle, and she conceived the plan of mingling these new associates with

Wilbur's former set--to her thinking a delightful scheme, which she

inaugurated by means of a dinner party. She included among the guests

Pauline and Dr. Page, and considered that she had acted gracefully in

putting them side by side at table, thus sacrificing the theory of her

entertainment to her feminine interest in romance. In her opinion it was

more than Pauline deserved, and she was proud of her generosity. There

were fourteen in the company, and after dinner they were regaled by a

young woman who had brought a letter of introduction to Selma from Mrs.

Earle, who read from her own poems. The dinner was given for her, and

her seat was between Wilbur and Mr. Dennison, the magazine editor. Selma

had attended a dinner-party at the Williamses a fortnight earlier where

there had been music in the drawing-room by a ballad-singer at a cost of

$100 (so Flossy had told her in confidence). A poetess reading from her

own works, a guest and not invited in after dinner on a business

footing, appealed to Selma as more American, and less expensive. She, in

her secret soul, would have liked to recite herself, but she feared to

run the gauntlet of the New York manner. The verses were intense in

character and were delivered by the young woman with a hollow-eyed

fervor which, as one of the non-literary wing of the company stated,

made one creep and weep alternately. There was no doubt that the

entertainment was novel and acceptable to the commercial element, and to

Selma it seemed a delightful reminder of the Benham Institute. She was

curious to know what Mr. Dennison thought, though she said to herself

that she did not really care. She felt that anything free and earnest in

the literary line was likely to be frowned on by the coterie to which

her husband's people belonged. Nevertheless she seized an opportunity to

ask the editor if he did not think the verses remarkable.

"They are certainly remarkable," answered Mr. Dennison. After a brief

pause he added, "Being a strictly truthful person, Mrs. Littleton, I do

not wish to seek shelter behind the rampart which your word 'remarkable'

affords. A dinner may be remarkable--remarkably good, like the one I

have just eaten, or remarkably bad. Some editors would have replied to

you as I have done, and yet been capable of a mental reservation

unflattering to the ambitious young woman to whom we have been

listening. But without wishing to express an opinion, let me remind you

that poetry, like point-lace, needs close scrutiny before its merits can

be defined. I thought I recognized some ancient and well-worn flowers of

speech, but my editorial ear and eye may have been deceived. She has

beautiful hair at all events."

"'Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare;

And beauty draws us by a single hair.'

"You cynical personage! I only hope she may prove a genius and that you

will realize when too late that you might have discovered her," said

Selma, looking into his face brightly with a knowing smile and tapping

her fan against her hand. She was in a gay humor at the success of the

entertainment, despite the non-committal attitude of this censor, and

pleased at the appositeness of her quotation. Her figure had filled out

since her marriage. She was almost plump and she wore a single short fat

curl pendent behind her ear.

A few months subsequent to this dinner party Flossy announced one day

that Mr. Silas S. Parsons, whom Selma had seen with the Williamses at

the theatre nearly three years before, had come to live in New York with

his wife and daughter. Flossy referred to him eagerly as one of her

husband's most valuable customers, a shrewd, sensible, Western business

man, who had made money in patent machinery and was superbly rich. He

had gone temporarily to a hotel, but he was intending to build a large

house on Fifth Avenue near the park. Selma heard this announcement with

keen interest, asking herself at once why Wilbur should not be the

architect. Why not, indeed? She promptly reasoned that here was her

chance to aid her husband; that he, if left to his own devices, would do

nothing to attract the magnate's attention, and that it behooved her, as

an American wife and a wide-awake, modern woman, to let Mr. Parsons know

his qualifications, and to prepossess him in Wilbur's favor by her own

attractions. The idea appealed to her exceedingly. She had been hoping

that some opportunity to take an active part in the furtherance of

Wilbur's career would present itself, for she felt instinctively that

with her co-operation he would make more rapid progress. Here was

exactly the occasion longed for. She saw in her mind's eye Mr. Parsons's

completed mansion, stately and beautiful, the admired precursor of a

host of important edifices--a revolutionizing monument in contemporary

architecture. Wilbur would become the fashion, and his professional

success be assured, thanks to the prompt ability of his wife to take

advantage of circumstances. So she would prove herself a veritable

helpmate, and the bond of marital sympathy would be strengthened and

refreshed.

To begin with, Selma hinted to Mrs. Williams that Mr. Parsons might do

worse than employ Wilbur to design his house. Flossy accepted the

suggestion with enthusiasm and promised her support, adding that Mr.

Parsons was a person of sudden and strong fancies, and that if he were

to take a fancy to Wilbur, the desired result would be apt to follow.

Selma quickly decided that Mr. Parsons must be made to like her, for she

feared lest Wilbur's quiet, undemonstrative manner would fail to attract

him. Evidently he admired the self-confidence and manly assertion of

Gregory Williams, and would be liable to regard Wilbur as lacking in

force and enterprise. The reflection that she would thus be working--as

necessarily she would--for the eternal progress of truth, added a

pleasant savor to the undertaking, for it was clear that her husband was

an ideal architect for the purpose, and she would be doing a true

service to Mr. Parsons in convincing him that this was so. Altogether

her soul was in an agreeable flutter, notwithstanding that her neighbor

Flossy had recently received invitations to two or three large balls,

and been referred to in the society columns of the newspapers as the

fascinating and clever wife of the rising banker Gregory Williams.

The Littletons were promptly given by Flossy the opportunity to make the

acquaintance of the Parsons family. Mr. Parsons was a ponderous man of

over sixty, with a solid, rotund, grave face and a chin whisker. He was

absorbed in financial interests, though he had retired from active

business, and had come to New York to live chiefly to please his wife

and daughter. Mrs. Parsons, who was somewhat her husband's junior, was a

devotee, or more correctly, a debauchee, of hotel life. Since the time

when they had become exceedingly rich, about ten years before, they had

made a grand tour of the hotels of this country and Europe. By so doing

Mrs. Parsons and her daughter felt that they became a part of the social

life of the cities which they visited. Although they had been used to

plain, if not slovenly, house-keeping before the money came, both the

wife and daughter had evolved into connoisseurs of modish and luxurious

hotel apparatus and garniture. They had learned to revel in many

courses, radiantly upholstered parlors, and a close acquaintance with

the hotel register. Society for them, wherever they went, meant finding

out the names of the other guests and dressing for them, being on easy

terms with the head waiter and elevator boy, visiting the theatres, and

keeping up a round of shopping in pursuit of articles of apparel. They

wore rich garments and considerable jewelry, and plastered

themselves--especially the daughter--with bunches of violets or roses

self-bestowed. Mrs. Parsons was partial to perfume, and they both were

addicted to the free consumption of assorted bonbons. To be sure they

had made some acquaintances in the course of their peregrinations, but

one reason for moving to New York was that Mrs. Parsons had come to the

melancholy conclusion that neither the princes of Europe nor the sons of

American leading citizens were paying that attention to her daughter

which the young lady's charms seemed to her to merit. If living lavishly

in hotels and seeing everybody right and left were not the high-road to

elegant existence and hence to a brilliant match for Lucretia, Mrs.

Parsons was ready to try the effect of a house on Fifth Avenue, though

she preferred the comforts of her present mode of life. Still one

advantage of a stable home would be that Mr. Parsons could be constantly

with them, instead of an occasional and intermittent visitor

communicated with more frequently by electricity than by word of mouth.

While Mr. Parsons was selecting the land, she and Lucretia had abandoned

themselves to an orgy of shopping, and with an eye to the new house,

their rooms at the hotel were already littered with gorgeous fabrics,

patterns of wall-paper and pieces of pottery.

Selma's facility in the New York manner was practised on Silas Parsons

with flattering success. He was captivated by her--more so than by

Flossy, who amused him as a flibbertigibbet, but who seemed to him to

lack the serious cast of character which he felt that he discerned

beneath the sprightliness of this new charmer. Mr. Parsons was what he

called a "stickler" for the dignity of a serious demeanor. He liked to

laugh at the theatre, but mistrusted a daily point of view which savored

of buffoonery. He was fond of saying that more than one public man in

the United States had come to grief politically from being a joker, and

that the American people could not endure flippancy in their

representatives. He liked to tell and listen to humorous stories in the

security of a smoking-room, but in his opinion it behooved a citizen to

maintain a dignified bearing before the world. Like other self-made men

who had come to New York--like Selma herself--he had shrunk from and

deplored at first the lighter tone of casual speech. Still he had grown

used to it, and had even come to depend on it as an amusement. But he

felt that in the case of Selma there was a basis of ethical earnestness,

appropriate to woman, beneath her chatty flow of small talk. That she

was comparatively a new-comer accounted partially for this impression,

but it was mainly due to the fact that she still reverted after her

sallies of pleasantry to a grave method of deportment.

Selma's chief hospitality toward the Parsonses took the form of a

theatre party, which included a supper at Delmonico's after the play. It

was an expensive kind of entertainment, which she felt obliged to

justify to Wilbur by the assertion that the Williamses had been so civil

she considered it would be only decent to show attention to their

friends. She was unwilling to disclose her secret, lest the knowledge of

it might make Wilbur offish and so embarrass her efforts. There were

eight in the party, and the affair seemed to Selma to go off admirably.

She was enthralled by the idea of using her own personal magnetism to

promote her husband's business. She felt that it was just the sort of

thing she would like and was fitted for, and that here was an

opportunity for her individuality to display itself. She devoted herself

with engaging assiduity to Mr. Parsons, pleased during the active

process of propitiation by the sub-consciousness that her table was one

of the centres of interest in the large restaurant. She had dressed

herself with formal care, and nothing in the way of compliment could

have gratified her more than the remark which Mr. Parsons made, as he

regarded her appreciatively, when he had finished his supper, that she

suggested his idea of Columbia. Selma glowed with satisfaction. The

comparison struck her as apt and appropriate, and she replied with a

proud erection of her head, which imparted to her features their

transcendental look, and caused her short curl to joggle tremulously, "I

suppose I see what you mean, Mr. Parsons."

CHAPTER VII.

One evening, four or five days after this supper party, Wilbur laid down

the book which he was pretending to read, and said, "Selma, I have come

to the conclusion that I must give up dabbling in stocks. I am being

injured by it--not financially, for, as you know, I have made a few

thousand dollars--but morally."

"I thought you were convinced that it was not immoral," answered Selma,

in a constrained voice.

"I do not refer to whether speculation is justifiable in itself, but to

its effect on me as an individual--its distraction to my mind and

consequent interference with my professional work."

"Oh."

"For a year now, the greater portion of the time, I have had some

interest in the market, and as a consequence, have felt impelled to look

in on Williams and VanHorne every day--sometimes oftener. I am unable to

dismiss my speculations from my thoughts. I find myself wondering what

has happened to the stocks I am carrying, and I am satisfied that the

practice is thoroughly demoralizing to my self-respect and to my

progress. I am going to give it up."

"I suppose you must give it up if it affects you like that," responded

Selma drily. "I don't see exactly why it should."

"It may seem foolish to you, but I am unable to put my ventures out of

my mind. The consequences of loss would be so serious to me that I

suppose my imagination becomes unduly active and apprehensive. Also, I

find myself eager to secure large gains. I must renounce Aladdin's lamp

from this day forth, my dear, and trust to my legitimate business for my

income."

Selma folded her hands and looked grave. "It's disappointing that you

feel so just when we are beginning to get on, Wilbur."

"I have realized, Selma, that you have enjoyed and--er--been made

happier by the freedom to spend which this extra money has afforded you.

But I know, when you reflect, you will understand that I am right, and

that it would be disastrous to both of us if I were to continue to do

what I believe demoralizing. It is a mortification to me to ask you to

retrench, but I said to myself that Selma would be the first to insist

on our doing so if she knew my feelings, and it makes me happy to be

sure of your approval."

Littleton spoke with a tender plaintiveness which betrayed that in his

secret soul he was less confident on this score than his words declared,

or than he himself supposed. "Of course," he added, earnestly, "I shall

hope that it will not make much difference. My business is slowly, but

steadily, improving, and I am doing more this year than last. I am

bending all my energies on my plans for Wetmore College. If I win in

that competition, I shall make a reputation and a respectable

commission."

"You have been on those plans three months."

"Yes, and shall not finish them for another two. I wish to do my best

work, and I shall be glad not to hear quotations of the ticker in my

brain. You desire me to be thorough, surely, Selma _mia_?"

"Oh, yes. Only, you know people very often spoil things by pottering

over them."

"I never potter. I reject because I am dissatisfied rather than offer a

design which does not please me, but I do not waste my time."

"Call it over-conscientiousness then. I wish you to do your best work,

of course, but one can't expect to do best work invariably. Everything

was going so nicely that you must perceive it will be inconvenient to

have to economize as we did before."

Littleton looked at his wife with a glance of loving distress. "You

wouldn't really care a button. I know you wouldn't, Selma," he said,

stoutly.

"Of course not, if it were necessary," she answered. "Only I don't wish

to do so unless it is necessary. I am not controverting your decision

about the stocks, though I think your imagination, as you say, is to

blame. I would rather cut my right hand off than persuade you to act

contrary to your conscience. But it _is_ inconvenient, Wilbur, you must

admit, to give up the things we have become accustomed to."

"We shall be able to keep the horse. I am certain of that."

"I wish you to see my side of it. Say that you do," she said, with

shrill intensity.

