"THE IRON WOMAN\n\nBY\n\nMARGARET DELAND\n\n\"_This was the iniquity ... fulness of bread, and abundance of\nidleness...._\"--EZEKIEL, xvi., 49\n\n\n\nTO MY\n\nPATIENT, RUTHLESS, INSPIRING CRITIC LORIN DELAND\n\nAugust 12, 1911\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n   \"LOOK!\"\n   \"BLAIR IS IN LOVE WITH ME!\"\n   \"I THINK YOU ARE REASONABLE ENOUGH FOR BOTH OF US\"\n   \"ELIZABETH, MARRY ME!\"\n   \"OF COURSE YOU KNOW MY OPINION OF YOU\"\n   SHE WHEELED ABOUT, AND STOOD, SWAYING WITH FRIGHT\n   \"WILL YOU LIVE? WILL YOU GIVE ME LIFE?\"\n   CLUTCHING HER SHOULDER, SHE LOOKED HARD INTO THE YOUNGER\n        WOMAN'S FACE\n\n\n\nTHE IRON WOMAN\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\"Climb up in this tree, and play house!\" Elizabeth Ferguson commanded.\nShe herself had climbed to the lowest branch of an apple-tree in the\nMaitland orchard, and sat there, swinging her white-stockinged legs so\nrecklessly that the three children whom she had summoned to her side,\nbacked away for safety. \"If you don't,\" she said, looking down at them,\n\"I'm afraid, perhaps, maybe, I'll get mad.\"\n\nHer foreboding was tempered by a giggle and by the deepening dimple in\nher cheek, but all the same she sighed with a sort of impersonal regret\nat the prospect of any unpleasantness. \"It would be too bad if I got\nmad, wouldn't it?\" she said thoughtfully. The others looked at one\nanother in consternation. They knew so well what it meant to have\nElizabeth \"mad,\" that Nannie Maitland, the oldest of the little group,\nsaid at once, helplessly, \"Well.\"\n\nNannie was always helpless with Elizabeth, just as she was helpless\nwith her half-brother, Blair, though she was ten and Elizabeth and\nBlair were only eight; but how could a little girl like Nannie be\nanything but helpless before a brother whom she adored, and a wonderful\nbeing like Elizabeth?--Elizabeth! who always knew exactly what she\nwanted to do, and who instantly \"got mad,\" if you wouldn't say you'd do\nit, too; got mad, and then repented, and hugged you and kissed you, and\nactually cried (or got mad again), if you refused to accept as a sign\nof your forgiveness her new slate-pencil, decorated with strips of\nred-and-white paper just like a little barber's pole! No wonder Nannie,\ntimid and good-natured, was helpless before such a sweet, furious\nlittle creature! Blair had more backbone than his sister, but even he\nfelt Elizabeth's heel upon his neck. David Richie, a silent, candid,\nvery stubborn small boy, was, after a momentary struggle, as meek as\nthe rest of them. Now, when she commanded them all to climb, it was\nDavid who demurred, because, he said, he spoke first for Indians\ntomahawking you in the back parlor.\n\n\"Very well!\" said the despot; \"play your old Indians! I'll never speak\nto any of you again as long as I live!\"\n\n\"I've got on my new pants,\" David objected.\n\n\"Take 'em off!\" said Elizabeth. And there is no knowing what might have\nhappened if the decorous Nannie had not come to the rescue.\n\n\"That's not proper to do out-of-doors; and Miss White says not to say\n'pants.'\"\n\nElizabeth looked thoughtful. \"Maybe it isn't proper,\" she admitted;\n\"but David, honest, I took a hate to being tommy-hocked the last time\nwe played it; so please, _dear_ David! If you'll play house in the\ntree, I'll give you a piece of my taffy.\" She took a little sticky\npackage out of her pocket and licked her lips to indicate its\ncontents;--David yielded, shinning up the trunk of the tree,\nindifferent to the trousers, which had been on his mind ever since he\nhad put them on his legs.\n\nBlair followed him, but Nannie squatted on the ground content to merely\nlook at the courageous three.\n\n\"Come on up,\" said Elizabeth. Nannie shook her little blond head. At\nwhich the others burst into a shrill chorus: \"'Fraid-cat! 'fraid-cat!\n'fraid-cat!\" Nannie smiled placidly; it never occurred to her to deny\nsuch an obviously truthful title. \"Blair,\" she said, continuing a\nconversation interrupted by Elizabeth's determination to climb, \"Blair,\n_why_ do you say things that make Mamma mad? What's the sense? If it\nmakes her mad for you to say things are ugly, why do you?\"\n\n\"'Cause,\" Blair said briefly. Even at eight Blair disliked both\nexplanations and decisions, and his slave and half-sister rarely\npressed for either. With the exception of his mother, whose absorption\nin business had never given her time to get acquainted with him, most\nof the people about Blair were his slaves. Elizabeth's governess, Miss\nWhite--called by Elizabeth, for reasons of her own, \"Cherry-pie\"--had\ncompletely surrendered to his brown eyes; the men in the Maitland Works\ntoadied to him; David Richie blustered, perhaps, but always gave in to\nhim; in his own home, Harris, who was a cross between a butler and a\nmaid-of-all-work, adored him to the point of letting him make candy on\nthe kitchen stove--probably the greatest expression of affection\npossible to the kitchen; in fact, little Elizabeth Ferguson was the\nonly person in his world who did not knuckle down to this pleasant and\nlovable child. But then, Elizabeth never knuckled down to anybody!\nCertainly not to kind old Cherry-pie, whose timid upper lip quivered\nlike a rabbit's when she was obliged to repeat to her darling some new\nrule of Robert Ferguson's for his niece's upbringing; nor did she\nknuckle down to her uncle;--she even declared she was not at all afraid\nof him! This was almost unbelievable to the others, who scattered like\nrobins if they heard his step. And she had greater courage than this;\nshe had, in fact, audacity! for she said she was willing--this the\nothers told each other in awed tones--she said she had \"just as lieves\"\nwalk right up and speak to Mrs. Maitland herself, and ask her for\ntwenty cents so she could treat the whole crowd to ice-cream! That is,\nshe would just as lieves, _if she should happen to want to_. Now, as\nshe sat in the apple-tree swinging her legs and sharing her taffy, it\noccurred to her to mention, apropos of nothing, her opinion of Mrs.\nMaitland's looks:\n\n\"I like Blair's mother best; but David's mother is prettier than\nBlair's mother.\"\n\n\"It isn't polite to brag on mothers,\" said David, surveying his new\ntrousers complacently, \"but I know what I think.\"\n\nBlair, jouncing up and down on his branch, agreed with unoffended\ncandor. \"'Course she's prettier. Anybody is. Mother's ugly.\"\n\n\"It isn't right to say things like that out of the family,\" Nannie\nobserved.\n\n\"This _is_ the family. You're going to marry David, and I'm going to\nmarry Elizabeth. And I'm going to be awfully rich; and I'll give all\nyou children a lot of money. Jimmy Sullivan--he's a friend of mine; I\ngot acquainted with him yesterday, and he's the biggest puddler in our\nWorks. Jimmie said, 'You're the only son,' he said, 'you'll get it\nall.' 'Course I told him I'd give him some,\" said Blair.\n\nAt this moment Elizabeth was moved to catch David round the neck, and\ngive him a loud kiss on his left ear. David sighed. \"You may kiss me,\"\nhe said patiently; \"but I'd rather you'd tell me when you want to. You\nknocked off my cap.\"\n\n\"Say, David,\" Nannie said, flinging his cap up to him, \"Blair can stand\non his head and count five. You can't.\"\n\nAt this David's usual admiration for Blair suffered an eclipse; he grew\nvery red, then exploded: \"I--I--I've had mumps, and I have two warts,\nand Blair hasn't. And I have a real dining-room at my house, and Blair\nhasn't!