XXVI

A year later, in the early days of spring and the closing weeks of the

next State Assembly, Carlton Howard and his son Paul sat conversing in

Mrs. Wilson's study. They had been dining with her, and on rising from

the table she had invited them to keep her company in her private

apartment while she busied herself with matters incident to the

entertainment she was to give in a little more than a week to the

members of the American Society for the Discussion of Social Problems,

as the crowning festivity to its four days' meeting in Benham.

Mrs. Wilson was elated over the opportunity to mingle the thoughtful

people of the country--some of whom, as seen at annual meetings of the

society elsewhere, appeared to her to have cultivated intellectual

aptness at the expense of the graces of life--and Benham's fashionable

coterie. She reasoned that the experience would be stimulating for

both, and with her secretary at her elbow she was absorbed in planning

various features to give distinction to the event. Her hospitality,

from one point of view, would not be the first of its kind in the

annals of the society, for at each of the last two meetings--the one in

Chicago, the other in St. Louis--there had been an attempt to entertain

the members more lavishly than hitherto. So in a sense she felt

herself on her mettle to set before her visitors the best which Benham

afforded, and so effectively as to eclipse the past and at the same

time bring a little nearer that appropriate blending between beauty and

wisdom to which she looked forward as an ultimate social aim.

She had been of many minds as to what form her entertainment should

take, and had finally settled on this programme: Dinner was to be

served at her house to the seventy-five visiting and resident members

and a sprinkling of Benham's most socially gifted spirits, at little

tables holding six or eight. A reception was to follow, to which the

rest of her acquaintance was invited to meet the investigators of

social problems. At this there was to be a vaudeville performance by

artists from New York, after which, before supper, six of Benham's

prettiest and most fashionable girls were to pass around, as keepsakes

for the visitors, silver ornaments reminiscent of Benham in their shape

or design. Mrs. Wilson was not wholly satisfied with this programme;

she was conscious that it lacked complete novelty and was not

æsthetically so convincing as some of her previous efforts; but

considering the numbers to be fed--and she was determined that these

thoughtful pilgrims should taste delicious food faultlessly served for

once in their lives--she could think of no more subtle form of

hospitality which would give them the opportunity to realize the

artistic significance of her establishment.

There were so many things to be attended to, a portion of which

occurred to her on the spur of the moment, that Mrs. Wilson had

requested her secretary to make long working hours, and occasionally,

as on this day, to protract them through the evening. Constance was at

her desk in the room appropriated to her use, which led out of Mrs.

Wilson's study. The door was open, and where she sat it was easy to

distinguish the conversation which went on there. When Mrs. Wilson

needed her she touched a silver bell far more melodious in its tone

that the squeak of electric communication. Constance had already

exchanged greetings with her employer's brother and nephew, whose

random dialogue, broken by the digestive pauses which are apt to occur

after a good dinner, provided a cosey stimulus to Mrs. Wilson's

musings. Mrs. Wilson enjoyed the feeling that she was in the bosom of

her family, and that, at the same time, absorbed in her cogitations,

she need give no more than a careless ear to the talk of railroad

earnings and other purely masculine concerns. She was pleased too by

the knowledge that Lucille was coming in a few days to pay her a visit,

bringing her granddaughter and the new Nicholson baby, a boy. Her new

son-in-law also was coming, and she could not help feeling elated at

the prospect of letting Benham see that the marriage which ought to

have been a failure had turned out surprisingly well, and that her

daughter was a reputable and somewhat elegant figure in society--not

exactly the woman she had meant her to be, but immeasurably superior to

what she had at one time feared. She was aware in her heart that

logically, according to her standards, Lucille was not a person to be

made much of socially, and yet she intended her and her husband to be a

feature of her entertainment, and she felt sure that her acquaintance

would regard them as such. Though the inconsistency troubled her,

inducing, if she stopped to think, spiritual qualms, maternal instinct

jealously stifled reflection, and, furthermore, pursuing its natural

bent, was rejoicing in the opportunity. Once, when interrogated

sharply by conscience, in the watches of the night, she had satisfied

her intelligence by answering back that her behavior was ostrich-like

but human. Since the rest of her world failed to turn a cold shoulder

on Lucille, was it for her to withhold the welcome befitting an only

child?