"It is because I do see it that I am troubled, Selma. For myself I am no

happier now than I was when we lived more simply. I can't believe that

you will really find it a hardship to deny yourself such extravagances

as our theatre party last week. Being a man," he added, after a pause,

"I suppose I may not appreciate how important and seductive some of

these social observances appear to a woman, and heaven knows my chief

wish in life is to do everything in my power to make you happy. You must

be aware of that, dearest. I delight to work hard for your sake. But it

seems almost ludicrous to be talking of social interests to you, of all

women. Why, at the time we were married, I feared that you would cut

yourself off from reasonable pleasures on account of your dislike of

everything frivolous. I remember I encouraged you not to take too

ascetic a view of such things. So I am bound to believe that your side

is my side--that we both will find true happiness in not attempting to

compete with people whose tastes are not our tastes, and whose aims are

not our aims."

"Then you think I have deteriorated," she said, with a superior smile.

"I think of you as the most conscientious woman I ever met. It was only

natural that you should be spurred by our neighbors, the Williamses, to

make a better showing socially before the world. I have been glad to see

you emulous up to a certain point. You must realize though, that we

cannot keep pace with them, even if we so desire. Already they are in

the public eye. He appears to have made considerable money, and his

views on the stock-market are given prominence by the press. He and his

wife are beginning to be recognized by people who were ignorant of their

existence four years ago. You told me last week that Mrs. Williams had

attended one of the fashionable balls, and I saw in yesterday's

newspaper a description of her toilette at another. It begins to look as

if, in a few years more, their ambition might be realized, and the doors

of the Morton Price mansion open wide to admit this clever country

cousin to the earthly paradise. It must be evident to you, Selma, that

very shortly we shall see only the dust of their chariot-wheels in the

dim social distance. Williams told me to-day that he has bought a house

near the park."

"He has bought a new house? They are going to move?" exclaimed Selma,

sitting up straight, and with a fierce light in her eyes.

"Yes. He was going home to tell his wife. It seems that they have been

talking vaguely of moving for some time. An acquaintance happened to

offer him a house, and Williams closed the bargain on the spot in his

customary chain-lightning style. I shall be sorry to have them go on

some accounts, for they have always been friendly, and you seem fond of

the wife, but we shall find it easier, perhaps, when they are gone, to

live according to our own ideas."

"Flossy has not been quite so nice lately," said Selma; "I am afraid she

is disposed to put on airs."

"Her head may have been turned by her success. She has a kind heart, but

a giddy brain in spite of its cleverness."

"Flossy has been getting on, of course. But so are we getting on. Why

should they be recognized, as you call it, any more than we? In time, I

mean. Not in the same way, perhaps, since you don't approve of the sort

of things--"

"Since I don't approve? Why, Selma, surely--"

"Since _we_ don't approve, then. I only mean that Gregory Williams has

shown initiative, has pushed ahead, and is--er--the talk of the town. I

expect you to be successful, too. Is there any reason on earth why the

door of the Morton Prices should open wide to her and not to me?"

"I suppose not, if--if you wish it."

She made a gesture of impatience and gazed at him a moment with an

imperious frown, then suddenly, with the litheness of a cat, she slipped

from her chair to the floor at his feet, and leaning against his knee,

looked up into his face.

"You dear boy, I am going to tell you something. You said to me once

that if ever the time came when I thought you visionary, I was to let

you know. Of course I understand you are worth a thousand _Gregorys_;

but don't you think you would get on faster if you were a little more

aggressive in your work?--if you weren't so afraid of being superficial

or sensational? You were intimating a few minutes ago," she added,

speaking rapidly under the stress of the message she burned to deliver,

"that I seemed changed. I don't believe I am changed. But, if I seem

different, it is because I feel so strongly that those who wish to

succeed must assert themselves and seize opportunities. There is where

it seems to me that Mr. Williams has the advantage over you, Wilbur. One

of the finest and most significant qualities of our people, you know, is

their enterprise and aggressiveness. Architecture isn't like the stock

business, but the same theory of progress must be applicable to both.

Don't you think I may be right, Wilbur? Don't you see what I mean?"

He stroked her hair and answered gently, "What is it that I am not doing

which you think I might do?"

Selma snuggled close to him, and put her hand in his. She was vibrating

with the proud consciousness of the duty vouchsafed to her to guide and

assist the man she loved. It was a blissful and a precious moment to

her. "If I were you," she said, solemnly, "I should build something

striking and original, something which would make everyone who beheld it

ask, 'what is the architect's name?' I would strike out boldly without

caring too much what the critics and the people of Europe would say. You

musn't be too afraid, Wilbur, of producing something American, and you

mustn't be too afraid of the American ways of doing things. We work more

quickly here in everything, and--and I still can't help feeling that you

potter a little. Necessarily I don't know about the details of your

business, but if I were you, instead of designing small buildings or

competing for colleges and churches, where more than half the time

someone else gets the award, I should make friends with the people who

live in those fine houses on Fifth Avenue, and get an order to design a

splendid residence for one of them. If you were to make a grand success

of that, as you surely would, your reputation would be made. You ask me

why I like to entertain and am willing to know people like that. It is

to help you to get clients and to come to the front professionally. Now

isn't that sensible and practical and right, too?"

Her voice rang triumphantly with the righteousness of her plea.

"Selma, dear, if I am not worldly-wise enough, I am glad to listen to

your suggestions. But art is not to be hurried. I cannot vulgarize my

art. I could not consent to that."

"Of course not, Wilbur. Not worldly-wise enough is just the phrase, I

think. You are so absorbed in the theory of fine things that I am sure

you often let the practical opportunities to get the fine things to do

slip."

"Perhaps, dear. I will try to guard against it." Wilbur took her hands

in his and looked down tenderly into her face. His own was a little

weary. "Above everything else in life I wish, to make you happy," he

said.

"I am happy, you dear boy."

"Truly?"

"Yes, truly. And if something happens which I am nearly sure will

happen, I shall be happier still. It's a secret, and I mustn't tell you,

but if it does happen, you can't help agreeing that your wife has been

clever and has helped you in your profession."

"Helped me? Ah, Selma," he said, folding her in his arms, "I don't think

you realize how much you are to me. In this modern world, what with

self-consciousness, and shyness and contemporary distaste for fulsome

expression, it is difficult to tell adequately those we love how we feel

toward them. You are my darling and my inspiration. The sun rises and

sets with you, and unless you were happy, I could never be. Each man in

this puzzling world must live according to his own lights, and I,

according to mine, am trying to make the most of myself, consistent with

self-respect and avoidance of the low human aims and time-serving

methods upon which our new civilization is supposed to frown. If I am

neglecting my lawful opportunities, if I am failing to see wisely and

correctly, I shall be grateful for counsel. Ah, Selma, for your sake,

even more than for my own, I grieve that we have no children. A baby's

hands would, I fancy, be the best of counsellors and enlighteners."

"If children had come at first, it would have been very nice. But

now--now I think they might stand in the way of my being of help to you.

And I am so anxious to help you, Wilbur."

As a result of this conversation Littleton devoted himself more

assiduously than ever to his work. He was eager to increase his earnings

so that his income should not be curtailed by his decision to avoid

further ventures in the stock-market. He was troubled in soul, for

Selma's accusation that he was visionary haunted him. Could it be that

he was too scrupulous, too uncompromising, and lacked proper enterprise?

Self-scrutiny failed to convince him that this was so, yet left a

lurking doubt which was harassing. His clear mind was too modest to

believe in its own infallibility, for he was psychologist enough to

understand that no one can be absolutely sure that his perspective of

life is accurate. Possibly he was sacrificing his wife's legitimate

aspirations to too rigid canons of behavior, and to an unconscious lack

of initiative. On the other hand, as a positive character, he believed

that he saw clearly, and he could not avoid the reflection that, if this

was the case, he and Selma were drifting apart--the more bitter

alternative of the two, and a condition which, if perpetuated, would

involve the destruction of the scheme of matrimonial happiness, the

ideal communion of two sympathetic souls, in which he was living as a

proud partner. Apparently he was in one of two predicaments; either he

was self deceived, which was abhorrent to him as a thoughtful grappler

with the eternal mysteries, or he had misinterpreted the character of

the woman whose transcendent quality was a dearer faith to him than the

integrity of his own manhood.

So it was with a troubled heart that he applied himself to more rigorous

professional endeavor. Like most architects he had pursued certain lines

of work because orders had come to him, and the chances of employment

had ordained that his services should be sought for small churches,

school-houses and kindred buildings in the surrounding country rather

than for more elaborate and costly structures. On these undertakings it

was his habit to expend abundant thought and devotion. The class of work

was to his taste, for, though the funds at his disposal were not always

so large as he desired for artistic effects, yet he enjoyed the

opportunity of showing that simplicity need not be homely and

disenchanting, but could wear the aspect of grace and poetry. Latterly

he had been requested to furnish designs for some blocks of houses in

the outlying wards of the city, where the owners sought to provide

attractive, modern flats for people with moderate means. Various

commissions had come to him, also, to design decorative work, which

interested him and gave scope to his refined and aspiring imagination,

and he was enthusiastically absorbed in preparing his competitive plans

for the building of Wetmore College. His time was already well occupied

by the matters which he had in hand. That is, he had enough to do and

yet did not feel obliged to deny himself the luxury of deliberate

thoroughness in connection with each professional undertaking. Save for

the thought that he must needs earn more in order to please Selma, he

would have been completely happy in the slow but flattering growth of

his business, and in feeling his way securely toward greater success.

Now, however, he began to ask himself if it were not possible to hasten

this or that piece of work in order to afford himself the necessary

leisure for new employment. He began also to consider whether he might

not be able, without loss of dignity, to put himself in the way of

securing more important clients. To solicit business was not to be

thought of, but now and again he put the question to himself whether he

had not been too indifferent as to who was who, and what was what, in

the development of his business.

While Littleton was thus mulling over existing conditions, and

subjecting his conduct to the relentless lens of his own conscience and

theories, Selma announced to him jubilantly, about a fortnight

subsequent to their conversation, that her secret was a secret no

longer, and that Mr. Parsons desired to employ him to build an imposing

private residence on Fifth Avenue near the Park. Mr. Parsons confirmed

this intelligence on the following day in a personal interview. He

informed Littleton that he was going to build in order to please his

wife and daughter, and intimated that expense need not stand in the way

of the gratification of their wishes. After the business matters were

disposed of he was obviously ready to intrust all the artistic details

to his architect. Consequently Littleton enjoyed an agreeable quarter of

an hour of exaltation. He was pleased at the prospect of building a

house of this description, and the hope of being able to give free scope

to his architectural bent without molestation made that prospect

roseate. He could desire no better opportunity for expressing his ideas

and proving his capacity. It was an ideal chance, and his soul thrilled

as he called up the shadowy fabric of scheme after scheme to fill the

trial canvas of his fantasy. Nor did he fail to award due credit to

Selma for her share in the transaction; not to the extent, perhaps, of

confessing incapacity on his own part, but by testifying lovingly to her

cleverness. She was in too good humor at her success to insist on his

humiliation in set terms. The two points in which she was most vitally

interested--the advantage of her own interference and the consequent

prompt extension of her husband's field of usefulness--had been

triumphantly proved, and there was no need that the third--Wilbur's lack

of capacity to battle and discriminate for himself--should be

emphasized. Selma knew what she thought in her own mind, and she

entertained the hope that this lesson might be a lamp to his feet for

future illumination. She was even generous enough to exclaim, placing

her hands on his shoulders and looking into his face with complacent

fervor:

"You might have accomplished it just as well yourself, Wilbur."

Littleton shook his head and smiled. "It was a case of witchery and

fascination. He probably divined how eager you were to help me, and he

was glad to yield to the agreeable spell of your wifely devotion."

"Oh, no," said Selma. "I am sure he never guessed for one moment of what

I was thinking. Of course, I did try to make him like me, but that was

only sensible. To make people like one is the way to get business, I

believe."

Littleton's quarter of an hour of exaltation was rudely checked by a

note from Mrs. Parsons, requesting an interview in regard to the plans.

When he presented himself he found her and her daughter imbued with

definite ideas on the subject of architects and architecture. In the

eyes of Mrs. Parsons the architect of her projected house was nothing

but a young man in the employ of her husband, who was to guide them as

to measurements, carpentry, party-walls and plumbing, but was otherwise

to do her bidding for a pecuniary consideration, on the same general

basis as the waiter at the hotel or the theatre ticket-agent. As to

architecture, she expected him to draw plans just as she expected

dealers in carpets or wall-papers to show her patterns in easy

succession. "I don't care for that; take it away." "That is rather

pretty, but let me see something else." What she said to Littleton was,

"We haven't quite decided yet what we want, but, if you'll bring some

plans the next time you call, we'll let you know which we like best.

There's a house in Vienna I saw once, which I said at the time to

Lucretia I would copy if I ever built. I've mislaid the photograph of

it, but I may be able to tell you when I see your drawings how it

differed from yours. Lucretia has a fancy for something Moorish or

Oriental. I guess Mr. Parsons would prefer brown-stone, plain and

massive, but he has left it all to us, and both daughter and I think

we'd rather have a house which would speak for itself, and not be mixed

up with everybody else's. You'd better bring us half a dozen to choose

from, and between me and you and Lucretia, we'll arrive at something

elegant and unique."

This was sadly disillusionizing to Littleton, and the second experience

was no less so. The refined outline sketches proffered by him were

unenthusiastically surveyed and languidly discarded like so many

wall-papers. It was evident that both the mother and daughter were

disappointed, and Littleton presently divined that their chief objection

was to the plainness of the several designs. This was made unmistakably

obvious when Mrs. Parsons, after exhibiting a number of photographs of

foreign public buildings with which she had armed herself, surveyed the

most ornate, holding it out with her head on one side, and exclaimed

impressively, "This is more the sort of thing we should like. I think

Mr. Parsons has already explained to you that he desired our house to be

as handsome as possible."

"I had endeavored to bear that in mind," Littleton retorted with spirit.

"I believe that either of these plans would give you a house which would

be handsome, interesting and in good taste."