\"\n\nNannie flew to the rescue: \"You haven't got a real mother. You are only\nan adopted.\"\n\n\"Well, what are you?\" David said, angrily; \"you're nothing but a Step.\"\n\n\"I haven't got any kind of a mother,\" Elizabeth said, with complacent\nmelancholy.\n\n\"Stop fighting,\" Blair commanded amiably; \"David is right; we have a\npigsty of a dining-room at our house.\" He paused to bend over and touch\nwith an ecstatic finger a flake of lichen covering with its serpent\ngreen the damp, black bark in the crotch of the old tree. \"Isn't that\npretty?\" he said.\n\n\"You ought not to say things about our house,\" Nannie reproved him. As\nBlair used to say when he grew up, \"Nannie was born proper.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" said Blair. \"They know everything is ugly at our house.\nThey've got real dining-rooms at their houses; they don't have old\ndesks round, the way we do.\"\n\nIt was in the late sixties that these children played in the apple-tree\nand arranged their conjugal future; at that time the Maitland house was\nindeed, as poor little Blair said, \"ugly.\" Twenty years before, its\ngardens and meadows had stretched over to the river; but the estate had\nlong ago come down in size and gone up in dollars. Now, there was\nscarcely an acre of sooty green left, and it was pressed upon by the\nyards of the Maitland Works, and almost islanded by railroad tracks.\nGrading had left the stately and dilapidated old house somewhat above\nthe level of a street noisy with incessant teaming, and generally\nfetlock-deep in black mud. The house stood a little back from the badly\npaved sidewalk; its meager dooryard was inclosed by an iron fence--a\nrow of black and rusted spears, spotted under their tines with\ninnumerable gray cocoons. (Blair and David made constant and furtive\nattempts to lift these spears, socketed in crumbling lead in the\ngranite base, for of course there could be nothing better for fighting\nIndians than a real iron spear.) The orchard behind the house had been\ncut in two by a spur track, which brought jolting gondola cars piled\nwith red ore down to the furnace. The half dozen apple-trees that were\nleft stretched gaunt arms over sour, grassless earth; they put out\nfaint flakes of blossoms in the early spring, and then a fleeting show\nof greenness, which in a fortnight shriveled and blackened out of all\nsemblance of foliage. But all the same the children found it a\ndelightful place to play, although Blair sometimes said sullenly that\nit was \"ugly.\" Blair hated ugly things, and, poor child! he was\nassailed by ugliness on every side. The queer, disorderly dining-room,\nin which for reasons of her own Mrs. Maitland transacted so much of her\nbusiness that it had become for all practical purposes an office of her\nWorks, was perhaps the \"ugliest\" thing in the world to the little boy.\n\n\"Why don't we have a real dining-room?\" he said once; \"why do we have\nto eat in a office?\"\n\n\"We'll eat in the kitchen, if I find it convenient,\" his mother told\nhim, looking at him over her newspaper, which was propped against a\nsilver coffee-urn that had found a clear space on a breakfast table\ncluttered with papers and ledgers.\n\n\"They have a bunch of flowers on the table up at David's house,\" the\nlittle boy complained; \"I don't see why we can't.\"\n\n\"I don't eat flowers,\" Mrs. Maitland said grimly.\n\n\"I don't eat papers,\" Blair said, under his breath; and his mother\nlooked at him helplessly. How is one to reply to a child of eight who\nmakes remarks of this kind? Mrs. Maitland did not know; it was one of\nthe many things she did not know in relation to her son; for at that\ntime she loved him with her mind rather than her body, so she had none\nof those soft intuitions and persuasions of the flesh which instruct\nmost mothers. In her perplexity she expressed the sarcastic anger one\nmight vent upon an equal under the same circumstances:\n\n\"You'd eat nothing at all, young man, let me tell you, if it wasn't for\nthe 'papers,' as you call 'em, in this house!\" But it was no wonder\nthat Blair called it ugly--the house, the orchard, the Works--even his\nmother, in her rusty black alpaca dress, sitting at her desk in the\nbig, dingy dining-room, driving her body and soul, and the bodies and\nsouls of her workmen--all for the sake of the little, shrinking boy,\nwho wanted a bunch of flowers on the table. Poor mother! Poor son! And\npoor little proper, perplexed half-sister, looking on, and trying to\nmake peace. Nannie's perplexities had begun very far back. Of course\nshe was too young when her father married his second wife to puzzle\nover that; but if she did not, other people did. Why a mild, vague\nyoung widower who painted pictures nobody bought, and was as\nunpractical as a man could be whose partnership in an iron-works was a\nmatter of inheritance--why such a man wanted to marry Miss Sarah Blair\nwas beyond anybody's wisdom. It is conceivable, indeed, that he did not\nwant to.\n\nThere were rumors that after the death of Nannie's mother, Herbert\nMaitland had been inclined to look for consolation to a certain Miss\nMolly Wharton (she that afterward married another widower, Henry\nKnight); and everybody thought Miss Molly was willing to smile upon\nhim. Be that as it may, he suddenly found himself the husband of his\nlate partner's daughter, a woman eight years older than he, and at\nleast four inches taller; a silent, plain woman, of devastating common\nsense, who contradicted all those femininities and soft lovelinesses so\ncharacteristic, not only of his first wife but of pretty Molly Wharton\nalso.\n\nJohn Blair, the father of the second Mrs. Maitland, an uneducated,\nextremely intelligent man, had risen from puddling to partnership in\nthe Maitland Works. There had been no social relations between Mr.\nMaitland, Sr., and this new member of the firm, but the older man had a\nvery intimate respect, and even admiration for John Blair. When he came\nto die he confided his son's interests to his partner with absolute\nconfidence that they would be safe. \"Herbert has no gumption, John,\" he\nsaid; \"he wants to be an 'artist.' You've got to look after him.\" \"I\nwill, Mr. Maitland, I will,\" said John Blair, snuffling and blowing his\nnose on a big red pocket-handkerchief. He did look after him. He put\nHerbert's affairs ahead of his own, and he made it clear to his\ndaughter, who in business matters was, curiously enough, his right-hand\nman, that \"Maitland's boy\" was always, as he expressed it, \"to have the\ninside track.\"\n\n\"I ain't bothering about you, Sally; I'll leave you enough. And if I\ndidn't, you could scratch gravel for yourself. But Maitland's boy ain't\nour kind. He must be taken care of.\"\n\nWhen John Blair died, perhaps a sort of faithfulness to his wishes made\nhis Sally \"take care\" of Herbert Maitland by marrying him. \"His child\ncertainly does need a mother,\" she thought;--\"an intelligent mother,\nnot a goose.\" By and by she told Herbert of his child's need; or at any\nrate helped him to infer it. And somehow, before he knew it, he married\nher. By inheritance they owned the Works between them; so really their\nmarriage was, as the bride expressed it, \"a very sensible arrangement\";\nand any sensible arrangement appealed to John Blair's daughter. But\nafter a breathless six months of partnership--in business if in nothing\nelse--Herbert Maitland, leaving behind him his little two-year-old\nNannie, and an unborn boy of whose approaching advent he was ignorant,\ngot out of the world as expeditiously as consumption could take him.