Paul Howard was now a Congressman-elect. His canvass for the

nomination the previous autumn had been successful, and the rumors in

circulation as to the sum which he had paid over to his manager to

accomplish this result by methods more or less savoring of bribery,

were still rife. These had reached Paul's ears, and he was unable to

deny that the most sensational figures were far in excess of the actual

truth. Concerning the rest of the indictment, he could say literally

that he knew nothing definite. He had drawn checks and asked no

questions. But in his secret soul he had no doubts as to its

substantial accuracy, and after the first flush of victory was over the

edge of his self-satisfaction had been dulled by regret at the moral

price which he had been obliged to pay in order to become a

Congressman. Yet he had comforted himself with the thought that

otherwise he could not have won the nomination, and that he intended to

become an exemplary and useful member. So by this time he had ceased

to dwell on the irretrievable and was enjoying the consciousness that

he was to go to Washington, where he hoped to make his mark. Who could

tell? With his means and popularity he might eventually become a

United States Senator, or secure some desirable diplomatic appointment.

Paul had been spending a few days in New York, and personal business

matters formed at first the topic of conversation between the two men.

When presently the younger inquired if anything of general interest had

happened in Benham during his absence, his father frowned and said:

"That man Perry is pressing his socialistic legacy tax bill."

Paul looked interested. He understood the allusion, for shortly

previous to his departure for New York, in consequence of his father's

animadversions, he had taken occasion to see Gordon and to discuss the

question with him.

"I object to the principle; it's an entering wedge," continued Mr.

Howard. "When you say that because I leave a larger estate than you,

my estate shall pay a larger proportionate tax than yours, you

confiscate property. It is only another step to make the ratio of

increase such that after a certain sum all will be appropriated by the

state. It would be a blow at individual enterprise, and so at the

stability of the family. If you deprive men of the right to accumulate

and to leave to their children the full fruits of their industry and

brains, you take away the great incentive to surmount obstacles and to

excel."

The banker in broaching the subject had uttered Gordon's name with

denunciatory clearness, so that Constance heard it distinctly. Her

spirit rose in protest at the condemning tone, and she paused in her

occupation to listen. As Mr. Howard proceeded she recognized the

character of his grievance. In the last letter Gordon had written her,

now more than a month previous, he had mentioned the fact that he was

interested in the success of what he termed the progressive legacy tax

bill, and she had closely followed its course in the legislature. She

knew that the committee to which it was referred had reported in its

favor by a majority of one; she had also gathered, from what she read

in the newspapers, that it was regarded as the most important public

measure of the session, and was to be hotly debated. While she sought

to smother her personal feelings, so that she might give due

consideration to Mr. Howard's argument, he paused, and Paul's voice

retorted:

"I mentioned the one hundred per cent. argument to Gordon Perry, and he

smiled at it. He said that so unreasonable and oppressive an extreme

was out of the question, and a mere bogy."

"Will he guarantee it?" demanded the banker sternly. "He cannot; he

can answer only for the legislative body of which he is a member. If

the present bill passes, why may not an Assembly twenty-five years

hence declare that the public good--meaning the necessary tax levy for

the expenses of an extravagant socialistic republic--demands that all

which any man dies possessed of in excess of half a million dollars

should, by the operation of a sliding scale of percentage, be

confiscated by the State?"

"But on the other hand is it really unjust to tax the estate of one,

who dies possessed of a fortune larger than is sufficient to satisfy

every craving of his heirs, considerably more in proportion than that

of the citizen of moderate means whose children need every dollar?

That is what Don Perry would answer. Moreover, this bill is tolerably

easy on the children of the rich, is rather more severe on brothers and

sisters than on lineal descendants, and so on through the family tree.

The people who inherit millions from a cousin are scarcely to be pitied

if the State steps in and takes a respectable slice."

"To hear you talk one would imagine you were a supporter of the

measure," said his father haughtily, recognizing Paul's proclivity to

take the opposite side of an argument, but evidently regarding the

subject as too serious for economic philandering.

Paul laughed. "I suppose I should vote against it on general

principles--meaning that it's best to hold on to what one has as long

as possible. But it's one of the sanest attempts to get at the surplus

accumulations of the prosperous for the benefit of everybody else which

has thus far been devised. Indeed, we're not pioneers in this--in

fact, rather behind the times as a democratic nation. It has been

introduced already with success, for instance, in the republic of

Switzerland, and in Australia and New Zealand."

Mr. Howard made a gesture of impatience. "Very likely. The two

last-named countries are the hot-bed of socialistic experiments. Will

you tell me," he added, with slow emphasis, "what society is to gain by

disintegrating large fortunes acquired by energy and thrift? I myself

have given away three million dollars for hospitals, libraries, and

educational endowments in the last ten years. Will the State make a

better use of the surplus, as you call it?"

"The trouble is, father, that some multi-millionaires are less generous

than you. Evidently the State is of the opinion that the returns would

foot up larger under a compulsory law than under the present voluntary

system."