"It does not seem to me that there is anything unique about any of

them," said Mrs. Parsons, with a cold sniff intended to be conclusive.

Nor did Littleton's efforts to explain that elaboration in a private

residence was liable to detract from architectural dignity and to

produce the effect of vulgarity fall upon receptive soil. The rich man's

wife listened in stony silence, at times raising her lorgnette to

examine as a curiosity this young man who was telling her--an American

woman who had travelled around the world and seen everything to be

seen--how she ought to build her own house. The upshot of this interview

was that Littleton was sent away with languid instructions to try again.

He departed, thinking melancholy thoughts and with fire in his soul,

which, for Selma's sake, he endeavored to keep out of his eyes.

CHAPTER VIII.

The departure of the Williamses to a smarter neighborhood was a trial

for Selma. She nursed the dispiriting reflection that she and Wilbur

might just as well be moving also; that a little foresight and

shrewdness on her husband's part would have enabled him to sell at a

handsome profit the house in which they were living; and that there was

no reason, except the sheer, happy faculty of making the most of

opportunities, to account for the social recognition which Flossy and

her husband were beginning to receive. It had not been easy to bear with

equanimity during the last year the ingenuous, light-hearted warblings

in which Flossy had indulged as an outlet to her triumphant spirits, and

to listen to naïve recitals of new progress, as though she herself were

a companion or ladies' maid, to whom such developments could never

happen. She was weary of being merely a recipient of confidences and a

sympathetic listener, and more weary still of being regarded as such by

her self-absorbed and successful neighbor. Why should Flossy be so

dense? Why should she play second fiddle to Flossy? Why should Flossy

take for granted that she did not intend to keep pace with her? Keep

pace, indeed, when, if circumstances would only shape themselves a

little differently, she would be able speedily to outstrip her volatile

friend in the struggle for social preferment.

Not unnaturally their friendship had been somewhat strained by the

simmering of these thoughts in Selma's bosom. If a recipient of

confidences becomes tart or cold, ingenuous prattle is apt to flow less

spontaneously. Though Flossy was completely self-absorbed, and

consequently glad to pour out her satisfaction into a sympathetic ear,

she began to realize that there was something amiss with her friend

which mere conscientious disapproval of her own frivolities did not

adequately explain. It troubled her somewhat, for she liked the

Littletons and was proud of her acquaintance with them. However, she was

conscious of having acquitted herself toward them with liberality, and,

especially now that her social vista was widening, she was not disposed

at first to analyze too deeply the cause of the lack of sympathy between

them. That is, she was struck by Selma's offish manner and frigid

silences, but forgot them until they were forced upon her attention the

next time they met. But as her friend continued to receive her bubbling

announcements with stiff indifference, Flossy, in her perplexity, began

to bend her acute mental faculties more searchingly on her idol. A fixed

point of view will keep a shrine sacred forever, but let a worshipper's

perspective be altered, and it is astonishing how different the features

of divinity will appear. Flossy had worshipped with the eyes of faith.

Now that her adoration was rejected without apparent cause, her

curiosity was piqued, and she sought an interpretation of the mystery

from her clever wits. As she observed Selma more dispassionately her

suspicion was stirred, and she began to wonder if she had been burning

incense before a false goddess. This doubt was agitating her mind at the

time when they moved from the street.

Selma was unconscious of the existence of this doubt as she had been

largely unconscious of her own sour demeanor. She had no wish to lose

the advantages of intimate association with the Williamses. On the

contrary, she expected to make progress on her own account by admission

into their new social circle. She went promptly to call, and saw fit to

show herself tactfully appreciative of the new establishment and more

ready to listen to Flossy's volubility. Flossy, who was radiant and

bubbling over with fresh experiences which she was eager to impart, was

glad to dismiss her doubt and to give herself up to the delights of

unbridled speech. She took Selma over her new house, which had been

purchased just as it stood, completely furnished, from the previous

owner, who had suffered financial reverses. "Gregory bought it because

it was really a bargain," she said. "It will do very well for the

present, but we intend to build before long. I am keeping my eye on your

husband, and am expecting great things from the Parsons house. Do you

know, I believe in Mr. Littleton, and feel sure that some day we shall

wake up and find him famous."

This was amiable, particularly as Flossy was very busily engaged in

contemplating the brilliant progress of Gregory Williams and his wife.

But Selma returned home feeling sore and dissatisfied. Flossy had been

gracious, but still dense and naïvely condescending. Selma chose to

foresee that her friend would neglect her, and her foresight was

correct. The call was not returned for many weeks, although Flossy had

assured her when they separated that distance would make no difference

in their intimacy. But in the first place, her doubts recurred to Flossy

after the departure of her visitor, and in the second, the agitations

incident to her new surroundings, fortified by these doubts, made

neglect easy. When she did call, Selma happened to be out. A few days

later an invitation to dine with the Williamses arrived. Selma would

have preferred to remain at home as a rebuke, but she was miserably

conscious that Flossy would not perceive the point of the refusal. So

she went, and was annoyed when she realized that the guests were only

people whom she knew already--the Parsonses, and some of Gregory

Williams's former associates, whom she had met at the old house. It was

a pleasant dinner, apparently, to all except Selma. The entertainment

was flatteringly lavish, and both the host and hostess with suavity put

in circulation, under the rose, the sentiment that there are no friends

like old friends--a graceful insincerity which most of them present

accepted as true. Indeed, in one sense it was not an insincerity, for

Gregory and his wife entertained cordial feelings toward them all. But

on the other hand, Selma's immediate and bitter conclusion was also

true, that the company had been invited together for the reason that, in

the opinion of Flossy, they would not have harmonized well with anyone

else.

Said Wilbur as they drove away from the house--"Barring a few moments of

agony in the society of my tormentor, Mrs. Parsons, I had a pleasant

evening. They were obviously potting their old acquaintance in one pie,

but to my thinking it was preferable to being sandwiched in between some

of their new friends whom we do not know and who know nothing of us. It

was a little evident, but on the whole agreeable."

Selma, shrouded in her wraps, made no reply at first. Suddenly she

exclaimed, with, fierceness, "I consider it rank impertinence. It was as

much as to say that they do not think us good enough to meet their new

friends."

Littleton, who still found difficulty in remembering that his wife would

not always enjoy the humor of an equivocal situation, was sorry that he

had spoken. "Come, Selma," he said, "there's no use in taking that view

of the matter. You would not really care to meet the other people."

"Yes, I would, and she knows it. I shall never enter her house again."

"As to that, my dear, the probabilities are that we shall not be asked

for some time. You know perfectly well that, in the nature of things,

your intimacy with Mrs. Williams must languish now that she lives at a

distance and has new surroundings. She may continue to be very fond of

you, but you can't hope to see very much of her, unless I am greatly

mistaken in her character."

"She is a shallow little worldling," said Selma, with measured

intensity.

"But you knew that already. The fact that she invited us to dinner and

did not ignore our existence altogether shows that she likes us and

wishes to continue the friendship. I've no doubt she believes that she

is going to see a great deal of us, and you should blame destiny and the

force of fashionable circumstances, not Flossy, if you drift apart."

"She invited us because she wished to show off her new house."

"Not altogether. You musn't be too hard on her."

Selma moved her shoulders impatiently, and there was silence for some

moments broken only by the tapping of her foot. Then she asked, "How

nearly have you finished the plans for the Parsons house?"

Wilbur's brow clouded under cover of the night. He hesitated an instant

before replying, "I am sorry to say that Mrs. Parsons and I do not seem

to get on very well together. Her ideas and mine on the subject of

architecture are wide apart, as I have intimated to you once or twice. I

have modified my plans again, and she has made airy suggestions which

from my point of view are impossible. We are practically at loggerheads,

and I am trying to make up my mind what I ought to do."

There was a wealth of condensation in the word 'impossible' which

brought back unpleasantly to Selma Pauline's use of the same word in

connection with the estimate which had been formed of Miss Bailey.

"There can be only one thing to do in the end," she said, "if you can't

agree. Mrs. Parsons, of course, must have her house as she wishes it. It

is her house, Wilbur."

"It is her house, and she has that right, certainly. The question is

whether I am willing to allow the world to point to an architectural

hotch-potch and call it mine."

"Isn't this another case of neglecting the practical side, Wilbur? I am

sure you exaggerate the importance of the changes she desires. If I were

building a house, I should expect to have it built to suit me, and I

should be annoyed if the architect stood on points and were captious."

Selma under the influence of this more congenial theme had partially

recovered her equanimity. Her duty was her pleasure, and it was clearly

her duty to lead her husband in the right path and save him from

becoming the victim of his own shortcomings.

Wilbur sighed. "I have told her," he said, "that I would submit another

entirely new sketch. It may be that I can introduce some of her and her

daughter's splurgy and garish misconceptions without making myself

hopelessly ridiculous."

He entered the house wearily, and as he stood before the hall table

under the chandelier, Selma took him by the arm and turning him toward

her gazed into his face. "I wish to examine you. Pauline said to me

to-day that she thinks you are looking pale. I don't see that you are;

no more so than usual. You never were rosy exactly. Do you know I have

an idea that she thinks I am working you to death."

"Pauline? What reason has she to think anything of the kind? Besides, I

am perfectly well. It is a delight to work for a woman like you,

dearest." He took her face between his hands and kissed her tenderly;

yet gravely, too, as though the riddle of life did not solve itself at

the touch of her lips. "You will be interested to hear," he added, "that

I shall finish and send off the Wetmore College plans this week."

"I am glad they are off your hands, for you will have more time for

other work."

"Yes. I think I may have done something worth while," he said,

wistfully.

"And I shall try not to be annoyed if someone else gets the award," she

responded, smoothing down the sheen of her evening dress and regarding

herself in the mirror.

"Of course someone else may have taken equal pains and done a better

thing. It is necessary always to be prepared for that."

"That is the trouble. That is why I disapprove of competitions."

"Selma, you are talking nonsense," Littleton exclaimed with sudden

sternness.

The decision in his tone made her start. The color mounted to her face,

and she surveyed him for an instant haughtily, as though he had done her

an injury. Then with an oratorical air and her archangel look, she said,

"You do not seem to understand, Wilbur, that I am trying to save you

from yourself."

Littleton was ever susceptible to that look of hers. It suggested

incarnate conscientiousness, and seemed incompatible with human

imperfection or unworthy ambitions. He was too wroth to relent

altogether, but he compressed his lips and returned her look

searchingly, as though he would scrutinize her soul.

"I'm bound to believe, I do believe, that you are trying to help me,

Selma. I need your advice and help, even against myself, I dare say. But

there are some matters of which you cannot judge so well as I. You must

trust my opinion where the development of my professional life is

concerned. I shall not forget your caution to be practical, but for the

sake of expediency I cannot be false to what I believe true. Come, dear,

let us go to bed."

He put his hand on her arm to lead her upstairs, but she turned from it

to collect her fan and gloves. Looking, not at him, but at herself in

the mirror, she answered, "Of course. I trust, though, that this does

not mean you intend to act foolishly in regard to the Parsons house."

"I have already told you," he said, looking back, "that I am going to

make another attempt to satisfy that exasperating woman and her

daughter."

"And you can satisfy them, I'm sure, if you only choose to," said Selma,

by way of a firm, final observation.

Littleton's prophecy in regard to the waning of friendship between his

wife and Mrs. Williams proved to be correct. Propinquity had made them

intimate, and separation by force of circumstances put a summary end to

frequent and cordial intercourse between them. As he had predicted,

their first invitation to the new house was still the last at the end of

three months, and save for a few words on one occasion in the street,

Selma and Flossy did not meet during that period. But during that same

three months Selma's attention was constantly attracted to the

Williamses by prominent newspaper allusions to their prosperity and

growing fashionable prestige. What they did and where they went were

chronicled in the then new style journalistic social gossip, and the

every-day world was made familiar with his financial opinions and his

equipages and her toilettes. The meeting in the street was an ordeal for

Selma. Flossy had been shopping and was about to step into her carriage,

the door of which was held open by an imposing liveried footman, when

the two women nearly collided.

"I have not seen you for an age," Flossy exclaimed, with the genuine

ring of regret in her tone, with which busy people partially atone for

having left undone the things they ought or would like to have done.

"Which way are you going? Can't I take you somewhere?"

Selma glanced sternly at the snug coupe and stylish horses. "No, we

don't seem to meet very often," she said drily. "I'm living, though, at

the same place," she added, with a determination to be sprightly.

"Yes, I know; I owe you a call. It's dreadful of me. I've been intending

to come, but you can't imagine how busy I've been. Such a number of

invitations, and new things to be done. I'm looking forward to giving

you a full account of my experiences."

"I've read about them in the newspapers."

"Oh, yes. Gregory is always civil to reporters. He says that the

newspapers are one of the great institutions of the country, and that it

is sensible to keep in touch with them. I will confide to you that I

think the whole business vulgar, and I intend some day, when we are

firmly established, to be ugly to them. But at present the publicity is

rather convenient and amusing," she exclaimed, with a gay shake of her

head, which set her ringlets bobbing.

"I should think it would be unpleasant to have the details of one's

appearance described by the press."

Flossy's doubts had returned in full force during the conversation. She

said to herself, "I wonder if that is true? I wonder if it wouldn't be

the very thing she would like?" But she answered blithely, "Oh, one gets

used to it. Then I can't take you anywhere? I'm sorry. Some day I hope

my round of gayety will cease, so that we can have a quiet evening

together. I miss your husband. I always find him suggestive and

interesting."

"'Her round of gayety! A quiet evening together!'" murmured Selma as she

walked away. "Wilbur is right; purse-proud, frivolous little thing! She

is determined to destroy our friendship."