\nIndeed, his wife had so jostled him and deafened him and dazed him that\nthere was nothing for him to do but die--so that there might be room\nfor her expanding energy. Yet she loved him; nobody who saw her in\nthose first silent, agonized months could doubt that she loved him. Her\npain expressed itself, not in moans or tears or physical prostration,\nbut in work. Work, which had been an interest, became a refuge. Under\nlike circumstances some people take to religion and some to drink; as\nMrs. Maitland's religion had never been more than church-going and\ncontributions to foreign missions, it was, of course, no help under the\nstrain of grief; and as her temperament did not dictate the other means\nof consolation, she turned to work. She worked herself numb; very\nlikely she had hours when she did not feel her loss. But she did not\nfeel anything else. Not even her baby's little clinging hands, or his\nmilky lips at her breast. She did her duty by him; she hired a reliable\nwoman to take charge of him, and she was careful to appear at regular\nhours to nurse him. She ordered toys for him, and as she shared the\nnaive conviction of her day that church-going and religion were\nsynonymous, she began, when he was four years old, to take him to\nchurch. In her shiny, shabby black silk, which had been her Sunday\ncostume ever since it had been purchased as part of her curiously\nlimited trousseau she sat in a front pew, between the two children, and\nfelt that she was doing her duty to both of them. A sense of duty\nwithout maternal instinct is not, perhaps, as baleful a thing as\nmaternal instinct without a sense of duty, but it is sterile; and in\nthe first few years of her bereavement, the big, suffering woman seemed\nto have nothing but duty to offer to her child. Nannie's puzzles began\nthen. \"Why don't Mamma hug my baby brother?\" she used to ask the nurse,\nwho had no explanation to offer. The baby brother was ready enough to\nhug Nannie, and his eager, wet little kisses on her rosy cheeks sealed\nher to his service while he was still in petticoats. Blair was three\nyears old before, under the long atrophy of grief, Sarah Maitland's\nmaternal instinct began to stir. When it did, she was chilled by the\nboy's shrinking from her as if from a stranger; she was chilled, too,\nby another sort of repulsion, which with the hideous candor of\nchildhood he made no effort to conceal. One of his first expressions of\nopinion had been contained in the single word \"uggy,\" accompanied by a\nfinger pointed at his mother. Whenever she sneezed--and she was one of\nthose people who cannot, or do not, moderate a sneeze--Blair had a\nnervous paroxysm. He would jump at the unexpected sound, then burst\ninto furious tears. When she tried to draw his head down upon her\nscratchy black alpaca breast, he would say violently, \"No, no! No, no!\"\nat which she would push him roughly from her knee, and fall into hurt\nsilence. Once, when he was five years old, she came in to dinner hot\nfrom a morning in the Works, her moist forehead grimy with dust, and\nbent over to kiss him; at which the little boy wrinkled up his nose and\nturned his face aside.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" his mother said; and called sharply to the nurse:\n\"I won't have any highfalutin' business in this boy! Get it out of\nhim.\" Then resolutely she took Blair's little chin in her hand--a big,\nbeautiful, powerful hand, with broken and blackened nails--and turning\nhis wincing face up, rubbed her cheek roughly against his. \"Get over\nyour airs!\" she said, and sat down and ate her dinner without another\nword to Blair or any one else. But the next day, as if to purchase the\nkiss he would not give, she told him he was to have an \"allowance.\" The\nword had no meaning to the little fellow, until she showed him two\nbright new dollars and said he could buy candy with them; then his\nbrown eyes smiled, and he held up his lips to her. It was at that\nmoment that money began to mean something to him. He bought the candy,\nwhich he divided with Nannie, and he bought also a present for his\nmother,--a bottle of cologne, with a tiny calendar tied around its neck\nby a red ribbon. \"The ribbon is pretty,\" he explained shyly. She was so\npleased that she instantly gave him another dollar, and then put the\nlong green bottle on her painted pine bureau, between two of his\nphotographs.\n\nIn the days when the four children played in the orchard, and had\nlessons with Miss White, in the school-room in Mr. Ferguson's garret,\nand were \"treated\" by Blair to candy or pink ice-cream--even in those\ndays Mercer was showing signs of what it was ultimately to become: the\napotheosis of materialism and vulgarity. Iron was entering into its\nsoul. It thought extremely well of itself; when a new mill was built,\nor a new furnace blown in, it thought still better of itself. It prided\nitself upon its growth; in fact, its complacency, its ugliness and its\nsize kept pace with one another.\n\n\"Look at our output,\" Sarah Maitland used to brag to her general\nmanager, Mr. Robert Ferguson; \"and look at our churches! We have more\nchurches for our size than any town west of the Alleghanies.\"\n\n\"We need more jails than any town, east or west,\" Mr. Ferguson\nretorted, grimly.\n\nMrs. Maitland avoided the deduction. Her face was full of pride. \"You\njust wait! We'll be the most important city in this country yet,\nbecause we will hold the commerce of the world right here in our\nmills!\" She put out her great open palm, and slowly closed the strong,\nbeautiful fingers into a gripping fist. \"The commerce of the world,\nright _here_!\" she said, thrusting the clenched hand, that quivered a\nlittle, almost into his face.\n\nRobert Ferguson snorted. He was a melancholy man, with thin, bitterly\nsensitive lips, and kind eyes that were curiously magnified by\ngold-rimmed eyeglasses, which he had a way of knocking off with\ndisconcerting suddenness. He did not, he declared, trust anybody.\n\"What's the use?\" he said; \"you only get your face slapped!\" For his\npart, he believed the Eleventh Commandment was, \"Blessed is he that\nexpecteth nothing, because he'll get it.\"\n\n\"Read your Bible!\" Mrs. Maitland retorted; \"then you'll know enough to\ncall it a Beatitude, not a Commandment.\"\n\nMr. Ferguson snorted again. \"Bible? It's all I can do to get time to\nread my paper. I'm worked to death,\" he reproached her. But in spite of\nbeing worked to death he always found time on summer evenings to weed\nthe garden in his back yard, or on winter mornings to feed a flock of\nMercer's sooty pigeons; and he had been known to walk all over town to\nfind a particular remedy for a sick child of one of his molders. To be\nsure he alleged, when Mrs. Maitland accused him of kindness, that, as\nfar as the child was concerned, he was a fool for his pains, because\nhuman critters (\"I'm one of 'em myself,\") were a bad lot and it would\nbe a good thing if they all died young!\n\n\"Oh, you have a fine bark, friend Ferguson,\" she said, \"but when it\ncomes to a bite, I guess most folks get a kiss from you.