"Up to this time personal individuality has been the distinguishing

trait of the American people. I believe that the nation has too much

sense to sacrifice the rights of the individual to----"

He paused, seeking the fit phrase to express his meaning, and was

glibly anticipated by Paul.

"To the envious demands of the mob. That is one way of putting it.

Gordon Perry's statement would be that society has reached the point

where the so-called vested rights of the individual must now and again

be sacrificed on the altar of the common good, and that a moderate bill

like this is the modern scientific method of rehabilitating the meaning

of the word justice."

Unable to see the disputants, but listening with all her ears,

Constance recognized the argument. The common good! Here was the same

issue between the individual on one side and the community on the

other; and this time Gordon was the champion of the State against the

individual. Clearly he acknowledged the obligation--the soundness of

the principle provided that the sacrifice would redound to the benefit

of civilization. Yet the same mind which demanded a progressive legacy

tax bill in the name of human justice rejected an inflexible mandate

against remarriage as a cruel infringement on the rights of two souls

as against the world. There could be only one explanation of the

inconsistency; namely, that he believed profoundly that such a mandate

was not for the common good. She knew this already, yet somehow its

presentation in this parallel form struck her imagination. While thus

she mused Constance heard Mr. Howard say in response to Paul's last

sally:

"I request that you will not entrust to that young man any more of the

firm's business. I prefer an attorney with less speculative ambitions."

Paul laughed again. "As you will, father. Gordon Perry has all the

practice he can attend to without ours. He is hopelessly on his feet

so far as our disapproval--or even a boycott--is concerned."

"And his bill will not pass," said the banker, with the concise

assurance of one who knows whereof he is speaking, and is conscious of

reserve power. "I have sent for the chairman of our State Committee."

"If the party is against it, you know I am a good party man, father."

"It isn't a question of party. It goes deeper than that; it's

fundamental. I've arranged for a conference----"

At this point Mr. Howard saw fit to lower his voice. It was evident to

Constance that he was imparting secrets, and revealing the machinations

by which he expected to defeat or side-track the obnoxious measure. If

only she could hear and warn Gordon! But what they said was no longer

audible. The men's talk had dropped to an inarticulate murmur, which

continued for a few moments, and then was interrupted by Mrs. Wilson's

dulcet tones. The change of key had attracted her attention, which

already in subconsciousness had followed the thread of the dialogue,

though her deliberate thoughts were far away.

"I have been listening to you two people," she said aloud, "and it is

an interesting theme. I agree with you, my dear Paul, academically; as

an eventual sociological development the surplus should be appropriated

for the public good. But I wonder if we are quite ready for it yet.

In other words, can the community--the State--the mass be trusted to

administer the revenues thus acquired so as to produce more wholesome

and beneficent results for the general weal than are now being fostered

by the wealthy and enlightened humanitarian few under the existing

laws? In the present stage of our civilization might not the standards

of efficiency be lowered by such a policy, and the true development of

art and beauty be arrested? There is my doubt."

Her brother's response had the ring of an epigram. "To the end of

time, Miriam, human affairs must be managed by the capable few, or the

many will suffer. If you deprive able men of the power of

accumulation, the price of bread will soon be dearer."

"And what the many hope for sooner or later is free champagne,"

remarked Paul.

Neither of his elders replied to this quizzical utterance, and there

was a brief silence. Then Mrs. Wilson stepped to the doorway of the

anteroom and told Constance that she did not require her services

further that evening. She had suddenly remembered the former intimacy

between her secretary and the protagonist of the bill.

For the next week Constance diligently studied the newspapers for

information in regard to the mooted measure. The entire community

seemed suddenly aroused to the significance of the issue, and the daily

press teemed with reading matter in relation thereto. The debate on

the occasion of the second reading of the bill was the most protracted

and earnest of the session. As Mr. Howard had intimated, it was not

strictly a party measure; that is, it found advocates and opponents

among the members of each of the two great political parties; only the

so-called socialistic contingent gave it undivided support. But

developments soon revealed that nearly all the conservative, eminently

respectable members of the party to which Mr. Carleton Howard belonged

were lining up in opposition to the bill on one plea or another. It

was denounced by some as dangerous, by others, as unconstitutional;

numerous amendments were offered in order to kill it by exaggerating

its radical features or to render it innocuous. Constance imagined

that she could discern the master hand of the banker in the

fluctuations of sentiment, in some of the editorials, and in the solemn

resolutions of certain commercial bodies.