Four weeks subsequent to this meeting the newspapers contained a fulsome

account of a dancing party given by Mr. and Mrs. Gregory Williams--"an

elegant and recherché entertainment," in the language of the reporter. A

list of the company followed, which Selma scrutinized with a brow like a

thunder-cloud. She had acquired a feverish habit of perusing similar

lists, and she recognized that Flossy's guests--among the first of whom

were Mr. and Mrs. Morton Price and the Misses Price--were chiefly

confined to persons whom she had learned to know as members of

fashionable society. She read, in the further phraseology of the

reporter, that "it was a small and select affair." At the end of the

list, as though they had been invited on sufferance as a business

necessity, were the Parsonses; but these were the only former associates

of the Williamses. Selma had just finished her second reading of this

news item when her meditation was interrupted by the voice of her

husband, who had been silent during dinner, as though he had some matter

on his mind, and was at the moment sitting close by, on the other side

of the lamp which lighted the library table.

"I fear you will be disappointed, Selma, but I have informed Mr. Parsons

definitely this morning, that he must get another architect. The ideas

of his wife and daughter are hopelessly at variance with mine. He seemed

to be sorry--indeed, I should think he was a reasonable and sensible

man--but he said that he was building to please Mrs. Parsons, and we

both agreed that under the circumstances it was necessary that she

should make a fresh start. He asked me to send my bill, and we parted on

the best of terms. So it is all over, and except from the point of view

of dollars and cents, I am very glad. Only the remembrance that you had

set your heart on my making this my masterpiece, prevented me from

throwing over the contract weeks ago. Tell me, Selma _mia_, that you

approve of what I have done and congratulate me." He pulled forward his

chair so that he might see her face without interference from the lamp

and leaned toward her with frank appeal.

"Yes, I had set my heart on it, and you knew it. Yet you preferred to

give up this fine opportunity to show what you could do and to get

business worth having rather than sacrifice your own ideas as to how a

house should be built to the ideas of the women who were to live in it.

I dare say I should agree with them, and that the things which they

wished and you objected to were things I would have insisted on having."

Littleton started as though she had struck him in the face. "Selma! My

wife! Do you realize what you are saying?"

"Perfectly."

"Then--then--. Why, what have I said, what have I done that you should

talk like this?"

"Done? Everything. For one thing you have thrown away the chance for

getting ahead in your profession which I procured for you. For another,

by your visionary, unpractical ways, you have put me in the position

where I can be insulted. Read that, and judge for yourself." She held

out to him the newspaper containing the account of the dancing party,

pointing with her finger to the obnoxious passage.

With nervous hands Littleton drew the page under the light. "What is all

this about? A party? What has it to do with our affairs?"

"It has this to do with them--if you had been more practical and

enterprising, our names would have been on that list."

"I am glad they are not there."

"Yes, I know. You would be content to have us remain nobodies all our

days. You do not care what becomes of my life, provided you can carry

out your own narrow theory of how we ought to live. And I had such faith

in you, too! I have refused to believe until now that you were not

trying to make the most of your opportunities, and to enable me to make

the most of mine."

"Selma, are you crazy? To think that you, the woman I have loved with

all my soul, should be capable of saying such things to me! What does it

mean?"

She was quick to take advantage of his phrase. "Have loved? Yes, I know

that you do not love me as you did; otherwise you could not have refused

to build that house, against my wish and advice. It means this, Wilbur

Littleton, that I am determined not to let you spoil my life. You forget

that in marrying you I gave up my own ambitions and hopes for your sake;

because--because I believed that by living together we should be more,

and accomplish more, than by living apart. You said you needed me, and I

was fool enough to believe it."

The fierce tragedy in her tone lapsed into self-pity under the influence

of her last thought, and Littleton, eager in his bewilderment for some

escape from the horror of the situation, put aside his anger and

dropping on his knees beside her tried to take her hands.

"You are provoked, my darling. Do not say things which you will be sorry

for to-morrow. I call God to witness that I have sought above all else

to make you happy, and if I have failed, I am utterly miserable. I have

needed you, I do need you. Do not let a single difference of opinion

spoil the joy of both our lives and divide our hearts."

She pulled her hands away, and shunning his endearment, rose to her

feet.

"I am provoked, but I know what I am saying. A single difference of

opinion? Do you not see, Wilbur, that none of our opinions are the same,

and that we look at everything differently? Even your religion and the

God you call to witness are not mine. They are stiff and cold; you

Unitarians permit your consciences to deaden your emotions and belittle

your outlook on life. When I went with Mr. Parsons the other day to the

Methodist church, I could not help thinking how different it was. I was

thrilled and I felt I could do anything and be anything. My mother was a

Methodist. They sang 'Onward Christian Soldiers,' and it was glorious."

She paused a moment and, with an exalted look, seemed to be recalling

the movement of the hymn. "With you, Wilbur, and the people like

you--Pauline is the same--everything is measured and pondered over, and

nothing is spontaneous. I like action, and progress and prompt, sensible

conclusions. That is the American way, and the way in which people who

succeed get on. But you won't see it--you can't see it. I've tried to

explain it to you, and now--now it's too late. We're nobodies, and, if

our hearts are divided, that's fate I suppose. It's a very cruel fate

for me. But I don't choose to remain a nobody."

Littleton's expression as she talked had changed from astonishment to

anger, and from anger to a sternness which gave his words of response

the effect of calm and final decision. "You have said so many things

with which I do not agree, and which I should have to dispute, that I

will not attempt to argue with you concerning them. One thing is clear,

both of us have made a horrible mistake. Each has misunderstood the

other. You are dissatisfied with me; I realize suddenly that you are

utterly different from what I supposed. I am overwhelmed, but your words

make plain many things which have distressed and puzzled me." He paused

as though in spite of the certainty of his tone, he hoped that she would

see fit to deny his conclusions. "We have made a mistake and we shall

both be miserable--that must needs be--but we must consider whether

there is any method by which we can be less unhappy. What would you like

to have me do, Selma? We have no children, thank heaven! Would it be

more agreeable to live apart from me and receive support? A divorce does

not seem necessary. Besides, our misconception of each other would

not be a legal cause."

Selma flushed at the reference to divorce. Littleton's sad, simple

statement wore on the surface no sign of a design to hark back to her

experience with her first husband, yet she divined that it must be in

his thoughts and she resented the recurrence. Moreover, separation,

certainly for the present, went beyond her purpose.

"I have no wish for divorce or separation. I see no reason why we should

not continue to live as we are," she answered. "To separate would cause

scandal. It is not necessary that people should know we have made a

mistake. I shall merely feel more free now to live my own life--and

there is no telling that you may not some day see things from my point

of view and sympathize with me more." She uttered the last words with a

mixture of pathos and bright solicitation.

Littleton shook his head. "I agree with you that to go on as we are is

our best course. As you say, we ought, if possible, to keep the

knowledge of our sorrow to ourselves. God knows that I wish I could hope

that our life could ever be as it was before. Too many things have

become plain to me in the last half-hour to make that possible. I could

never learn to accept or sympathize with your point of view. There can

be no half-love with me, Selma. It is my nature to be frank, and as you

are fond of saying, that is the American way. I am your husband still,

and while I live you shall have my money and my protection. But I have

ceased to be your lover, though my heart is broken."

"Very well," said Selma, after a painful pause. "But you know, Wilbur,"

she added in a tone of eager protestation, "that I do not admit for a

moment that I am at fault. I was simply trying to help you. You have

only yourself to blame for your unhappiness and--and for mine. I hope

you understand that."

"Yes, I understand that you think so," he said sadly.

CHAPTER IX.

The breach between Littleton and his wife was too serious to be healed,

for he was confronted by the conviction that Selma was a very different

being from the woman whom he had supposed that he was marrying. He had

been slow to harbor distrust, and loath, even in the face of her own

words, to admit that he had misinterpreted her character; but this last

conversation left no room for doubt. Selma had declared to him,

unequivocally, that his ideas and theory of life were repugnant to her,

and that, henceforth, she intended to act independently of them, so far

as she could do so, and yet maintain the semblance of the married state.

It was a cruel shock and disappointment to him. At the time of his

marriage he would have said that the least likely of possible happenings

would be self-deception as to the character of the woman he loved. Yet

this was precisely what had befallen him.

Having realized his mistake, he did not seek to flinch from the bitter

truth. He saw clearly that their future relations toward each other must

be largely formal; that tender comradeship and mutual soul alliance were

at an end. At the same time his simple, direct conscience promptly

indicated to him that it was his duty to recognize Selma's point of view

and endeavor to satisfy it as far as he could without sacrifice of his

own principles. He chose to remember that she, too, had made a mistake,

and that he was not the kind of husband whom she desired; that his

tastes were not her tastes, nor his ambitions her's; that she had tastes

and ambitions of her own which he, as the man to whom she was bound by

the law, must not disregard. Thus reasoning, he resolved to carry out

the scheme of life which she appeared to despise, but also to work hard

to provide her with the means to fulfil her own aims. She craved money

for social advancement. She should have it from him, for there was no

other source from which she could obtain it. The poignancy of his own

sorrow should not cause him to ignore that she had given up her own

career and pursuits in order to become his wife, and was now

disappointed and without independent resources. His pride was sorely

wounded, his ideals shattered and his heart crushed; yet, though he

could not forbear from judging Selma, and was unconscious of having

failed in his obligations to her as a husband and a man, he saw what she

called her side, and he took up the thread of life again under the spur

of an intention to give her everything but love.

On her part Selma felt aggrieved yet emancipated. She had not looked for

any such grave result from her vituperation. She had intended to reprove

his surrender of the Parsons's contract, in direct opposition to her own

wishes, with the severity it deserved, and to let him understand clearly

that he was sacrificing her happiness, no less than his own, by his

hysterical folly. When the conversation developed stubborn resistance on

his part, and she realized that he was defending and adhering to his

purpose, a righteous sense of injury became predominant in her mind over

everything else. All her past wrongs cried for redress, and she rejoiced

in the opportunity of giving free vent to the pent up grievances which

had been accumulating for many months. Even then it was startling to her

that Wilbur should suddenly utter the tragic ultimatum that their

happiness was at an end, and hint at divorce. She considered that she

loved him, and it had never occurred to her that he could ever cease to

love her. Rather than retract a word of her own accusations she would

have let him leave her, then and there, to live her own life without

protection or support from him, but his calmer decision that they should

continue to live together, yet apart, suited her better. In spite of his

resolute mien she was sceptical of the seriousness of the situation. She

believed in her heart that after a few days of restraint they would

resume their former life, and that Wilbur, on reflection, would

appreciate that he had been absurd.

When it became apparent that he was not to be appeased and that his

threat had been genuine, Selma accepted the new relation without demur,

and prepared to play her part in the compact as though she had been

equally obdurate in her outcry for her freedom. She met reserve with

reserve, maintaining rigorously the attitude that she had been wronged

and that he was to blame. Meantime she watched him narrowly, wondering

what his grave, sad demeanor and solicitous politeness signified. When

presently it became plain to her that not merely she was to be free to

follow her own bent, but that he was ready to provide her with the means

to carry out her schemes, she regarded his liberality as weakness and a

sign that he knew in his heart that she was in the right. Immediately,

and with thinly concealed triumph, she planned to utilize the new

liberty at her disposal, purging any scruples from her conscience by the

generous reflection that when Wilbur's brow unbent and his lips moved

freely she would forgive him and proffer him once more her conjugal

counsel and sympathy. She was firmly of the opinion that, unless he thus

acknowledged his shortcomings and promised improvement, the present

arrangement was completely to her liking, and that confidence and

happiness between them would be utterly impossible. She shed some tears

over the thought that unkind circumstances had robbed her of the love by

which she had set such store and which she, on her part, still

cherished, but she comforted herself with the retort that its loss was

preferable to sacrificing weakly the development of her own ideas and

life to its perpetuation.

Her flush of triumph was succeeded, however, by a discontented mood,

because cogitation constrained her to suspect that her social progress

might not be so rapid as her first rosy visions had suggested. She

counted on being able to procure the participation of Wilbur

sufficiently to preserve the appearance of domestic harmony. This would

be for practical purposes a scarcely less effective furtherance of her

plans than if he were heartily in sympathy with them. Were there not

many instances where busy husbands took part in the social undertakings

of their wives, merely on the surface, to preserve appearances? The

attitude of Wilbur seemed reasonably secure. That which harassed her as

the result of her reflections and efforts to plan was the unpalatable

consciousness that she did not know exactly what to do, and that no one,

even now that she was free, appeared eager to extend to her the hand of

recognition. She was prompt to lay the blame of this on her husband. It

was he who, by preventing her from taking advantage of the social

opportunities at their disposal, had consigned her to this eddy where

she was overlooked. This seemed to her a complete excuse, and yet,

though she made the most of it, it did not satisfy her. Her helplessness

angered her, and aroused her old feelings of suspicion and resentment

against the fashionable crew who appeared to be unaware of her

existence. She was glad to believe that the reason they ignored her was

because she was too serious minded and spiritual to suit their frivolous

and pleasure-loving tastes. Sometimes she reasoned that the sensible

thing for her to do was to break away from her present life, where

convention and caste trammelled her efforts, and make a name for herself

as an independent soul, like Mrs. Margaret Rodney Earle and other

free-born women of the Republic. With satisfaction she pictured herself

on the lecture platform uttering burning denunciation of the un-American

social proclivities of this shallow society, and initiating a crusade

which should sweep it from existence beneath the ban of the moral sense

of the thoughtful people of the country.