\"\n\n\"Kiss?\" said Robert Ferguson, horrified; \"not much!\"\n\nThey were very good friends, these two, each growling at, disapproving\nof, and completely trusting the other. Mrs. Maitland's chief\ndisapproval of her superintendent--for her reproaches about his bark\nwere really expressions of admiration--her serious disapproval was\nbased on the fact that, when the season permitted, he broke the Sabbath\nby grubbing in his garden, instead of going to church. A grape-arbor\nran the length of this garden, and in August the Isabellas, filmed with\nsoot, had a flavor, Robert Ferguson thought, finer than could be found\nin any of the vineyards lying in the hot sunshine on the banks of the\nriver, far out of reach of Mercer's smoke. There was a flagstone path\naround the arbor, and then borders of perennials against brick walls\nthick with ivy or hidden by trellised peach-trees. All summer long bees\ncame to murmur among the flowers, and every breeze that blew over them\ncarried some sweetness to the hot and tired streets outside. It was a\nspot of perfume and peace, and it was no wonder that the hard-working,\nsad-eyed man liked to spend his Sundays in it. But \"remembering the\nSabbath\" was his employer's strong point. Mrs. Maitland kept the Fourth\nCommandment with passion. Her Sundays, dividing each six days of\nextraordinary activity, were arid stretches of the unspeakable dullness\nof idleness. When Blair grew up he used to look back at those Sundays\nand shudder. There was church and Sunday-school in the morning, then a\ncold dinner, for cold roast beef was Mrs. Maitland's symbol of\nSabbatical holiness. Then an endless, vacant afternoon, spent always\nindoors. Certain small, pious books were permitted the two\nchildren--_Little Henry and His Bearer, The Ministering Children_, and\nlike moral food; but no games, no walks, no playing in the orchard.\nSilence and weary idleness and Little Henry's holy arrogances. Though\nthe day must have been as dreary to Mrs. Maitland as it was to her son\nand daughter, she never winced. She sat in the parlor, dressed in black\nsilk, and read _The Presbyterian_ and the Bible. She never allowed\nherself to look at her desk in the dining-room, or even at her\nknitting, which on week-days when she had no work to do was a great\nresource; she looked at the clock a good deal, and sometimes she\nsighed, then applied herself to _The Presbyterian_. She went to bed at\nhalf-past seven as against eleven or twelve on other nights, first\nreading, with extraordinary rapidity, her \"Chapter.\" Mrs. Maitland had\na \"system\" by which she was able to read the Bible through once a year.\nShe frequently recommended it to her superintendent; to her way of\nthinking such reading was accounted to her as righteousness.\n\nRefreshed by a somnolent Sunday, she would rush furiously into business\non Monday morning, and Mr. Robert Ferguson, who never went to church,\nfollowed in her wake, doing her bidding with grim and admiring\nthoroughness. If not \"worked to death,\" he was, at any rate, absorbed\nin her affairs. Even when he went home at night, and, on summer\nevenings, fell to grubbing in his narrow back yard, where his niece\n\"helped\" him by pushing a little wheelbarrow over the mossy\nflagstones,--even then he did not dismiss Mrs. Maitland's business from\nhis mind. He was scrupulous to say, as he picked up the weeds scattered\nfrom the wheelbarrow, \"Have you been a good little girl to-day,\nElizabeth?\" but all the while, in his own thoughts he was going over\nmatters at the Works. On Sundays he managed to get far enough away from\nbusiness to interrogate Miss White about his niece:\n\n\"I hope Elizabeth is behaving herself, Miss White?\"\n\n\"Oh yes; she is a dear, good child.\"\n\n\"Well, you never can tell about children,--or anybody else. Keep a\nsharp eye on her, Miss White. And be careful, please, about vanity. I\nthought I saw her looking in the mirror in the hall this morning.\nPlease discourage any signs of vanity.\"\n\n\"She hasn't a particle of vanity!\" Miss White said warmly.\n\nBut in spite of such assurances, Mr. Ferguson was always falling into\nbleakly apprehensive thoughts of his little girl, obstinately denying\nhis pride in her, and allowing himself only the meager hope that she\nwould \"turn out fairly decently.\" Vanity was his especial concern, and\nhe was more than once afraid he had discovered it: Elizabeth was not\nallowed to go to dancing-school--dancing and vanity were somehow\nrelated in her uncle's mind; so the vital, vivid little creature\nexpressed the rhythm that was in her by dancing without instruction,\nkeeping time with loud, elemental cadences of her own composing, not\nalways melodious, but always in time. Sometimes she danced thus in the\nschool-room; sometimes in Mrs. Todd's \"ice-cream parlor\" at the farther\nend of Mercer's old wooden bridge; once--and this was one of the\noccasions when Mr. Ferguson thought he had detected the vice he\ndreaded--once she danced in his very own library! Up and down she went,\nback and forth, before a long mirror that stood between the windows.\nShe had put a daffodowndilly behind each ear, and twisted a dandelion\nchain around her neck. She looked, as she came and went, smiling and\ndimpling at herself in the shadowy depths of the mirror, like a\nflower--a flower in the wind!--bending and turning and swaying, and\nsinging as she danced: \"Oh, isn't it joyful--joyful--joyful!\"\n\nIt was then that her uncle came upon her; for just a moment he stood\nstill in involuntary delight, then remembered his theories; there was\ncertainly vanity in her primitive adornment! He knocked his glasses off\nwith a fierce gesture, and did his duty by barking at her,--as Mrs.\nMaitland would have expressed it. He told her in an angry voice that\nshe must go to bed for the rest of the day! at least, if she ever did\nit again, she must go to bed for the rest of the day.\n\nAnother time he felt even surer of the feminine failing: Elizabeth\nsaid, in his presence, that she wished she had some rings like those of\na certain Mrs. Richie, who had lately come to live next door; at which\nMr. Ferguson barked at Miss White, barked so harshly that Elizabeth\nflew at him like a little enraged cat. \"Stop scolding Cherry-pie! You\nhurt her feelings; you are a wicked man!\" she screamed, and beating him\nwith her right hand, she fastened her small, sharp teeth into her left\narm just above the wrist--then screamed again with self-inflicted pain.\nBut when Miss White, dismayed at such a loss of self-control,\napologized for her, Mr. Ferguson shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"I don't mind temper,\" he said; \"I used to have a temper myself; but I\nwill _not_ have her vain! Better put some plaster on her arm.\nElizabeth, you must not call Miss White by that ridiculous name.\"\n\nThe remark about Mrs. Richie's rings really disturbed him; it made him\ndeplore to himself the advent as a neighbor of a foolish woman. \"She'll\nput ideas into Elizabeth's head,\" he told himself. In regard to the\nrings, he had not needed Elizabeth to instruct him. He had noticed them\nhimself, and they had convinced him that this Mrs. Richie, who at first\nsight seemed a shy, sad woman with no nonsense about her, was really no\nexception to her sex. \"Vain and lazy, like the rest of them,\" he said\ncynically. Having passed the age when he cared to sport with Amaryllis,\nhe did not, he said, like women. When he was quite a young man, he had\nadded, \"except Mrs. Maitland.