It was at the third reading of the bill that Gordon made his great

speech--great from the point of view of the friends of the measure,

because it set forth without undue excitement and superfluous oratory

the essential soundness and justice of their cause. A packed house

listened in absorbed silence to the forceful, concise presentation. On

the morrow the rival merits of the controversy were still more eagerly

bruited throughout the State. Constance could restrain herself no

longer. Her lover was being stigmatized by the lips of many as an

enemy of established society, yet she must not go to him and show her

admiration and her faith. But she would write--just a line to let him

know that she understood what he was attempting, and that she was on

his side in the struggle for the common good against individualism and

the pride of wealth. By way of answer there came next day merely a

bunch of forget-me-nots addressed to her in his handwriting. She

pressed the dainty yet humble flowers to her lips, then placed them in

her breast. They seemed to express better than the pomp of roses his

steadfast allegiance to her and to humanity.

The days of the debate were those just preceding the coming of the

pilgrims belonging to the Society for the Discussion of Social

Problems. Constance's most formal duties in connection therewith had

already been performed, but Mrs. Wilson kept her constantly at hand

lest new ideas should occur to her or emergencies arise. Besides there

were numerous minor details relating to the august entertainment on the

final evening which demanded supervision. Constance was very busy, but

in her heart the query was ever rising, Will he win? She had learned

that the bill had been put over for three days, and that the vote on

its passage was to be taken on the date of Mrs. Wilson's festivity,

probably in the late afternoon, as there was certain to be further

discussion before the roll was called.

The four days' exercises of the Society consisted of the reading of

papers on current national problems, one series in the morning, another

in the evening, with opportunities for general comment. The afternoons

were devoted to recreation and the visiting of points of local

interest, such as the oil yards, pork factories, and other commercial

plants across the Nye to which Benham owed its growth and vitality; to

Wetmore College, the Institution of learning for the higher education

of women; and to the new public library and Silas S. Parsons free

hospital. Mrs. Wilson was an absorbed and prominent figure at all the

meetings. She had no paper of her own to read, but on two occasions

she made a few remarks on the topic before the Society when the moment

for discussion arrived. On the third day, moreover, at the end of the

paper on "The Development of Art in the United States," the president

rose and made the announcement of a gift of five hundred thousand

dollars from Mrs. Randolph Wilson and her brother for the erection of a

Free Art Museum for Benham on the land already bonded by the city.

Constance had the satisfaction of hearing the applause which greeted

the declaration of this splendid endowment. Mrs. Wilson had made it

possible for her to attend several of the meetings as educational

opportunities, but she had received no inkling of this interesting

secret.

Late in the afternoon of the next day, that fixed for the entertainment

and for the ballot on Gordon's bill, Constance was informed by the

butler that there was a woman below who desired to see her. The man's

manner prompted her to make some inquiry, and she learned that the

visitor was Loretta Davis; that she had asked first for Mrs. Wilson,

and on being told that she was out had asked for herself. The servant

volunteered the further information that she appeared to be in a

disorderly condition, and that, but for his mistress's special interest

in her, he would not have admitted her to the house.

Constance went downstairs excited that the wanderer had returned, yet

reflecting that she had chosen a most untimely date for her

reappearance. She said to herself that she would take a cab, bundle

Loretta off to Lincoln Chambers, and conceal the fact of her presence

in Benham from Mrs. Wilson until the following day. As she entered the

small reception-room, she was shocked by Loretta's appearance. She

looked as though she had lived ten years in one. Her cheeks were

sunken, her eyes unnaturally bright, and her face wore the aspect of

degenerate dissipation. She was more conspicuously dressed than her

circumstances warranted, and her clothes appeared crumpled. But her

air was jaunty, and she met Constance's solicitous greeting with an

appalling gaiety.

"Well, I'm back again. I hear you've been hunting for me. I suppose

you'll want to know all about it, so I might as well tell you my

money's gone. Some of it I lent to my friend--him I went back to--and

the rest is spent. We've been in Chicago and New York, and--and I've

had the time of my life."

She evidently hoped to shock Constance by this bravado; but distressed

as the latter was by the painful levity, she took for granted that

Loretta was not herself, and that though her speech was fluent she was

under the influence of some stimulant, presumably the drug which Dr.

Dale had specified. While she was wondering how to deal with the

situation and what could be the object of Loretta's visit, the latter

supplied the solution to her second quandary.