But more frequently she nursed her resentment against Mrs. Williams, to

whom she ascribed the blame of her isolation, reasoning that if Flossy

had been a true friend, not even Wilbur's waywardness would have

prevented her social recognition and success. That, instead, this

volatile, fickle prattler had used her so long as she needed her, and

then dropped her heartlessly. The memory of Flossy's ball still rankled

deeply, and appeared to Selma a more obvious and more exasperating

insult as the days passed without a sign of explanation on the part of

her late neighbor, and as her new projects languished for lack of a few

words of introduction here and there, which, in her opinion, were all

she needed to ensure her enthusiastic welcome as a social leader. The

appreciation that without those words of introduction she was helpless

for the time being focused her resentment, already keen, on the

successful Flossy, whose gay doings had disappeared from the public

prints in a blaze of glory with the advent of the Lenten season.

Refusing to acknowledge her dependence, Selma essayed several spasmodic

attempts to assert herself, but they proved unsatisfactory. She made the

most of Mr. Parsons's predilection for her society, which had not been

checked by Wilbur's termination of the contract. She was thus enabled to

affiliate with some of their new friends, but she was disagreeably

conscious that she was not making real progress, and that Mr. and Mrs.

Parsons and their daughter had, like herself, been dropped by the

Williamses--dropped skilfully and imperceptibly, yet none the less

dropped. Two dinner parties, which she gave in the course of a fortnight

to the most important of these new acquaintances, by way of manifesting

to Wilbur her intention to enjoy her liberty at his expense, left her

depressed and sore.

It was just at this time that Flossy took it into her head to call on

her--one of her first Lenten duties, as she hastened to assure Selma,

with glib liveliness, as soon as she entered. Flossy was in too exalted

a frame of mind, too bubbling over with the desire to recite her

triumphs, to have in mind either her doubts concerning Selma or the need

of being more than mildly apologetic for her lack of devotion. She felt

friendly, for she was in good humor, and was naïvely desirous to be

received in the same spirit, so that she might unbosom herself

unreservedly. Sweeping into the room, an animated vision of smiling,

stylish cordiality, she sought, as it were, to carry before her by force

of her own radiant mood all obstacles to an amiable reception.

"My dear, we haven't met for ages. Thank heaven, Lent has come, and now

I may see something of you. I said to Gregory only yesterday that I

should make a bee-line for your house, and here I am. Well, dear, how

are you? All sorts of things have happened, Selma, since we've had a

real chat together. Do you remember my telling you--of course you

do--not long after Gregory and I were married that I never should be

satisfied until one thing happened? Well, you may congratulate me; it

has happened. We dined a week ago to-night with my cousins--the Morton

Prices--a dinner of fourteen, all of them just the people I wished to

know. Wasn't it lovely? I have waited for it to come, and I haven't

moved a finger to bring it about, except to ask them to my dancing

party--I had to do that, for after all they are my relations. They

accepted and came and I was pleased by it; but they could easily have

ignored me afterward if they had wished. What really pleased me, Selma,

was their asking me to one of their select dinners, because--because it

showed that we are--"

Flossy's hesitation was due partly to the inherent difficulty of

expressing her thought with proper regard for modesty. With her rise in

life she had learned that unlimited laudation of self was not altogether

consistent with "fitness," even in such a confidential interview as the

present. But she was also disconcerted by the look in Selma's eyes--a

look which, at first startled into momentary friendliness by the

suddenness of the onslaught, had become more and more lowering until it

was unpleasantly suggestive of scornful dislike. While she thus

faltered, Selma drily rounded out the sentence with the words, "Because

it showed that you are somebodies now."

Flossy gave an embarrassed little laugh. "Yes, that's what I meant. I

see you have a good memory, and it sounds nicer on your lips than it

would on mine."

"You have come here to-day on purpose to tell me this?" said Selma.

"I thought you would be interested to hear that my cousins had

recognized me at last. I remember, you thought it strange that they

should take so little notice of me." Flossy's festive manner had

disappeared before the tart reception of her confidences, and her keen

wits, baffled in their search for flattery, recalled the suspicions

which were only slumbering. She realized that Selma was seriously

offended with her, and though she did not choose to acknowledge to

herself that she knew the cause, she had already guessed it. An

encounter at repartee had no terrors for her, if necessary, and the

occasion seemed to her opportune for probing the accumulating mysteries

of Selma's hostile demeanor. Yet, without waiting for a response to her

last remark, she changed the subject, and said, volubly, "I hear that

your husband has refused to build the new Parsons house because Mrs.

Parsons insisted on drawing the plans."

Selma's pale, tense face flushed. She thought for a moment that she was

being taunted.

"That was Mr. Littleton's decision, not mine."

"I admire his independence. He was quite right. What do Mrs. Parsons or

her daughter know about architecture? Everybody is laughing at them. You

know I consider your husband a friend of mine, Selma."

"And we were friends, too, I believe?" Selma exclaimed, after a moment

of stern silence.

"Naturally," responded Flossy, with a slightly sardonic air, prompted by

the acerbity with which the question was put.

"Then, if we were friends--are friends, why have you ceased to associate

with us, simply because you live in another street and a finer house?"

Flossy gave a gasp. "Oh," she said to herself, "it's true. She is

jealous. Why didn't I appreciate it before?"

"Am I not associating with you now by calling on you, Selma?" she said

aloud. "I don't understand what you mean."

"You are calling on me, and you asked us to dinner to meet--to meet just

the people we knew already, and didn't care to meet; but you have never

asked us to meet your new friends, and you left us out when you gave

your dancing party."

"You do not dance."

"How do you know?"

"I have never associated you with dancing. I assumed that you did not

dance."

"What grounds had you for such an assumption?"

"Really, Selma, your catechism is most extraordinary. Excuse my smiling.

And I don't know how to answer your questions--your fierce questions any

better. I didn't ask you to my party because I supposed that you and

your husband were not interested in that sort of thing, and would not

know any of the people. You have often told me that you thought they

were frivolous."

"I consider them so still."

"Then why do you complain?"

"Because--because you have not acted like a friend. Your idea of

friendship has been to pour into my ears, day after day, how you had

been asked to dinner by this person and taken up by that person, until I

was weary of the sound of your voice, but it seems not to have occurred

to you, as a friend of mine, and a friend and admirer of my husband, to

introduce us to people whom you were eager to know, and who might have

helped him in his profession. And now, after turning the cold shoulder

on us, and omitting us from your party, because you assumed I didn't

dance, you have come here this morning, in the name of friendship, to

tell me that your cousins, at last, have invited you to dinner. And yet

you think it strange that I'm not interested. That's the only reason you

came--to let me know that you are a somebody now; and you expected me,

as a friend and a nobody, to tell you how glad I am."

Flossy's eyes opened wide. Free as she was accustomed to be in her own

utterances, this flow of bitter speech delivered with seer-like

intensity was a new experience to her. She did not know whether to be

angry or amused by the indictment, which caused her to wince

notwithstanding that she deemed it slander. Moreover the insinuation

that she had been a bore was humiliating.

"I shall not weary you soon again with my confidences," she answered.

"So it appears that you were envious of me all the time--that while you

were preaching to me that fashionable society was hollow and

un-American, you were secretly unhappy because you couldn't do what I

was doing--because you weren't invited, too. Oh, I see it all now; it's

clear as daylight. I've suspected the truth for some time, but I've

refused to credit it. Now everything is explained. I took you at your

word; I believed in you and your husband and looked up to you as

literary people--people who were interested in fine and ennobling

things. I admired you for the very reason that I thought you didn't

care, and that you didn't need to care, about society and fashionable

position. I kept saying to you that I envied you your tastes, and let

you see that I considered myself your real inferior in my determination

to attract attention and oblige society to notice us. I was guileless

and simpleton enough to tell you of my progress--things I would have

blushed to tell another woman like myself--because I considered you the

embodiment of high aims and spiritual ideas, as far superior to mine as

the poetic star is superior to the garish electric light. I thought it

might amuse you to listen to my vanities. Instead, it seems you were

masquerading and were eating your heart out with envy of me--poor me.

You were ambitious to be like me."

"I wouldn't be like you for anything in the world."

"You couldn't if you tried. That's one of the things which this

extraordinary interview has made plain beyond the shadow of a doubt. You

are aching to be a social success. You are not fit to be. I have found

that out for certain to-day."

"It is false," exclaimed Selma, with a tragic intonation. "You do not

understand. I have no wish to be a social success. I should abhor to

spend my life after the manner of you and your associates. What I object

to, what I complain of, is that, in spite of your fine words and

pretended admiration of me, you have preferred these people, who are

exclusive without a shadow of right, to me who was your friend, and that

you have chosen to ignore me for the sake of them, and behaved as if you

thought I was not their equal or your equal. That is not friendship, it

is snobbishness--un-American snobbishness."

"It is very amusing. Amusing yet depressing," continued Flossy, without

heed to this asseveration. "You have proved one of my ideals to be a

delusion, which is sad." She had arisen and stood gently swaying pendent

by its crook her gay parasol, with her head on one side, and seeming for

once to be choosing her words judicially. "When we met first and I

nearly rushed into your arms, I was fascinated, and I said to myself

that here was the sort of American woman of whom I had dreamed--the sort

of woman I had fondly imagined once that I might become. I saw you were

unsophisticated and different from the conventional women to whom I was

accustomed, and, even at first, the things you said every now and then

gave me a creepy feeling, but you were inspiring to look at--though now

that the scales have fallen from my eyes I wonder at my infatuation--and

I continued to worship you as a goddess on a pedestal. I used to say to

Gregory, 'there's a couple who are to the manner born; they never have

to make believe. They are genuinely free and gentle souls.' Your

husband? I can't believe that I have been deluded in regard to him,

also. I just wonder if you appreciate him--if it is possible that he has

been deluded, also. That's rank impertinence, I know; but after all, we

are unbosoming our thoughts to each other to-day, and may as well speak

openly. You said just now that it was his decision not to go on with the

Parsons house. Did you disapprove of it?"

"Yes, I disapproved of it," answered Selma with flashing eyes. "And what

if I did?"

She rose and stood confronting her visitor as though to banish her from

the house.

"I'm going," said Flossy. "It's none of my concern of course, and I'm

aware that I appear very rude. I'm anxious though not to lose faith in

your husband, and now that I've begun to understand you, my wits are

being flooded with light. I was saying that you were not fit to be a

social success, and I'm going to tell you why. No one else is likely to,

and I'm just mischievous and frank enough. You're one of those American

women--I've always been curious to meet one in all her glory--who

believe that they are born in the complete panoply of flawless

womanhood; that they are by birthright consummate house-wives, leaders

of the world's thought and ethics, and peerless society queens. All this

by instinct, by heritage, and without education. That's what you

believe, isn't it? And now you are offended because you haven't been

invited to become a leader of New York society. You don't understand,

and I don't suppose you ever will understand, that a true lady--a

genuine society queen--represents modesty and sweetness and

self-control, and gentle thoughts and feelings; that she is evolved by

gradual processes from generation to generation, not ready made. Oh, you

needn't look at me like that. I'm quite aware that if I were the genuine

article I shouldn't be talking to you in this fashion. But there's hope

for me because I'm conscious of my shortcomings and am trying to correct

them; whereas you are satisfied, and fail to see the difference between

yourself and the well-bred women whom you envy and sneer at. You're

pretty and smart and superficial and--er--common, and you don't know it.

I'm rather dreadful, but I'm learning. I don't believe you will ever

learn. There! Now I'm going."

"Go!" cried Selma with a wave of her arm. "Yes, I am one of those women.

I am proud to be, and you have insulted by your aspersions, not only me,

but the spirit of independent and aspiring American womanhood. You don't

understand us; you have nothing in common with us. You think to keep us

down by your barriers of caste borrowed from effete European courts, but

we--I--the American people defy you. The time will come when we shall

rise in our might and teach you your place. Go! Envy you? I would not

become one of your frivolous and purposeless set if you were all on your

bended knees before me."

"Oh, yes you would," exclaimed Flossy, glancing back over her shoulder.

"And it's because you've not been given the chance that we have

quarrelled now."

CHAPTER X.

The morning after her drastic interview with Mrs. Williams, Selma

studied herself searchingly in her mirror. Of all Flossy's candid

strictures the intimation that she was not and never would be completely

a lady was the only one which rankled. The effrontery of it made her

blood boil; and yet she consulted her glass in the seclusion of her

chamber in order to reassure herself as to the spiteful falsity of the

criticism. Wild horses would not have induced her to admit even to

herself that there was the slightest ground for it; still it rankled,

thereby suggesting a sub-consciousness of suspicion on the look out for

just such a calumny.

She gave Littleton her own version of the quarrel. Her explanation was

that she had charged Flossy with a lack of friendship in failing to

invite her to her ball, and convicted her of detestable snobbery; that

she had denounced this conduct in vigorous language, that they had

parted in anger, and that all intercourse between them was at an end.

"We understand each other now," she added. "I have felt for some time

that we were no longer sympathetic; and that something of this kind was

inevitable. I am glad that we had the chance to speak plainly, for I was

able to show her that I had been waiting for an excuse to cut loose from

her and her frivolous surroundings. I have wearied my spirit long enough

with listening to social inanities, and in lowering my standards to hers

for the sake of appearing friendly and conventional. That is all over

now, thank heaven."

It did not occur to Selma that there was any inconsistency in these

observations, or that they might appear a partial vindication of her

husband's point of view. The most salient effect of her encounter with

Flossy had been suddenly to fuse and crystallize her mixed and seemingly

contradictory ambitions into utter hostility to conventional fashionable

society. Even when her heart had been hungering for an invitation to

Flossy's ball, she considered that she despised these people, but the

interview had served to establish her in the glowing faith that they, by

their inability to appreciate her, had shown themselves unworthy of

further consideration. The desire which she had experienced of late for

a renewal of her intimacy with Mrs. Earle and a reassertion of her

former life of independent feminine activity had returned to her,

coupled with the crusading intention to enroll herself openly once more

in the army of new American women, whose impending victorious campaign

she had prophesied in her retort to Mrs. Williams's maledictions. She

had, in her own opinion, never ceased to belong to this army, and she

felt herself now more firmly convinced than ever that the course of life

of those who had turned a cold shoulder on her was hostile to the spirit

of American institutions. So far as her husband was concerned,

imaginative enterprise and the capacity to take advantage of

opportunities still seemed to her of the essence of fine character.