\" Which remark, being repeated to Molly\nWharton, had moved that young lady to retort that the reason that Sarah\nMaitland was the only woman he liked, was that Sarah Maitland was not a\nwoman! \"The only feminine thing about her is her petticoats,\" said Miss\nWharton, daintily. For which _mot_, Robert Ferguson never forgave her.\nHe certainly did not expect to like this new-comer in Mercer, this Mrs.\nRichie, but he had gone to see her. He had been obliged to, because she\nwished to rent a house he owned next door to the one in which he lived.\nSo, being her landlord, he had to see her, if for nothing else, to\ndiscourage requests for inside repairs. He saw her, and promised to put\nup a little glass house at the end of the back parlor for a plant-room.\n\"If she'd asked me for a 'conservatory,'\" he said to himself, \"I\nwouldn't have considered it for a moment; but just a few sashes--I\nsuppose I might as well give in on that? Besides, if she likes flowers,\nthere must be something to her.\" All the same, he was conscious of\nhaving given in, and to a woman who wore rings; so he was quite gruff\nwith Mrs. Richie's little boy, whom he found listening to an harangue\nfrom Elizabeth. The two children had scraped acquaintance through the\niron fence that separated the piazzas of the two houses. \"I,\" Elizabeth\nhad announced, \"have a mosquito-bite on my leg; I'll show it to you,\"\nshe said, generously; and when the bite on her little thigh was\ndisplayed, she tried to think of other personal matters. \"My mother's\ndead. And my father's dead.\"\n\n\"So's mine,\" David matched her, proudly. \"I'm an adopted child.\"\n\n\"I have a pair of red shoes with white buttons,\" she said. David,\nunable to think of any possession of his own to cap either bite or\nboots, was smitten into gloomy silence.\n\nIn spite of the landlord's disapproval of his tenant's rings, the\nacquaintance of the two families grew. Mr. Ferguson had to see Mrs.\nRichie again about those \"sashes,\" or what not. His calls were always\non business--but though he talked of greenhouses, and she talked of\nknocking out an extra window in the nursery so that her little boy\ncould have more sunshine, they slipped after a while into\npersonalities: Mrs. Richie had no immediate family; her--her husband\nhad died nearly three years before. Since then she had been living in\nSt. Louis. She had come now to Mercer because she wanted to be nearer\nto a friend, an old clergyman, who lived in a place called Old Chester.\n\n\"I think it's about twenty miles up the river,\" she said. \"That's where\nI found David. I--I had lost a little boy, and David had lost his\nmother, so we belonged together. It doesn't make any difference to us,\nthat he isn't my own, does it, David?\"\n\n\"Yes'm,\" said David,\n\n\"David! Why won't you _ever_ say what is expected of you? We don't know\nanybody in Mercer,\" she went on, with a shy, melancholy smile, \"except\nElizabeth.\" And at her kind look the little girl, who had tagged along\nbehind her uncle, snuggled up to the maternal presence, and rubbed her\ncheek against the white hand which had the pretty rings on it. \"I am so\nglad to have somebody for David to play with,\" Mrs. Richie said,\nlooking down at the little nestling thing, who at that moment stopped\nnestling, and dropping down on toes and finger-tips, loped up--on very\nlong hind-legs, to the confusion of her elders, who endeavored not to\nsee her peculiar attitude--and, putting a paw into David's pocket,\nabstracted a marble. There was an instant explosion, in which David,\nafter securing his property through violent exertions, sought, as a\nmatter of pure justice, to pull the bear's hair. But when Mrs. Richie\ninterfered, separating the combatants with horrified apologies for her\nyoung man's conduct, Elizabeth's squeals stopped abruptly. She stood\npanting, her eyes still watering with David's tug at her hair; the\ndimple in her right cheek began to lengthen into a hard line.\n\n\"You are very naughty, David,\" said Mrs. Richie, sternly; \"you must beg\nElizabeth's pardon at once!\" At which Elizabeth burst out:\n\n\"Stop! Don't scold him. It was my fault. I did it--taking his marble.\nI'll--I'll bite my arm if you scold David!\"\n\n\"Elizabeth!\" protested her uncle; \"I'm ashamed of you!\"\n\nBut Elizabeth was indifferent to his shame; she was hugging David\nfrantically. \"I hate, I hate, I _hate_ your mother--if she does have\nrings!\" Her face was so convulsed with rage that Mrs. Richie actually\nrecoiled before it; Elizabeth, still clamoring, saw that involuntary\nstart of horror. Instantly she was calm; but she shrank away almost out\nof the room. It seemed as if at that moment some veil, cold and\nimpenetrable, fell between the gentle woman and the fierce, pathetic\nchild--a veil that was not to be lifted until, in some mysterious way,\nlife should make them change places.\n\nThe two elders looked at each other, Robert Ferguson with meager\namusement; Mrs. Richie still grave at the remembrance of that furious\nlittle face. \"What did she mean about 'biting her arm'?\" she asked,\nafter Elizabeth had been sent home, the bewildered David being told to\naccompany her to the door.\n\n\"I believe she bites herself when she gets angry,\" Elizabeth's uncle\nsaid; \"Miss White said she had quite a sore place on her arm last\nwinter, because she bit it so often. It's of no consequence,\" he added,\nknocking his glasses off fiercely. Again Mrs. Richie looked shocked.\n\"She is my brother's child,\" he said, briefly; \"he died some years ago.\nHe left her to me.\" And Mrs. Richie knew instinctively that the bequest\nhad not been welcome. \"Miss White looks after her,\" he said, putting\nhis glasses on again, carefully, with both hands; \"she calls her her\n'Lamb,' though a more unlamblike person than Elizabeth I never met. She\nhas a little school for her and the two Maitland youngsters in the top\nof my house. Miss White is otherwise known as Cherry-pie. Elizabeth, I\nam informed, loves cherry-pie; also, she loves Miss White: ergo!\" he\nended, with his snort of a laugh. Then he had a sudden thought: \"Why\ndon't you let David come to Miss White for lessons? I've no doubt she\ncould look after another pupil.\"\n\n\"I'd be delighted to,\" Mrs. Richie said, gratefully. So, through the\ngood offices of Mr. Ferguson, the arrangement was made. Mr. Ferguson\ndid not approve of Mrs. Richie's rings, but he had no objection to\nhelping her about David.\n\nAnd that was how it happened that these four little lives were thrown\ntogether--four threads that were to be woven into the great fabric of\nLife.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nOn the other side of the street, opposite the Maitland house, was a\nhuddle of wooden tenements. Some of them were built on piles, and\nseemed to stand on stilts, holding their draggled skirts out of the mud\nof their untidy yards: some sagged on rotting sills, leaning shoulder\nto shoulder as if to prop one another up. From each front door a shaky\nflight of steps ran down to the unpaved sidewalk, where pigs and\nchildren and hens, and the daily tramp of feet to and from the Maitland\nWorks, had beaten the earth into a hard, black surface--or a soft,\nblack surface, when it rained. These little huddling houses called\nthemselves Maitland's Shantytown, and they looked up at the Big House,\nstanding in melancholy isolation behind its fence of iron spears, with\nthe pride that is common to us all when we find ourselves in the\ncompany of our betters. Back of the little houses was a strip of waste\nland, used for a dump; and beyond it, bristling against the sky, the\nlong line of Mercer's stacks and chimneys.