"I've seen all about the big party she's giving to-night. That's why

I've come." She paused a moment, then continued in a cunning whisper,

as though she were afraid of unfriendly ears: "I want to get a chance

to see it--the folk, I mean, and the smart dresses. Lord sake," she

added, noticing doubtless the consternation in her hearer's face, "I do

believe you thought I was asking to come as one of the four hundred

myself. Thanks, but I've left my new ball dress at home. They can

tuck me in somewhere behind a curtain; I'd be quiet; or I'd dress as a

maid. Manage it for me, Constance, like a decent woman." Her voice

cracked a little, and her eyes filled with tears, suggesting a tipsy

person. Then suddenly her manner changed; she squared her shoulders

and said malevolently, "I'm going to see it anyway. It's a small thing

to ask of her who helped to kill my only child."

It was a small thing to ask certainly, absurd as the request seemed.

Constance reflected that, inopportune as the application was, the

decision, as Loretta had intimated, did not rest with her.

"I will ask Mrs. Wilson, Loretta," she said, to gain time to think.

"She will be home before long."

At that moment the lady named entered the room. The butler had told

her who her visitor was, and she had not avoided the interview. She

had just come from an afternoon tea given in honor of the visiting

pilgrims, and was attired in her most elegant costume. Loretta's eyes,

as they took in the exquisite details of her appearance, dilated with

the interest of fascination, yet their gleam was envious rather than

friendly. Beholding the two women face to face, Constance, struck by

the contrast, realized that they represented the two poles of the

social system; that the one embodied aspiration, the graces of

Christian civilization and glittering success, the other

self-indulgence, moral decay, and hideous failure. Such were the

prizes of deference to, and the penalties of revolt against, the

mandates of society! Yet even as she thus reasoned her heart was wrung

with intense pity, and it was she who offered herself as a spokesman

and laid Loretta's petition before Mrs. Wilson. That lady's face was a

study during the brief recital. Bewilderment, horrified repugnance,

toleration, and finally hesitating acquiescence succeeded one another

as she listened to the strange request and to her secretary's

willingness to take charge of her discreditable ward if the permission

to remain were granted. Obnoxious as the idea of having such a person

in the house at this time of all others appeared to her at first blush,

Mrs. Wilson's philanthropic instincts speedily responded to the demand

upon them in spite of its obvious and vulgar sensationalism. She, like

Constance, found herself asking why she need refuse such a small favor

to this unfortunate creature merely because the supplication was so

distasteful to her. If Constance were ready to see that she did not

make a spectacle of herself, and would keep an eye on her, why, after

all, should she not remain? Might not the sight of the brilliant,

refined spectacle even serve to reinspire her with respect for the

decencies of life? Mrs. Wilson's imagination snatched at the hope.

Consent could not possibly do harm to anyone, and it might be a means

of reclaiming this erring creature.

Constance perceived how her employer's mind was working, and she made

the course of acquiescence smooth by saying:

"We will sit together, Mrs. Wilson, where we can see and no one can see

us. And in return for your consideration," she added meaningly,

"Loretta agrees to conduct herself as a lady--in such a manner as not

to offend anyone by her behavior so long as she is in this house."

"Very well," said Mrs. Wilson. "I am very glad to give my permission.

You know what Constance means, Loretta?"

Loretta nodded feverishly. "I shall be all right," she said. She

understood that they referred to her habits, and she was willing enough

to guarantee good behavior, for she knew that she had the assurance of

it in her own pocket--a small hypodermic syringe, the use of which

would steady her nerves for the time being. It was with an exultant

intention of enjoying herself to the uttermost, and of fooling her

hostess to the top of her bent, that after Constance had shown her to a

room that she might put herself to rights, Loretta jabbed herself with

the needle again and again in pursuit of forbidden transport.

An hour later when Loretta was asleep under the eye of a maid,

Constance found time to consider how she could ascertain the result of

the ballot, the haunting suspense as to which had kept her heart in her

mouth all day. She lay in wait for the evening newspaper, but she

ransacked its columns in vain, as she had feared would be the case.

Evidently the vote had been taken too late for publication. While she

stood in the hall trying to muster courage to call up one of the

newspaper offices on the telephone and ask the question--which would

assuredly be a piece of impertinence on the part of an unimportant

person like herself--she heard the ring of the front door bell. When

the butler answered it the commanding figure of Mr. Carleton Howard

appeared in the vestibule and from the shadow of the staircase she

heard him say with jubilant distinctness, "You will tell Mrs. Wilson,

James, that the progressive legacy tax bill was killed this afternoon

by a majority of three votes. Reconsideration was asked for and

refused; consequently the measure is dead for this session."