Indeed, she was not conscious of any change in her point of view. She

had resented Flossy's charge that she desired to be a social success,

and had declared that her wounded feelings were solely due to Flossy's

betrayal of friendship, not to balked social ambition. Consequently it

was no strain on her conscientiousness to feel that her real sentiments

had always been the same.

Nevertheless she scrutinized herself eagerly and long in her mirror, and

the process left her serious brow still clouded. She saw in the glass

features which seemed to her suggestive of superior womanhood, a slender

clear-cut nose, the nostrils of which dilated nervously, delicately

thin, compressed lips, a pale, transparent complexion, and clear,

steel-like, greenish-brown eyes looking straight and boldly from an

anxious forehead surmounted with a coiffure of elaborately and smoothly

arranged hair. She saw indisputable evidence that she had ceased to be

the ethically attractive, but modishly unsophisticated and physically

undeveloped girl, who had come to New York five years before, for her

figure was compact without being unduly plump, her cheeks becomingly

oval, and her toilette stylish. There were rings on her fingers, and her

neck-gear was smart. Altogether the vision was satisfactory, yet she

recognized as she gazed that her appearance and general effect were not

precisely those of Flossy, Pauline, or Mrs. Hallett Taylor. She had

always prided herself on the distinction of her face, and admired

especially its freedom from gross or unintellectual lines. She did not

intend to question its superiority now; but Flossy's offensive words

rang in her ears and caused her to gnaw her lips with annoyance. What

was the difference between them? Flossy had dared to call her common and

superficial; had dared to insinuate that she never could be a lady. A

lady? What was there in her appearance not lady-like? In what way was

she the inferior of any of them in beauty, intelligence or character?

Rigorous as was the scrutiny, the face in the mirror seemed to her an

unanswerable refutation of the slander. What was the difference? Was it

that her eyes were keener and brighter, her lips thinner and less

fleshly, her general expression more wide-awake and self-reliant? If so,

were these not signs of superiority; signs that they, not she, were

deficient in the attributes of the best modern womanhood in spite of

their affectation of exclusiveness?

The result of this process of self-examination in her looking-glass,

which was not limited to a single occasion, established more firmly than

ever in Selma's opinion the malignant falsity of the imputation, and yet

she was still haunted by it. She was tortured by the secret thought

that, though her ambition had been to become just like those other

women, she was still distinguishable from them; and moreover, that she

was baffled in her attempt to analyze the distinction. Distinguishable

even from Flossy--from Flossy, who had slighted and then reviled her!

Why had she ever faltered in her distrust of these enemies of true

American society? Yet this lingering sense of torture served to whet her

new-found purpose to have done with them forever, and to obtain the

recognition and power to which she was entitled, in spite of their

impertinence and neglect.

The announcement was made to her by Wilbur at about this time that his

plans for Wetmore College had been accepted, and that he was to be the

architect of the new buildings. As he told her his face showed a

tremulous animation which it had not worn for many weeks, and he

regarded her for a moment with shy eagerness, as though he half hoped

that this vindication of his purposes by success might prompt her to

tender some sort of apology, and thus afford him the chance to persuade

himself that he had been mistaken after all in his judgment of her.

"You must be very much pleased," she said. "And so am I, of course."

Then, after a moment of reflective abstraction, she asked with sudden

eagerness, "How long will it take to build them?"

"Two or three years, I suppose."

"And you would be obliged to go frequently to Benham?"

"In order to oversee the work I should have to make short trips there

from time to time."

"Yes. Wilbur," she exclaimed, with her exalted expression, "why

shouldn't we go to Benham to live? I have been thinking a great deal

lately about what we said to each other that time when you felt so

badly, and I have come to the conclusion that our living in New York is

what is really the trouble. I have the feeling, Wilbur, that in some

other place than this cruel, conventional city we should be happier than

we are now--indeed, very happy. Has it ever occurred to you? You see,

New York doesn't understand me; it doesn't understand you, Wilbur. It

sneers at our aspirations. Benham is a growing, earnest city--a city

throbbing with the best American spirit and energy. I suggest Benham

because we both know it so well. The college buildings would give you a

grand start, and I--we both would be in our proper sphere."

Littleton had started at the suggestion. As a drowning man will grasp at

a straw, his grieving soul for an instant entertained the plan as a

panacea for their woes. But his brow grew grave and sad under the

influence of reflection as she proceeded to set forth her reasons in her

wrapt fashion. If he had not learned to remain cold under the witchery

of her intense moods, he no longer hesitated to probe her fervid

assertions with his self-respecting common-sense.

"I would he willing to go to the ends of the earth, Selma," he answered,

"if I believed that by so doing you and I could become what we once were

to each other. But I cannot see why we should hope to be happier in

Benham than here, nor do I agree with you that this is not our proper

sphere. I do not share your sentiments in regard to New York; but

whatever its faults, New York is the place where I have established

myself and am known, and where the abilities which I possess can be

utilized and will be appreciated soonest. Benham is twenty-five years

behind this city in all things which concern art and my professional

life, as you well know."

Selma flushed. "On the contrary, I have reason to believe that Benham

has made wonderful progress in the last five years. My friends there

write that there are many new streets and beautiful buildings, and that

the spirit of the place is enthusiastic and liberal, not luxurious and

sneering. You never appreciated Benham at its true worth, Wilbur."

"Perhaps not. But we chose New York."

"Then you insist on remaining here?"

"I see no reason for sacrificing the fruits of the past five years--for

pulling myself up by the roots and making a fresh start. From a

professional point of view, I think it would be madness."

"Not even to save our happiness?" Selma's eyes swam and her lips

trembled as she spoke. She felt very miserable, and she yearned with the

desire that her husband would clasp her in his arms in a vast embrace,

and tell her that she was right and that he would go. She felt that if

he did, the horror of the past would be wiped out and loving harmony be

restored.

Wilbur's lips trembled, too. He gazed at her for a moment without

speaking, in conflict with himself; then passing his hand across his

forehead, as though he would sweep away a misty spell from his eyes,

said, "Be sensible, Selma. If we could be happy in Benham, we should be

happy here."

"Then you refuse?"

"For the present, yes."

"And I must remain here to be insulted--and a nobody."

"For God's sake, Selma, let us not renew that discussion. What you ask

is impossible at present, but I shall remember that it is your wish, and

when I begin my work at Benham the circumstances and surroundings may be

such that I shall feel willing to move."

Selma turned to the table and took up a book, dissatisfied, yet buoyed

by a new hope. She did not observe the tired lines on her husband's

face--the weariness of a soul disappointed in its most precious

aspirations.

Within the next month it happened that a terrible and unusual fatality

was the occasion of the death of both Mrs. Parsons and her daughter.

They were killed by a fall of the elevator at the hotel in which they

were living--one of those dire casualties which are liable to happen to

any one of us in these days of swift and complicated apparatus, but

which always seem remote from personal experience. This cruel blow of

fate put an end to all desire on the part of the bereaved husband and

father to remain in New York, whither he had come to live mainly to

please his women folk, as he called them. As soon as he recovered from

the bewilderment of the shock, Mr. Parsons sent for the architect who

had taken Littleton's place, and who had just begun the subservient task

of fusing diverse types of architecture in order to satisfy an American

woman's appetite for startling effect, and told him to arrange to

dispose of the lot and its immature walls to the highest bidder. His

precise plans for the future were still uncertain when Selma called on

him, and found comfort for her own miseries in ministering to his

solitude, but he expressed an inclination to return to his native

Western town, as the most congenial spot in which to end his days.

Selma, whose soul was full of Benham, suggested it as an alternative,

enlarging with contagious enthusiasm on its civic merits. The crushed

old man listened with growing attention. Already the germs of a plan for

the disposition of his large property were sprouting in his mind to

provide him with a refuge from despondency. He was a reticent man, not

in the habit of confiding his affairs until ready to act, but he paid

interested heed to Selma's eulogy of the bustling energy and rapid

growth of Benham. His preliminary thought had been that it would make

him happy to endow his native town, which was a small and inconspicuous

place, with a library building. But, as his visitor referred to the

attractions and admirable public spirit of the thriving city, which was

in the same State as his own home, he silently reasoned that residence

there need not interfere with his original project, and that he might

find a wide and more important field for his benefactions in a community

so representative of American ideas and principles.

Selma's visits of condolence to Mr. Parsons were interrupted by the

illness of her own husband. In reflecting, subsequently, she remembered

that he had seemed weary and out of sorts for several days, but her

conscious attention was invoked by his coming home early in the

afternoon, suffering from a violent chill, and manifestly in a state of

physical collapse. He went to bed at once; Selma brought blankets and a

hot-water bottle, and Dr. George Page was sent for. Dr. Page was the one

of Littleton's friends whom Selma had unsuccessfully yearned to know

better. She had never been able to understand him exactly, but he

fascinated her in spite of--perhaps because of--his bantering manner.

She found difficulty in reconciling it with his reputation for hard work

and masterly skill in his profession. She was constantly hoping to

extract from him something worthy of his large, solid face, with its

firm mouth and general expression of reserve force, but he seemed always

bent on talking nonsense in her society, and more than once the

disagreeable thought had occurred to her that he was laughing at her. He

had come to the house after her marriage now and then, but during the

past year or two she had scarcely seen him. The last time when they had

met, Selma had taxed him with his neglect of her.

His reply had been characteristically elusive and unsatisfactory. "I

will not attempt to frame excuses for my behavior, Mrs. Littleton, for

no reason which I could offer would be a justification."

But on the present occasion his greeting was grave and eager.

"Wilbur sick? I feared as much. I warned Pauline two months ago that he

was overworking, and only last week I told him that he would break down

if he did not go away for a fortnight's rest."

"I wish you had spoken to me."

Selma noted with satisfaction that there was no raillery in his manner

now. He bent his gaze on her searchingly.

"Have you not noticed that he looked ill and tired?"

She did not flinch. Why indeed should she? "A little. He tired himself,

I think, over the designs for Wetmore College, which he did in addition

to his other work. But since the award was made it has seemed to me that

he was looking better."

She started to lead the way to Wilbur's room, but the doctor paused, and

regarding her again fixedly, as though he had formed a resolution to

ferret the secrets of her soul, said laconically:

"Is he happy?"

"Happy?" she echoed.

"Has he anything on his mind, I mean--anything except his work?"

"Nothing--that is," she added, looking up at her inquisitor

with bright, interested eyes, "nothing except that he is very

conscientious--over-conscientious I sometimes think." To be bandying

psychological analyses with this able man was an edifying experience

despite her concern for Wilbur.

"I see," he answered dryly, and for an instant there was a twinkle in

his eyes. Yet he added, "To make a correct diagnosis it is important to

know all the facts of the case."

"Of course," she said solemnly, reassured in her belief that she was

being consulted and was taking part in the treatment of her husband's

malady.

She accompanied Dr. Page to Wilbur's bed-side. He conversed in a cheery

tone with his friend while he took his temperature and made what seemed

to her a comparatively brief examination. Selma jumped to the conclusion

that there was nothing serious the matter. The moment they had left the

room, the doctor's manner changed, and he said with alert concern:

"Your husband is very ill; he has pneumonia. I am going to send for a

nurse."

"A nurse? I will nurse him myself, Dr. Page."

It seemed to her the obvious thing to do. She spoke proudly, for it

flashed into her mind that here was the opportunity to redeem the

situation with Wilbur. She would tend him devotedly and when he had been

restored to health by her loving skill, perhaps he would appreciate her

at her worth, and recognize that she had thwarted him only to help him.

The doctor's brow darkened, and he said with an emphasis which was

almost stern: "Mrs. Littleton, I do not wish to alarm you, but it is

right that you should know that Wilbur's symptoms are grave. I hope to

save his life, but it can be saved only by trained skill and attendance.

Inexperienced assistance, however devoted, would be of no use in a case

like this."

"But I only wished to nurse him."

"I know it; I understand perfectly. You supposed that anyone could do

that. At least that you could. I shall return in an hour at the latest

with a nurse who was trained for three years in a hospital to fit her to

battle for valuable lives."

Selma flushed with annoyance. She felt that she was being ridiculed and

treated as though she were an incapable doll. She divined that by his

raillery he had been making fun of her, and forthwith her predilection

was turned to resentment. Not nurse her husband? Did this brow-beating

doctor realize that, as a girl, she had been the constant attendant of

her invalid father, and that more than once it had occurred to her that

her true mission in life might be to become a nurse? Training? She would

prove to him that she needed no further training. These were her

thoughts, and she felt like crying, because he had humiliated her at a

time like this. Yet she had let Dr. Page go without a word. She returned

to Wilbur and established herself beside his bed. He tried to smile at

her coming.

"I think I shall be better to-morrow. It is only a heavy cold," he said,

but already he found difficulty in speaking.

"I have come to nurse you. The blankets and hot-water bottle have made

you warmer, haven't they? Nod; you mustn't talk."

"Yes," he whispered huskily.

She felt his forehead, and it was burning. She took his hand and saying,

"Sh! You ought not to talk," held it in her own. Then there was silence

save for Wilbur's uneasy turning. It was plain that he was very

uncomfortable. She realized that he was growing worse, and though she

chose to believe that the doctor had exaggerated the seriousness of the

case in order to affront her, the thought came that he might die. She

had never considered such a possibility before. What should she do? She

would be a widow without children and without means, for she knew that

Wilbur had laid up little if anything. She would have to begin life over

again--a pathetic prospect, yet interesting. Even this conjecture of

such a dire result conjured up a variety of possible methods of

livelihood and occupation which sped through her mind.