\n\nIn spite of such surroundings, the Big House, even as late as the early\nseventies, was impressive. It was square, with four great chimneys, and\nlong windows that ran from floor to ceiling. Its stately entrance and\nits two curving flights of steps were of white marble, and so were the\nlintels of the windows; but the stone was so stained and darkened with\nsmoky years of rains and river fogs, that its only beauty lay in the\nnoble lines that grime and time had not been able to destroy. A gnarled\nand twisted old wistaria roped the doorway, and, crawling almost to the\nroof, looped along the eaves, in May it broke into a froth of exquisite\npurple and faint green, and for a week the garland of blossoms,\nmurmurous with bees, lay clean and lovely against the narrow, old\nbricks which had once been painted yellow. Outside, the house had a\ndistinction which no superficial dilapidation could mar; but inside\ndistinction was almost lost in the commonplace, if not in actual\nugliness. The double parlors on the right of the wide hall had been\nfurnished in the complete vulgarity of the sixties; on the left was the\nlibrary, which had long ago been taken by Mrs. Maitland as a bedroom,\nfor the practical reason that it opened into the dining-room, so her\ndesk was easily accessible at any time of night, should her passion for\ntoil seize her after working-hours were over. The walls of this room\nwere still covered with books, that no one ever read. Mrs. Maitland had\nno time to waste on reading; \"I _live_,\" she used to say; \"I don't read\nabout living!\" Except the imprisoned books, the only interesting things\nin the room were some _cartes-de-visite_ of Blair, which stood in a\ndusty row on the bureau, one of them propped against her son's first\npresent to her--the unopened bottle of Johann Maria Farina. When Blair\nwas a man, that bottle still stood there, the kid cap over the cork\nsplit and yellow, the ribbons of the little calendar hanging from its\ngreen neck, faded to streaky white.\n\nThe office dining-room, about which Blair had begun to be impertinent\nwhen he was eight years old, was of noble proportions and in its day\nmust have had great dignity; but in Blair's childhood its day was over.\nAbove the dingy white wainscoting the landscape paper his grandfather\nhad brought from France in the thirties had faded into a blur of blues\nand buffs. The floor was uncarpeted save for a Persian rug, whose\ncolors had long since dulled to an even grime. At one end of the room\nwas Mrs. Maitland's desk; at the other, filing cases, and two smaller\ndesks where clerks worked at ledgers or drafting. The four French\nwindows were uncurtained, and the inside shutters folded back, so that\nthe silent clerks might have the benefit of every ray of daylight\nfiltering wanly through Mercer's murky air. A long table stood in the\nmiddle of the room; generally it was covered with blue-prints, or the\nusual impedimenta of an office. But it was not an office table; it was\nof mahogany, scratched and dim to be sure, but matching the ancient\nclaw-footed sideboard whose top was littered with letter files, silver\nteapots and sugar-bowls, and stacks of newspapers. Three times a day\none end of this table was cleared, and the early breakfast, or the noon\ndinner, or the rather heavy supper eaten rapidly and for the most part\nin silence. Mrs. Maitland was silent because she was absorbed in\nthought; Nannie and Blair were silent because they were afraid to talk.\nBut the two children gave a touch of humanness to the ruthless room,\nwhich, indeed, poor little Blair had some excuse for calling a \"pigsty.\"\n\n\"When I'm big,\" Blair announced one afternoon after school, \"I'll have\na bunch of flowers on the table, like your mother does; you see if I\ndon't! I like your mother, David.\"\n\n\"_I_ don't; _very_ much,\" Elizabeth volunteered. \"She looks out of her\neyes at me when I get mad.\"\n\n\"I don't like to live at my house,\" Blair said, sighing.\n\n\"Why don't you run away?\" demanded Elizabeth; \"I'm going to some day\nwhen I get time.\"\n\n\"Where would you run to?\" David said, practically. David was always\ndisconcertingly practical.\n\nBut Elizabeth would not be pinned down to details. \"I will decide that\nwhen I get started.\"\n\n\"I believe,\" Blair meditated, \"I will run away.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what let's do,\" Elizabeth said, and paused to pick up\nher right ankle and hop an ecstatic yard or two on one foot; \"I tell\nyou what let's do: let's all run away, _and get married!_\"\n\nThe other three stared at her dumfounded. Elizabeth, whirling about on\nher toes, dropped down on all--fours to turn a somersault of joy; when\nshe was on her feet she said, \"Oh, _let's_ get married!\" But it took\nBlair, who always found it difficult to make up his mind, a few moments\nto accept the project.\n\nThey had planned to devote that afternoon to playing bury-you-alive\nunder the yellow sofa in Mrs. Richie's parlor, but this idea of\nElizabeth's made it necessary to hide in the \"cave\"--a shadowy spot\nbehind the palmtub in the greenhouse--for reflection. Once settled\nthere, jostling one another like young pigeons, it was David who, as\nusual, made the practical objections:\n\n\"We haven't any money.\"\n\n\"I suppose we could get all the money we want out of my mother's\ncash-box,\" Blair admitted, wavering.\n\n\"That's stealing,\" Elizabeth said.\n\n\"You can't steal from your mother,\" Nannie defended her brother.\n\n\"I'll marry you, Elizabeth,\" Blair said, with sudden enthusiastic\ndecision.\n\nBut David demurred: \"I think _I'd_ like Elizabeth. I'm not sure I want\nto marry Nannie.\"\n\n\"You said Nannie's hair was the longest, only yesterday!\" Blair said,\nangrily.\n\n\"But I like Elizabeth's color of hair. Nannie, do you think I'd like\nyou to marry best, or Elizabeth?\"\n\n\"I don't believe the color of hair makes any difference in being\nmarried,\" Nannie said, kindly. \"And anyway, you'll have to marry me,\nDavid, 'cause Blair can't. He's my brother.\"\n\n\"He's only your half-brother,\" David pointed out.\n\n\"You can have Nannie,\" said Blair, \"or you can stay out of the play.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll marry Nannie,\" David said, sadly; and Blair proceeded to\nelaborate the scheme. It was very simple: the money in Mrs. Maitland's\ncash-box would pay their fare to--\"Oh, anywhere,\" Blair said, then\nhesitated: \"The only thing is, how'll we get it?\"\n\n\"I'll get it for you,\" Nannie said, shuddering.\n\n\"Wouldn't you be scared?\" Blair asked doubtfully. Everybody knew poor\nNannie was a 'fraid-cat.\n\n\"Little people,\" somebody called from the parlor, \"what are you\nchattering about?\"\n\nThe children looked at one another in a panic, but Blair called back\ncourageously, \"Oh, nothing.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Mrs. Richie, smiling at Mr. Robert Ferguson, who had\ndropped in to find Elizabeth--\"perhaps you didn't know that my\nconservatory was a Pirates' Cave?