Constance experienced that sinking feeling which a great and sudden

disappointment is apt to bring. She had taken for granted that Gordon

would win; that he would get the better of his opponents in the end,

despite their endeavors, and gain a glorious victory for humanity and

himself. Instead he had been crushed by his enemies, and was tasting

the bitterness of defeat. He would bear it bravely, she did not

question that, but how depressing to see the cause in behalf of which

all his energies had been enlisted defeated by the narrowest margin on

the very verge of success.

She remained for some moments as though rooted to the spot. As poor

Loretta had once said, it is love which makes the world go round, and

the world had suddenly stopped for her. She ascended the stairs like

one in a trance and closed the door of her room. What would her

sympathy profit him? How would it help him to know that her heart bled

for him? Such condolence would be only tantalization. What he desired

was herself--to possess and cherish in the soul and in the flesh--as

the partner of his joys and sorrows, his helpmate and his companion.

From where she sat she could behold herself in her mirror the comely

embodiment of a woman in her prime, alive with energy and health. He

sighed to hold her in his arms, and she would fain kiss away the

disappointment of his defeat. Anything short of this would be mockery

for him--yes, for her. They were natural mates, for they loved each

other with the enthusiasm of mature sympathy. Yet they must go their

ways apart, because the Church forbade in the name of Christ for the

so-called common good. How could it be for the common good to resist

nature, when she knew in her heart that in obeying the law of her being

she would feel no sense of shame or blame? On the one side was the

fiat of the Church, and on the other the sanction of the people--of

human society struggling for light and liberty against superstition and

authority. That was Gordon's claim; yet he was no demagogue, no

irreverent materialist. What would her own father have said--the

country doctor whose sympathy with humanity was so profound? She felt

sure that he would have swept aside the Church's argument in such a

case as this as untenable. What was it held her back? The taunt that

in obeying the law of her being she would be letting go her hold on the

highest spiritual life, that most precious ambition of her soul, and

forsaking the Christ whose followers had comforted her and lifted her

up.

As thus she mused she heard Loretta stirring. She had arranged as a

precaution that they should occupy chambers which opened into each

other, and it behooved her now to pay attention to her--to see that she

was suitably attired and to supervise her movements. When they were

dressed she exhibited to her the large dining-room set with little

tables, and afforded her a peep at the guests as they swept in. Later

Loretta and she looked down from a small balcony filled with plants on

the splendid company assembling in the music-room. Her charge was

completely absorbed by the pageant, asking at first eager questions,

which Constance answered with mechanical scrupulousness, for to her in

spite of the brilliant scene the world seemed far away, and she still

dwelt as in a trance. As soon as Loretta recognized Lucille, who in

the most stunning of Parisian gowns was assisting her mother to

receive, she became nervously agitated, and after surveying her for a

few moments she nudged her companion and said, "What did I tell you?

Hasn't her marriage turned out all right, and isn't everybody at her

feet? You might be down there with the rest of them to-night, if you'd

only taken my advice."

The words brought Constance back to her immediate surroundings, but as

she became aware that Loretta was thrusting in her face the fact of

Lucille's triumphant presence, she realized that it had already been a

significant item in her nebulous consciousness. But she laid her hand

gently on the offender's arm and said, "Sh! No matter about that now.

Remember your promise." Loretta grunted. She paid heed to the extent

of changing her tone to a whisper, but murmured by way of having the

last word, "It's unjust that you shouldn't be there; it's unjust."

Then she became silent; but every little while during the evening she

repeated under her breath the same phrase, as though it were a formula.

Constance remembered subsequently that as the evening advanced Loretta

ceased to ask questions and grew strangely silent, seeming to follow

with her eyes every movement of Mrs. Wilson, who in a costume of

maroon-colored velvet set off by superb jewels and a tiara of large

diamonds, swept with easy grace hither and thither in her endeavor as

hostess to make the blending between the pilgrims and Benham's social

leaders an agreeable experience for all.

It was in truth a notable entertainment; the guests appeared pleased

and appreciative; there were no hitches; the music evoked enthusiasm,

the supper was delicious, and the closing distribution of trinkets by

Benham's fairest daughters came as a delightful surprise to the

departing seekers after truth. But all save the consciousness that she

was facing a gay scene and was fulfilling her responsibilities was lost

on Constance. She did not know until the next day that the

entertainment had been a great success, for, oblivious to the music,

the lights, and the brilliantly dressed assembly, her soul was

wrestling once more with the problem which she had supposed solved

forever. It was nearly one o'clock when the murmur of voices died

away, and she conducted Loretta to their mutual apartment. She was

glad that her charge showed no disposition to talk over the events of

the evening, but on the contrary undressed in silence, busy with her

own reflections. Having seen her safely in bed, Constance straightway

sat down at her desk and wrote. It was a short, hasty note, for she

was bent on posting it that night before the lights in the house were

extinguished. Throwing a cloak about her, she glided downstairs, and,

with a word of warning to the butler that he might not lock her out,

sought the letter-box which was less than a hundred yards distant. She

had not chosen to trust her epistle to any other hands. As she lifted

the iron shutter she paused for a moment, then with a joyful little

sigh she dropped it in and let go. Fifteen minutes later, like a

happy, tired child, and wondering what the morrow would bring, she

escaped from reality into the waiting arms of sleep.