The return of Dr. Page with a nurse cut short these painful yet

engrossing speculations. His offensive manner appeared to have exhausted

itself, but he proceeded to install his companion in Wilbur's room.

Selma would have liked to turn her out of the house, but realized that

she could not run the risk of taking issue with him at a time when her

husband's life might be in danger. With an injured air yet in silence

she beheld the deliberate yet swift preparations. Once or twice Dr. Page

asked her to procure for him some article or appliance likely to be in

the house, speaking with a crisp, business-like preoccupation which

virtually ignored her existence, yet was free from offence. His soul

evidently was absorbed by his patient, whom he observed with alert

watchfulness, issuing brief directions now and then to his white-capped,

methodical, and noiseless assistant. Selma sat with her hands before her

in a corner of the bed-room, practically ignored. The shadows deepened

and a maid announced dinner. Dr. Page looked at his watch.

"I shall pass the night here," he said.

"Is he worse?"

"The disease is making progress and must run its course. This is only

the beginning. You should eat your dinner, for you will need your

strength," he added with simple graciousness.

"But I am doing nothing," she blurted.

"If there is anything you can do I will let you know."

Their eyes met. His were gray and steady, but kind. She felt that he

chose to treat her like a child, yet that he was trying to be

considerate. She was galled, but after all, he was the doctor, and

Wilbur had the utmost confidence in him, so she must submit. She ate her

dinner, and when she returned preparations were being made for the

night. The nurse was to use a lounge at the foot of Wilbur's bed. Dr.

Page asked permission to occupy the dressing-room adjoining, so as to be

within easy call. He established himself there with a book, returning at

short intervals to look at his patient. Selma had resumed her seat. It

was dark save for a night lamp. In the stillness the only sounds were

the ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece and Wilbur's labored

breathing. It seemed as though he were struggling for his life. What

should she do if he died? Why was she debarred from tending him? It was

cruel. Tears fell on her hand. She stared into the darkness, twisting

her fingers, until at last, as though to show her independence, she

stepped to the bed on tip-toe. Wilbur's eyes were open. He put out his

hand, and, taking hers, touched it to his burning lips.

"Good-night, Selma," he murmured.

She stooped and kissed his brow. "I am here beside you, Wilbur."

A figure stood behind her. She turned, expecting to encounter the

white-capped sentinel. It was Dr. Page. He touched her gently on the

arm. "We must let him rest now. You can do no good. Won't you go to

bed?"

"Oh, no. I shall sit with him all night."

"Very well. But it is important that you should not speak to him," he

said with another touch of emphasis.

She resumed her seat and sat out the night, wide-awake and conscious of

each movement on Wilbur's part. He was restless and moaning. Twice the

nurse summoned the doctor, and two or three times he came to the

bed-side of his own accord. She felt slighted, and once, when it seemed

to her that Wilbur was in distress and anxious for something, she

forestalled the nurse.

"He wishes water," Selma said sternly, and she fetched a glass from the

table and let him drink.

Dr. Page took breakfast with her. She was conscious that somehow her

vigil had affected his estimate of her, for his speech was frank and

direct, as though he considered her now more fit to be treated with

confidence.

"He is very ill, but he is holding his own. If you will lie down for a

few hours, I will call you to take Miss Barker's place while she rests."

This was gratifying, and tended to assuage her bitterness. But the

doctor appeared to her anxious, and spent only a few minutes at table.

He said as he rose,

"Excuse me, but Pauline--does she know?"

"I will send her word."

Selma would have been glad to dispense with the presence of her

sister-in-law. Their relations had not been sympathetic since the

episode of Miss Bailey, and, though Pauline still dined at the house

once a week, the intercourse between them had become reserved and

perfunctory. She grudged sharing with her what might be Wilbur's last

hours. She grudged, too, permitting her to help to nurse him, especially

now that her own capabilities were in the way of being recognized, for

she remembered Dr. Page's partiality for her. Still, she appreciated

that she must let her know.

Pauline arrived speedily, and Selma found herself sobbing in her arms.

She was pleased by this rush of feeling on her own part, and, confirmed

in her belief that her sister-in-law was cold because she did not break

down, and, shrinking from her efforts to comfort her, she quickly

regained her self-control. Pauline seemed composed and cheerful, but the

unceasing watchfulness and manifest tension of the doctor were

disconcerting, and as the afternoon shadows deepened, the two women sat

grave and silent, appalled by the suspicion that Wilbur's condition was

eminently critical. Yet Dr. Page volunteered to say to them presently:

"If his heart holds out, I am hopeful that he will pull through."

Dr. Page had given up all his duties for the sake of Wilbur. He never

left the house, manifestly devoting, as shown by the unflagging,

absorbed scrutiny with which he noted every symptom and change, the

fullest measure of his professional skill and a heart-felt purpose to

save his friend's life if human brain or human concentration could

avail. And yet he stated to Pauline in Selma's hearing that, beyond

keeping up the patient's strength by stimulants, science was practically

helpless, and that all they could do was to wait.

And so they sat, still and unemployed watchers, while day turned into

darkness. From time to time, by the night-lamp, Selma saw Pauline

smiling at her as though in defiance of whatever fate might have in

store. Selma herself felt the inclination neither to smile nor to weep.

She sat looking before her with her hands clasped, resenting the

powerlessness of the few remedies used, and impatient of the inactivity

and relentless silence. Why did not the doctor adopt more stringent

measures? Surely there was something to be done to enable Wilbur to

combat the disease. Dr. Page had the reputation of being a skilful

physician, and, presumably, was doing his best; but was it not possible,

was it not sensible, to suppose there was a different and better way of

treating pneumonia--a way which was as superior to the conventional and

stereotyped method as the true American point of view was superior in

other matters?

It came over her as a conviction that if she were elsewhere--in Benham,

for instance--her husband could be readily and brilliantly cured. This

impassive mode of treatment seemed to her of one piece with the entire

Littleton surroundings, the culmination of which was Pauline smiling in

the face of death. She yearned to do something active and decided. Yet,

how helpless she was! This arbitrary doctor was following his own

dictates without a word to anyone, and without suspecting the existence

of wiser expedients.

In a moment of rebellion she rose, and swiftly approaching Wilbur's bed,

exclaimed, fervently: "Is there not something we can do for you,

darling? Something you feel will do you good?"

The sufferer faintly smiled and feebly shook his head, and at the same

moment she was drawn away by a firm hand, and Dr. Page whispered: "He is

very weak. Entire rest is his only chance. The least exertion is a drain

on his vitality."

"Surely there must be some medicine--some powerful application which

will help his breathing," she retorted, and she detected again the

semblance of laughter in the doctor's eyes.

"Everything which modern science can do is being done, Mrs. Littleton."

What was there but to resume her seat and helpless vigil? Modern

science? The word grated on her ears. It savored to her of narrow

medical tyranny, and distrust of aspiring individuality. Wilbur was

dying, and all modern science saw fit to do was to give him brandy and

wait. And she, his wife--the one who loved him best in the world, was

powerless to intervene. Nay, she had intervened, and modern science had

mocked her.

Selma's eyes, like the glint of two swords, bent themselves on her

husband's bed. A righteous anger reinforced her grieving heart and made

her spirit militant, while the creeping hours passed. Over and over she

pursued the tenor of her protest until her wearied system sought refuge

in sleep. She was not conscious of slumbering, but she reasoned later

that she must have slept, for she suddenly became conscious of a touch

on the shoulder and a vibrant utterance of her name.

"Selma, Selma, you must come at once."

Her returning wits realized that it was Pauline who was arousing her and

urging her to Wilbur's bed-side. She sprang forward, and saw the light

of existence fading from her husband's eyes into the mute dulness of

death. Dr. Page was bending over him in a desperate, but vain, effort to

force some restorative between his lips. At the foot of the bed stood

the nurse, with an expression which betrayed what had occurred.

"What is it, Wilbur? What have they done to you? What has happened?"

Selma cried, looking from one to the other, though she had discerned the

truth in a flash. As she spoke, Dr. Page desisted from his undertaking,

and stepped back from the bed, and instantly Selma threw herself on her

knees and pressed her face upon Littleton's lifeless features. There was

no response. His spirit had departed.

"His heart could not stand the strain. That is the great peril in

pneumonia," she heard the doctor murmur.

"He is dead," she cried, in a horrified outburst, and she looked up at

the pitying group with the gaze of an afflicted lioness. She caught

sight of Pauline smiling through her tears--that same unprotesting,

submissive smile--and holding out her hands to her. Selma, rising,

turned away, and as her sister-in-law sought to put her arm about her,

evaded the caress.

"No--no," she said. Then facing her, added, with aggrieved conviction:

"I cannot believe that Wilbur's death was necessary. Why was not

something energetic done?"

Pauline flushed, but, ascribing the calumny to distress, she held her

peace, and said, simply:

"Sh! dear. You will understand better by and by."

BOOK III.

THE SUCCESS

CHAPTER I.

It had never occurred to Selma that she might lose her husband. Even

with his shortcomings he was so important to her from the point of view

of support, and her scheme of life was so interwoven with his, she had

taken for granted that he would live as long as she desired. She felt

that destiny had a second time been signally cruel to her, and that she

was drinking deeply of the cup of sorrow. She was convinced that Wilbur,

had he lived, would have moved presently to Benham, in accordance with

her desire, and that they would then have been completely happy again.

Instead he was dead and under the sod, and she was left to face the

world with no means save $5,000 from his life insurance and the natural

gifts and soul which God had given her.

She appreciated that she was still a comparatively young woman, and

that, notwithstanding her love for Wilbur, she had been unable as his

wife to exhibit herself to the world in her true light. She was free

once more to lead her own life, and to obtain due recognition for her

ideas and principles. She deplored with a grief which depleted the curve

of her oval cheeks the premature end of her husband's artistic

career--an aspiring soul cut off on the threshold of success--yet,

though of course she never squarely made the reflection, she was aware

that the development of her own life was more intrinsically valuable to

the world than his, and that of the two it was best that he should be

taken. She was sad, sore against Providence, and uncertain as to the

future. But she was keenly conscious that she had a future, and she was

eager to be stirring. Still, for the moment, the outlook was perplexing.

What was she to do? First, and certainly, she desired to shake the dust

of New York from her feet at the earliest opportunity. She inclined

toward Benham as a residence, and to the lecture platform, supplemented

by literature, and perhaps eventually the stage, as a means of

livelihood. She believed in her secret soul that she could act. Her

supposed facility in acquiring the New York manner had helped to

generate that impression. It seemed to her more than probable that with

a little instruction as to technical stage business she could gain fame

and fortune almost at once as an actress of tragedy or melodrama. Comedy

she despised as unworthy of her. But the stage appealed to her only on

the ground of income. The life of an actress lacked the ethical

character which she liked to associate with whatever she did. To be

sure, a great actress was an inspiring influence. Nevertheless she

preferred some more obviously improving occupation, provided it would

afford a suitable support. Yet was it fitting that she should be

condemned to do hack work for her daily bread instead of something to

enlighten and uplift the community in which she lived? She considered

that she had served her apprenticeship by teaching school and writing

for the newspapers, and she begrudged spending further time in

subordinate work. Better on the whole a striking success on the stage

than this, for after she had made a name and money she could retire and

devote herself to more congenial undertakings. Nevertheless her

conscience told her that a theatrical career must be regarded as a last

resort, and she appreciated the importance of not making a hasty

decision as to what she would do. The lease of her house would not

expire for six months, and it seemed to her probable that even in New

York, where she was not understood, someone would realize her value as a

manager of some intellectual or literary movement and make overtures to

her. She wrote to Mrs. Earle and received a cordial response declaring

that Benham would welcome her with open arms, a complimentary though

somewhat vague certificate. She sent a line also to Mr. Dennison,

informing him that she hoped soon to submit some short stories for his

magazine, and received a guarded but polite reply to the effect that he

would be glad to read her manuscripts.

While she was thus deliberating and winding up her husband's affairs,

Mr. Parsons, who had been absent from New York at the time of Wilbur's

decease, called and bluntly made the announcement that he had bought a

house in Benham, was to move there immediately, and was desirous that

she should live with him as his companion and housekeeper on liberal

pecuniary terms.

"I am an old man," he said, "and my health is not what it used to be. I

need someone to look after me and to keep me company. I like your chatty

ways, and, if I have someone smart and brisk around like you, I sha'n't

be thinking so often that I'm all alone in the world. It'll be dull for

you, I guess; but you'll be keeping quiet for the present wherever you

are; and when the time comes that you wish to take notice again I won't

stand in the way of your amusing yourself."

To this homely plea Selma returned a beatific smile. It struck her as an

ideal arrangement; a golden opportunity for him, and convenient and

promising for her. In the first place she was accorded the mission of

cheering and guarding the declining years of this fine old man, whom she

had come to look on with esteem and liking. And at the same time as his

companion--the virtual mistress of his house, for she knew perfectly

well that as a genuine American he was not offering her a position less

than this--she would be able to shape her life gradually along congenial

lines, and to wait for the ripe occasion for usefulness to present

itself. In an instant a great load was lifted from her spirit. She was

thankful to be spared conscientious qualms concerning the career of an

actress, and thankful to be freed at one bound from her New York

associations--especially with Pauline, whose attitude toward her had

been further strained by her continued conviction that Wilbur's life

might have been saved. Indeed, so completely alleviating was Mr.