\"\n\nThere was a sort of hesitant intimacy now between these two people, but\nit had never got so far as friendship. Mrs. Richie's retreating shyness\nwas courteous, but never cordial; Robert Ferguson's somber egotism was\nkind, but never generous. Yet, owing no doubt to their two children,\nand to the fact that Mr. Ferguson was continually bringing things over\nfrom his garden borders, to transplant into hers--it improves the\nproperty, he told her briefly--owing to the children and the flowers,\nthe landlord and the tenant saw each other rather frequently. On this\nespecial afternoon, though Mr. Ferguson had found Elizabeth, he still\nlingered, perhaps to tell the story of some extraordinary thing Mrs.\nMaitland had done that day at the Works. \"She's been the only man in\nthe family since old John died,\" he ended; \"and, judging from Blair, I\nguess she'll continue to be.\"\n\n\"She is wonderful!\" Mrs. Richie agreed; \"but she's lovable, too, which\nis more important.\"\n\n\"I should as soon say a locomotive was lovable,\" he said; \"not that\nthat's against her. Quite the contrary.\"\n\nThe pretty woman on the yellow damask sofa by the fireside flushed with\noffense. The fact was, this dry, dogmatic man, old at thirty-six, lean,\nand in a time of beards clean-shaven, with gray hair that stood\nfiercely up from a deeply furrowed brow, and kind, unhappy eyes\nblinking behind the magnifying lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses, this\nreally friendly neighbor, was always offending her--though he was\nrather nice about inside repairs. \"Why do I endure him?\" Mrs. Richie\nsaid to herself sometimes. Perhaps it was because, in spite of his\nmanners, and his sneer that the world was a mighty mean place to live\nin, and his joyless way of doing his duty to his little niece, he\ncertainly did see how good and sweet her David was. She reminded\nherself of this to check her offense at his snub about Mrs. Maitland;\nand all the while the good, sweet David was plotting behind the green\ntub of the palm-tree in the conservatory. But when Mr. Ferguson called\nto Elizabeth to come home with him, and then bent over and fussed about\nthe buttons on her jacket, and said, anxiously, \"Are you warm enough,\nPussy?\" Mrs. Richie said to herself: \"He _is_ good! It's only his\nmanners that are bad.\"\n\nRobert Ferguson went out into the brown November dusk with his little\ngirl clinging to his hand, for so he understood his duty to his niece;\nand on their own doorstep Elizabeth asked a question:\n\n\"Uncle, if you get married, do you have to stay married?\"\n\nHe looked down at her with a start. \"_What?_\" he said.\n\n\"If you don't like being married, do you have to stay?\"\n\n\"Don't ask foolish questions!\" he said; \"of course you have to.\"\n\nElizabeth sighed. As for her uncle, he was disturbed to the point of\nirritation. He dropped her hand with a gesture almost of disgust, and\nthe lines in his forehead deepened into painful folds. After supper he\ncalled Elizabeth's governess into the library, and shut the door.\n\n\"Miss White,\" he said, knocking his glasses off, \"Elizabeth is getting\nto be a big girl; will you kindly make a point of teaching her--things?\"\n\n\"I will do so immejetly, sir,\" said Miss White. \"What things?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Robert Ferguson, helplessly, \"why--general morals.\" He put\nhis glasses on carefully, with both hands. \"Elizabeth asked me a very\nimproper question; she asked me about divorce, and--\"\n\n\"_Divorce_!\" exclaimed Miss White, astounded; \"I have been at my post\nfor eight years, sir, and I am positive that that word has never been\nused in Elizabeth's presence!\"\n\nHe did not explain. \"Teach her,\" he said, harshly, \"that a woman has\ngot to behave herself.\"\n\nBlair having once decided upon it, clung to his purpose of running\naway, with a persistency which was his mother's large determination in\nlittle; but the double elopement was delayed for two days because of\nthe difficulty of securing the necessary funds. The dining-room, where\nMrs. Maitland \"kept all her money,\" was rarely entirely deserted. In\nthose brief intervals when the two clerks were not on hand, Harris\nseemed to be possessed of a clean devil, and spent an unusual amount of\ntime \"redding up\"; or when Harris was in the kitchen, and Blair,\ndragging the reluctant Nannie, had peered into the room, he had been\nconfronted by his mother. She never saw him--sometimes she was writing;\nsometimes talking to a foreman; sometimes knitting, for when Sarah\nMaitland had nothing else to do, she made baby socks for the missionary\nbarrel; once when Blair came to the door, she was walking up and down\nknitting rapidly, thinking out some project; her ball of zephyr had\nfallen on the floor, and dragging along behind her, unwinding and\nunwinding, had involved her hurrying tramp in a grimy, pink tangle.\n\nEach time Blair had looked into the room it was policed by this\nabsorbed presence. \"We'll _never_ get married!\" he said in despair. The\ndelay had a disastrous effect upon romance, for David, with the\nmelancholy candor of a reasoning temperament, was continually saying\nthat he doubted the desirability of Nannie as a wife; and Elizabeth was\njust as hesitant about Blair.\n\n\"Suppose I took a hate to you for a husband? Uncle Robert says if you\ndon't like being married, you can't stop.\"\n\n\"You won't want to stop. Married people don't have to go to school!\"\n\nElizabeth sighed. \"But I don't know but what maybe I'd like David for a\nhusband?\"\n\n\"He doesn't have but ten cents a week allowance, and I have a dollar,\"\nBlair reminded her.\n\n\"Well, I don't believe I like being married, anyway,\" she fretted; \"I\nlike going out to the toll-house for ice-cream better.\"\n\nHer uncertainty made Blair still more impatient to finance his journey;\nand that day, just after dinner, he and Nannie stood quaking at the\ndining-room door. \"I-I-I'll do it,\" Blair gasped, with trembling valor.\nHe was very little, and his eyes were dilating with fright. \"I'll do\nit,\" he said, chattering. Nannie rushed into the breach; Nannie never\npretended to be anything but a 'fraid-cat except in things that\nconcerned Blair; she said now, boldly:\n\n\"I'm the oldest, so I ought to.\"\n\nShe crept across the floor, stopping at every step to listen\nbreathlessly; nothing stirred, except her own little shadow crouching\nat her heels.\n\n\"Grab in the top drawer,\" Blair hissed after her; and she put a\nshrinking hand into the japanned box, and \"grabbed\" all the bills she\ncould hold; then, not waiting to close the drawer, she fled back to\nBlair. Up-stairs in her room, they counted the money.\n\n\"We can travel all round the world!\" Blair whispered, thrilled at the\namount of their loot. But at the last moment there was a\ndefection--Elizabeth backed out. \"I'd rather go out to the toll-house\nfor ice-cream,\" she said; \"ice-cream at Mrs. Todd's is nicer than being\nmarried. David, don't you go, either. Let Blair and Nannie go. You stay\nwith me.\"\n\nBut David was not to be moved. \"I like traveling; I've traveled a good\ndeal all my life; and I want to go round the world with Blair.\"\n\nElizabeth gave him a black look. \"You like Blair better 'an me,\" she\nsaid, the tears hot in her amber eyes. A minute later she slipped away\nto hide under the bed in her own room, peering out from under a lifted\nvalance for a hoped-for pursuer. But no one came; the other three were\nso excited that her absence was hardly noticed.