But Mrs. Randolph Wilson was in no haste to go to bed. She was in a

complacent mood. Everything had gone off as she intended, and it

suited her to dwell in retrospect on the incidents of the festivity,

and to muse fancy free. Lucille had kissed her good-night and had

retired. She had let her maid loosen her dress and had dismissed her

for the night. She was inclined to dally; she liked the silence and

the sense of calm after the activities of the day.

Seated at her toilet table and looking into her mirror with her cheeks

resting upon her hands, she gazed introspectively at herself and

destiny. Her tiara of diamonds still crested her forehead. Somehow it

pleased her to leave it undisturbed until she was ready to let down her

hair. She was conscious that she had reached the age when she

preferred to see herself at her best rather than in the garb of

nature's disorder. It had been one of the eventful evenings of her

life; she felt that by her efforts mind and matter had been drawn

closer together without detriment to either. And everybody had been

extremely civil to Lucille, at which she could not help rejoicing.

Certainly, too, Lucille was acquiring more social charm and was more

anxious to please people of cultivation. Then, too, her brother had

appeared in his most engaging mood as a consequence of the defeat of

the legacy tax bill. No reason for doubting her conclusion that the

passage of the measure would have been premature under existing

conditions had occurred to her; so it seemed that society had been

saved from a mistake. Altogether the immediate present was marred by

no unpleasant memory but one. As to that, she felt that she had acted

indulgently, and that on the morrow she would make a last effort to

rescue the unhappy degenerate. As she surveyed herself in the glass

she appreciated that she was well preserved and that her grizzled hair

was becoming, but that the romance of life was over. She would never

marry again; she was unequivocally middle-aged. Ideas were what she

had left; but for this great interest she had many years of strength

and activity ahead of her.

Ideas! How absorbing they were, and yet how little the most

disinterested individual could accomplish! Truth looked so near, and

yet ever seemed to recede as one approached it. Men and women came and

went, generations lived and died, but progress, like the march of the

glaciers, was to be measured by the centuries. The inequalities of

life--how hideous were they still; how far from rectification, in spite

of priests and charity! What was the key to the riddle? Where was the

open sesame to the social truth which should be universal beauty? She

was seeking it with all her soul, but she would never find it. Deep in

the womb of time it lay, a magnet, yet inscrutable. Who would unearth

it? Would it baffle mankind forever? or would centuries hence some

searcher--perhaps a woman like herself--discern and reveal it?

Pensive with her speculation, she turned her eyes, wistful with their

yearning to pierce the mysteries of time, full upon the mirror, and

started. An apparition, a woman's face, cunning, resentful,

demon-like, was there beside her own; a woman's figure crouching,

stealthy, about to spring was stealing toward her. Was it a vision, an

uncanny creature of the brain? Instinctively she turned, and as she

did so a large pair of hands gleamed in her face and reached for her

neck. Springing up with a cry of horror, she recoiled from the

threatening fingers, but in another instant she was bent backward so

that her head pressed against the glass and she felt a powerful clutch

upon her throat which took away the power to scream, and made her eyes

feel as though they were bursting from their sockets. A voice,

exultant, cruel, yet like a revivalist's chant, rang in her ears.

"I've come for you. We'll go together, down to eternity. There you

will scrub dirty marble floors for ever and ever."

In the face in the mirror Mrs. Wilson had recognized Loretta, and she

divined, as the wild figure threw itself upon her and the strong hands

gripped her windpipe, that she was contending with a mad-woman. The

import of the strange, accusing words was unmistakable; it was a

struggle for life. Powerless to give the alarm save by inarticulate

gasps, she realized that only her own strength could avail her, and

that this must fail owing to the superior hold which her assailant had

established. She strove with all her might to wrench herself free, but

in vain. The long hands squeezed like a vise, and she was choking.

She felt her senses swim, and that she was about to faint. Then with a

rush a third figure intervened; someone else's hands were battling on

her side, and in an instant she was free.