Parsons's proposition that, stimulated by the thought that he was to be

a greater gainer from the plan than she, Selma gave rein to her emotions

by exclaiming with fervor:

"Usually I like to think important plans over before coming to a

decision; but this arrangement seems to me so sensible and natural and

mutually advantageous, Mr. Parsons, that I see no reason why I shouldn't

accept your offer now. God grant that I may be a worthy daughter to

you--and in some measure take the place of the dear ones you have lost."

"That's what I want," he said. "I took a liking to you the first time we

met. Then it's settled?"

"Yes. I suppose," she added, after a moment's hesitation--speaking with

an accent of scorn--"I suppose there may be people--people like those

who are called fashionable here--who will criticise the arrangement on

the ground--er--of propriety, because I'm not a relation, and you are

not very old. But I despise conventions such as that. They may be

necessary for foreigners; but they are not meant for self-respecting

American women. I fancy my sister-in-law may not wholly approve of it,

but I don't know. I shall take pleasure in showing her and the rest that

it would be wicked as well as foolish to let a flimsy suggestion of evil

interfere with the happiness of two people situated as we are."

Mr. Parsons seemed puzzled at first, as though he did not understand

exactly what she meant, but when she concluded he said:

"You come to me, as you have yourself stated, on the footing of a

daughter. If folk are not content to mind their own business, I guess we

needn't worry because they don't happen to be suited. There's one or two

relations of mine would be glad to be in your shoes, but I don't know of

anything in the Bible or the Constitution of the United States which

forbids an old man from choosing the face he'll have opposite to him at

table."

"Or forbids the interchange of true sympathy--that priceless privilege,"

answered Selma, her liking for a sententious speech rising paramount

even to the pleasure caused her by the allusion to her personal

appearance. Nevertheless it was agreeable to be preferred to his female

cousins on the score of comeliness.

Accordingly, within six months of her husband's death, the transition to

Benham was accomplished, and Selma was able to encounter the

metaphorically open arms, referred to by Mrs. Earle, without feeling

that she was a less important person than when she had been whisked off

as a bride by Littleton, the rising architect. She was returning as the

confidential, protecting companion of a successful, self-made old man,

who was relying on her to make his new establishment a pleasure to

himself and a credit to the wide-awake city in which he had elected to

pass his remaining days. She was returning to a house on the River Drive

(the aristocratic boulevard of Benham, where the river Nye makes a broad

sweep to the south); a house not far distant from the Flagg mansion at

which, as Mrs. Lewis Babcock, she had looked askance as a monument

inimical to democratic simplicity. Wilbur had taught her that it was

very ugly, and now that she saw it again after a lapse of years she was

pleased to note that her new residence, though slightly smaller, had a

more modern and distinguished air.

The new house was of rough-hewn red sandstone, combining solid dignity

and some artistic merit, for Benham had not stood still architecturally

speaking. The River Drive was a grotesque, yet on the whole encouraging

exhibit. Most of the residences had been designed by native talent, but

under the spur of experiment even the plain, hard-headed builders had

been constrained to dub themselves "architects," and adopt modern

methods; and here and there stood evidences that the seed planted by

Mrs. Hallett Taylor and Littleton had borne fruit, for Benham possessed

at least half a dozen private houses which could defy criticism.

The one selected by Mr. Parsons was not of these half dozen; but the

plain, hard-headed builder who had erected it for the original owner was

shrewd and imitative, and had avoided ambitious deviations from the type

he wished to copy--the red sandstone, swell front variety, which ten

years before would have seemed to the moral sense of Benham unduly

cheerful. Mr. Parsons was so fortunate as to be able to buy it just

after it had been completed, together with a stable and half an acre of

ground, from one of the few Benhamites whose financial ventures had

ended in disaster, and who was obliged to sell. It was a more ambitious

residence than Mr. Parsons had desired, but it was the most available,

inasmuch as he could occupy it at once. It had been painted and

decorated within, but was unfurnished. Mr. Parsons, as a practical

business man, engaged the builder to select and supply the bedroom and

solid fittings, but it occurred to him to invite Selma to choose the

furnishings for what he called the show rooms.

Selma was delighted to visit once more the New York stores, free from

the bridle of Wilbur's criticism and unrestrained by economy. She found

to her satisfaction that the internal decoration of the new house was

not unlike that of the Williamses' first habitation--that is, gay and

bedizened; and she was resolved in the selection of her draperies and

ornaments to buy things which suggested by their looks that they were

handsome, and whose claim to distinction was not mere sober

unobtrusiveness. She realized that some of her purchases would have made

Wilbur squirm, but since his death she felt more sure than ever that

even where art was concerned his taste was subdued, timid, and

unimaginative. For instance, she believed that he would not have

approved her choice of light-blue satin for the upholstery of the

drawing-room, nor of a marble statue--an allegorical figure of Truth,

duly draped, as its most conspicuous ornament.

Selma was spared the embarrassment of her first husband's presence.

Divorce is no bar to ordinary feminine curiosity as to the whereabouts

of a former partner for life, and she had proved no exception to the

rule. Mrs. Earle had kept her posted as to Babcock's career since their

separation, and what she learned had tended merely to demonstrate the

wisdom and justice of her action. As a divorced man he had, after a

time, resumed the free and easy, coarse companionship to which he had

been partial before his marriage, and had gradually become a heavy

drinker. Presently he had neglected his business, a misfortune of which

a rival concern had been quick to take advantage. The trend of his

affairs had been steadily downhill, and had come to a crisis three

months before Littleton's death, when, in order to avoid insolvency, he

sold out his factory and business to the rival company, and accepted at

the same hands the position of manager in a branch office in a city

further west. Consequently, Selma could feel free from molestation or an

appeal to her sensibilities. She preferred to think of Babcock as

completely outside her life, as dead to her, and she would have disliked

the possibility of meeting him in the flesh while shopping on Central

avenue. It had been the only drawback to her proposed return to Benham.

During the years of Selma's second marriage Benham had waxed rapidly in

population and importance. People had been attracted thither by the

varied industries of the city--alike those in search of fortune, and

those offering themselves for employment in the mills, oil-works, and

pork factories; and at the date of Littleton's death it boasted over one

hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants. It was already the second city

of the State in point of population, and was freely acknowledged to be

the most wide-awake and enterprising. The civic spirit of Benham was

reputed to be constantly and increasingly alert and progressive,

notwithstanding the river Nye still ran the color of bean-soup above

where it was drawn for drinking purposes, and the ability of a plumber,

who had become an alderman, to provide a statue or lay out a public park

was still unquestioned by the majority. Even to-day, when trained

ability has obtained recognition in many quarters, the Benhamites at

large are apt to resent criticism as aristocratic fault-finding; yet at

this time that saving minority of souls who refused to regard everything

which Benham did as perfection, and whose subsequent forlorn hopes and

desperately won victories have little by little taught the community

wisdom, if not modesty, was beginning to utter disagreeable strictures.

Mrs. Margaret Rodney Earle, when she opened her arms to Selma and folded

her to her bosom with a hug of welcome, was raging inwardly against this

minority, and they had not been many minutes together before she gave

utterance to her grievance.

"You have come just in time to give us your sympathy and support in an

important matter, my dear. Miss Bailey has been nominated for the School

Board at the instance of the Executive Committee of the Benham

Institute. We supposed that she would have plain sailing, for many of

the voters have begun to recognize the justice of having one or two

women on the School Board, and by hard work we had succeeded in getting

her name put on the Democratic ticket. Judge, then, of our feelings when

we learned that the Reform Club had decided to blacklist and refuse to

support at the polls three of the six names on the ticket, including our

Luella Bailey, on the ground of lack of experience in educational

matters. The Reform Club has nominated three other persons--one of them

a woman. And who do you suppose is the head and front of this unholy

crusade?"

"It sounds like Mrs. Hallett Taylor," answered Selma, sternly.

"How did you know? What made you think so? How clever of you, Selma!

Yes, she is the active spirit."

"It was she who was at the bottom of Miss Bailey's rejection when she

was my candidate for a position at Everdean College."

"To be sure. I remember. This Reform Club, which was started a year or

so ago, and which sets itself up as a censor of what we are trying to do

in Benham, has nominated a Miss Snow, who is said to have travelled

abroad studying the school systems of Europe."

"As if that would help us in any way."

"Precisely. She has probably come home with her head full of

queer-fangled notions which would be out of keeping with our

institutions. Just the reason why she shouldn't be chosen. We are

greatly troubled as to the result, dear, for though we expect to win,

the prejudice of some men against voting for a woman under any

circumstances will operate against our candidate, so that this action of

the Reform Club may possibly be the means of electing one of the men on

the Republican ticket instead of Luella. Miss Snow hasn't the ghost of a

chance. But that isn't all. These Reform Club nominations are

preliminary to a bill before the Legislature to take away from the

people the right to elect members of the school committee, and

substitute an appointive board of specialists to serve during long terms

of good behavior. As Mr. Lyons says, that's the real issue involved.

It's quixotic and it isn't necessary. Haven't we always prided ourselves

on our ability to keep our public schools the best in the world? And is

there any doubt, Selma, that either you or I would be fully qualified to

serve on the School Board though we haven't made any special study of

primers and geographies? Luella Bailey hasn't had any special training,

but she's smart and progressive, and the poor thing would like the

recognition. We fixed on her because we thought it would help her to get

ahead, for she has not been lucky in obtaining suitable employment. As

Mr. Lyons says, a serious principle is involved. He has come out strong

against the movement and declares that it is a direct menace to the

intelligence of the plain people of the United States and a subtle

invasion of their liberties."

"Mr. Lyons? What Mr. Lyons is that?"

"Yes, dear, it is the same one who managed your affair. Your Mr. Lyons.

He has become an important man since you left Benham. He speaks

delightfully, and is likely to receive the next Democratic nomination

for Congress. He is in accord with all liberal movements, and a foe of

everything exclusive, unchristian or arbitrary. He has declared his

intention to oppose the bill when it is introduced, and I shall devote

myself body and soul to working against it in case Luella Bailey is

defeated. It is awkward because Mrs. Taylor is a member of the

Institute, though she doesn't often come, and the club has never been in

politics. But here when there was a chance to do Luella Bailey a good

turn, and I'd been able through some of my newspaper friends to get her

on the ticket, it seems to me positively unchristian--yes, that's the

word--to try to keep her off the board. There are some things of course,

Luella couldn't do--and if the position were superintendent of a

hospital, for instance, I dare say that special training would be

advantageous, though nursing can be picked up very rapidly by a keen

intelligence: but to raise such objections in regard to a candidate for

the School Board seems to me ridiculous as well as cruel. What

we need there are open, receptive minds, free from fads and

prejudice--wide-awake, progressive enthusiastic intellects. It worries

me to see the Institute dragged into politics, but it is my duty to

resist this undemocratic movement."

"Surely," exclaimed Selma, with fire. "I am thankful I have come in time

to help you. I understand exactly. I have been passing through just such

experiences in New York--encountering and being rebuffed by just such

people as those who belong to this Reform Club. My husband was beginning

to see through them and to recognize that we were both tied hand and

foot by their narrowness and lack of enthusiasm when he died. If he had

lived, we would have moved to Benham shortly in order to escape from

bondage. And one thing is certain, dear Mrs. Earle," she continued with

intensity, "we must not permit this carping spirit of hostility to

original and spontaneous effort to get a foothold in Benham. We must

crush it, we must stamp it out."

"Amen, my dear. I am delighted to hear you talk like that. I declare you

would be very effective in public if you were roused."

"Yes, I am roused, and I am willing to speak in public if it becomes

necessary in order to keep Benham uncontaminated by the insidious canker

of exclusiveness and the distrust of aspiring souls which a few narrow

minds choose to term untrained. Am _I_ untrained? Am _I_ superficial and

common? Do _I_ lack the appearance and behavior of a lady?"

Selma accompanied these interrogatories with successive waves of the

hand, as though she were branding so many falsehoods.

"Assuredly not, Selma. I consider you"--and here Mrs. Earle gasped in

the process of choosing her words--"I consider you one of our best

trained and most independent minds--cultured, a friend of culture, and

an earnest seeker after truth. If you are not a lady, neither am I,

neither is anyone in Benham. Why do you ask, dear?" And without waiting

for an answer, Mrs. Earle added with a touch of material wisdom, "You

return to Benham under satisfactory, I might say, brilliant auspices.

You will be the active spirit in this fine house, and be in a position

to promote worthy intellectual and moral movements."

"Thank heavens, yes. And to combat those which are unworthy and

dangerous," exclaimed Selma, clasping her fingers, "I can count on the

support of Mr. Parsons, God bless him! And it would seem at last as if I

had, a real chance--a real chance at last. Mrs. Earle--Cora--I know you

can keep a secret. I feel almost as though you were my mother, for there

is no one else now to whom I can talk like this. I have not been happy

in New York. I thought I was happy at first, but lately we have been

miserable. My marriage--er--they drove my husband to the wall, and

killed him. He was sensitive and noble, but not practical, and he fell a

victim to the mercenary despotism of our surroundings. When I tried to

help him they became jealous of me, and shut their doors in our faces."

"You poor, poor child. I have suspected for some time that something was

wrong."

"It nearly killed me. But now, thank heaven, I breathe freely once more.

I have lost my dear husband, but I have escaped from that prison-house;

and with his memory to keep me merciless, I am eager to wage war against

those influences which are conspiring to fetter the free-born soul and

stifle spontaneity. Luella Bailey must be elected, and these people be

taught that foreign ideas may flourish in New York, but cannot obtain

root in Benham."

Mrs. Earle wiped her eyes, which were running over as the result of this

combination of confidence and eloquence.

"If you don't mind my saying so, Selma, I never saw anyone so much

improved as you. You always had ideas, and were well equipped, but now

you speak as though you could remove mountains if necessary. It's a

blessing for us as well as you that you're back among us once more."