Awaking suddenly, as one who is sleeping on guard often will, Constance

had felt an instinct that something was wrong. The turning on of the

electric light revealed that Loretta's bed was empty. Where had she

gone? It seemed improbable that she had sought to escape from the

house at that hour. Puzzled, she stepped into the hall and half-way

down the staircase. There as she paused the light shining from under

Mrs. Wilson's apartment on the landing below caught her eye. The next

moment she heard a muffled scream.

It had required all her strength and weight to tear Loretta from her

victim. Having succeeded in separating them, Constance hastily put

herself on the defensive, expecting a fresh attack; but Loretta,

panting from her exertions, stood facing them for a moment, then burst

into a strident, gleeful laugh.

"You've saved her," she cried. "I'm crazy--stark crazy, I guess. What

was it I said? I was going to take her where she'd have to scrub dirty

marble floors forever and ever. I'd like to save her soul, she tried

so hard to save mine. But it was time thrown away from the start. I

was born bad--a moral pervert, as the doctors call it. Christianity

was wasted on me."

She shook her head, and looked from one to the other. They, horrified

but spellbound, waited, uncertain what course to pursue. Mrs. Wilson,

now that she had partially recovered her poise, felt the impulse to

elucidate this horrifying mystery. But though she wished to speak, the

proper language did not suggest itself. How could one discuss causes

with a mad woman? She raised her hands to put in place the tiara which

had been crushed down on her brow.

"Look at her," cried Loretta, commandingly, addressing Constance and

pointing. "Isn't she beautiful? She's civilization." She made a low

obeisance. "I was in love with her once; I love her still. You saved

her."

She frowned and passed her hand across her forehead as though to clear

her brain. Then she laughed again; she had recovered her clew.

"You were the sort she could help, Constance Stuart; you were good.

But how has she--her church--paid you back? Cheated you with a gold

brick. Ha! Made you believe that it was your Christian duty to let

Gordon Perry, Esq., Counsellor-at-Law, go. That's the way the

aristocrats still try to fool the common people. But isn't she

beautiful? My compliments to both of you."

She swept a low courtesy in exaggeration of those she had witnessed a

few hours earlier. "It is pitiful--pitiful and perplexing," murmured

Mrs. Wilson in agonized dismay.

For a moment Loretta stood irresolute, then of a sudden she began to

shiver like one seized with an ague. She regarded them distractedly

with staring eyes, and throwing up her hands, fell forward on her face

in convulsive delirium. Constance rushed to her side; the two women

raised her and laid her on the bed. Mrs. Wilson's maid was aroused,

and a physician communicated with by telephone. He came within an hour

and prescribed the necessary treatment. He said that the patient's

system was saturated with cocaine, but intimated that she would

probably recover from this attack.

After the doctor had gone and Loretta had been removed to her own room,

Mrs. Wilson and Constance watched by the side of the sufferer, whose

low moaning was the sole disturber of the stillness of the breaking

dawn. Each was lost in her own secret thoughts. The cruel

finger-marks on Mrs. Wilson's neck burned painfully, but the words of

her mad critic had seared her soul. For the moment social truth seemed

sadly remote. She reflected mournfully but humbly that ever and anon

proud man and his systems are held up to derision by the silent forces

of nature. When the darkness had faded so that they could discern each

other's faces, she arose, and sitting down beside Constance on the sofa

drew her toward her and kissed her. Was it in acknowledgment that she

had saved her life, or as a symbol of a broader faith?

"Kiss me too, Constance," she whispered.

The embrace was fondly returned, and at this loosening of the tension

of their strained spirits they wept gently in each other's arms. Then

Mrs. Wilson added, "Come, let us go where we can talk. We could do

nothing at present which my maid cannot do."

She led the way to her boudoir. The idea of seeking sleep had never

occurred to either of them. Although Mrs. Wilson had felt the need of

speech, it was some minutes after they had established themselves

before she broke the silence. When she did so she spoke suddenly and

with emotion, like one beset by a repugnant conviction yet loath to

acknowledge it.

"Can I have deserved this, Constance?" The vivid protest in her

companion's face made clear that Constance did not penetrate her

subtler meaning, and she hastened to answer her own question.

"Not to be strangled by a violent lunatic," she said, raising a hand

involuntarily to her neck. "But her words were a judgment--a

lacerating judgment. How I should loathe it--to scrub dirty marble

floors forever and ever. It is just that--the dirt, the disorder, the

common reek, which I shrink from and shun in spite of myself. How did

she ever find out? I love too much the lusciousness of life.

'It is the little rift within the lute

That by and by will make the music mute,

And ever widening slowly silence all.'