\n\nHow they started, the adventurous ones, late that afternoon--later, in\nfact, than they planned, because Blair insisted upon running back to\ngive Harris a parting gift of a dollar; \"'Cause, poor Harris! _he_\ncan't go traveling\"--how they waited in the big, barn-like, foggy\nstation for what Blair called the \"next train,\" how they boarded it for\n\"any place\"--all seemed very funny when they were old enough to look\nback upon it. It even seemed funny, a day or two afterward, to their\nalarmed elders. But at the time it was not amusing to anybody. David\nwas gloomy at being obliged to marry Nannie; \"I pretty near wish I'd\nstayed with Elizabeth,\" he said, crossly. Nannie was frightened,\nbecause, she declared, \"Mamma'll be mad;--now I tell you, Blair, she'll\nbe mad!\" And Blair was sulky because he had no wife. Yet, in spite of\nthese varying emotions, pushed by Blair's resolution, they really did\nventure forth to \"travel all around the world!\"\n\nAs for the grown people's feelings about the elopement, they ran the\ngamut from panic to amusement.... At a little after five o'clock, Miss\nWhite heard sobbing in Elizabeth's room, and going in, found the little\ngirl blacking her boots and crying furiously. \"Elizabeth! my lamb! What\nis the matter?\"\n\n\"I have a great many sorrows,\" said Elizabeth, with a hiccup of despair.\n\n\"But what _are_ you doing?\"\n\n\"I am blacking my red shoes,\" Elizabeth wailed; and so she was, the\nblacking-sponge on its shaky wire dripping all over the carpet. \"My\nbeautiful red shoes; I am blacking them; and now they are spoiled\nforever.\"\n\n\"But why do you want to spoil them?\" gasped Miss White, struggling to\ntake the blacking-bottle away from her. \"Elizabeth, tell me immejetly!\nWhat has happened?\"\n\n\"I didn't go on the journey,\" said Elizabeth; \"and David wouldn't stay\nat home with me; he liked Blair and Nannie better 'an me. He hurt my\nfeelings; so pretty soon right away I got mad--mad--mad--to think he\nwouldn't stay with me. I always get mad if my feelings are hurt, and\nDavid Richie is always hurting 'em. I despise him for making me mad! I\ndespise him for treating me so--_hideous_! And so I took a hate to my\nshoes.\" The ensuing explanation sent Miss White, breathless, to tell\nMrs. Richie; but Mrs. Richie was not at home.\n\nWhen David did not appear that afternoon after school, Mrs. Richie was\ndisturbed. By three o'clock she was uneasy; but it was nearly five\nbefore the quiver of apprehension grew into positive fright; then she\nput on her things and walked down to the Maitland house.\n\n\"Is David here?\" she demanded when Harris answered her ring; \"please go\nup-stairs and look, Harris; they may be playing in the nursery. I am\nworried.\"\n\nHarris shuffled off, and Mrs. Richie, following him to the foot of the\nstairs, stood there gripping the newel-post.\n\n\"They ain't here,\" Harris announced from the top landing.\n\nMrs. Richie sank down on the lowest step.\n\n\"Harris!\" some one called peremptorily, and she turned to see Robert\nFerguson coming out of the dining-room: \"Oh, you're here, Mrs. Richie?\nI suppose you are on David's track. I thought Harris might have some\nclue. I came down to tell Mrs. Maitland all we could wring from\nElizabeth.\"\n\nBefore she could ask what he meant, Blair's mother joined them. \"I\nhaven't a doubt they are playing in the orchard,\" she said.\n\n\"No, they're not,\" her superintendent contradicted; \"Elizabeth says\nthey were going to 'travel'; but that's all we could get out of her.\"\n\n\"'Travel'! Oh, what does she mean?\" Mrs. Richie said; \"I'm so\nfrightened!\"\n\n\"What's the use of being frightened?\" Mrs. Maitland asked, curiously;\n\"it won't bring them back if they are lost, will it?\"\n\nRobert Ferguson knocked his glasses off fiercely. \"They couldn't be\nlost in Mercer,\" he reassured David's mother.\n\n\"Well, whether they've run away or not, come into my room and talk\nabout it like a sensible woman,\" said Mrs. Maitland; \"what's the use of\nsitting on the stairs? Women have such a way of sitting on stairs when\nthings go wrong! Suppose they are lost. What harm's done? They'll turn\nup. Come!\" Mrs. Richie came. Everybody \"came\" or went, or stood still,\nwhen Mrs. Maitland said the word! And though not commanded, Mr.\nFerguson came too.\n\nIn the dining-room Mrs. Maitland took no part in the perplexed\ndiscussion that followed. At her desk, in her revolving chair, she had\ninstinctively taken up her pen; there was a perceptible instant in\nwhich she got her mind off her own affairs and put it on this matter of\nthe children. Then she laid the pen down, and turned around to face the\nother two; but idleness irritated her, and she reached for a ball of\npink worsted skewered by bone needles. She asked no questions and made\nno comments, but knitting rapidly, listened, until apparently her\npatience came to an end; then with a grunt she whirled round to her\ndesk and again picked up her pen. But as she did so she paused, pen in\nair; threw it down, and pounding the flat of her hand on her desk,\nlaughed loudly:\n\n\"I know! I know!\" And revolving back again in leisurely relief to face\nthem, she said, with open amusement: \"When I came home this afternoon,\nI found this drawer half open and the bills in my cash-box disturbed.\nThey've\"--her voice was suddenly drowned in the rumble of a train on\nthe spur track; the house shook slightly, and a gust of black smoke was\nvomited against the windows;--\"they've helped themselves and gone off\nto enjoy it! We'll get on their trail at the railroad station. That's\nwhat Elizabeth meant by 'traveling.'\"\n\nMrs. Richie turned terrified eyes toward Mr. Ferguson.\n\n\"Why, of course!\" he said, \"the monkeys!\"\n\nBut Mrs. Richie seemed more frightened than ever. \"The\nrailroad!--_Oh_--\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Mrs. Maitland; \"they're all right. The ticket-agent\nwill remember them. Mr. Ferguson, telegraph to their destination,\nwherever it is, and have them shipped back. No police help at this end\nyet, if you please.\"\n\nRobert Ferguson nodded. \"Of course everything is all right,\" he said.\n\"I'll let you know the minute I find traces of them, Mrs. Richie.\" When\nhe reached the door, he came back. \"Now don't you worry; I could thrash\nthose boys for bothering you!\" At which she tried to smile, but there\nwas a quiver in her chin.\n\n\"Harris!\" Mrs. Maitland broke in, \"supper! Mrs. Richie, you are going\nto have something to eat.\"\n\n\"Oh, I can't--\"\n\n\"What? You are not saying _can't?_ 'Can't' is a 'bad word,' you know.\"\nShe got up--a big, heavy woman, in a gray bag of a dress that only\nreached to the top of her boots--and stood with her hands on her hips;\nher gray hair was twisted into a small, tight knot at the back of her\nhead, and her face looked like iron that had once been molten and had\ncooled into roughened immobility. It was not an unamiable face; as she\nstood there looking down at Mrs. Richie she even smiled the half-amused\nsmile one might bestow on a puppy, and she put a kindly hand on the\nother mother's shoulder. \"Don't be so scared, woman! They'll be found.\"\n\n\"You don't think anything could have happened to him?\" Mrs. Richie\nsaid, trembling; \"you don't think he could have been run over, or--or\nanything?\" She clutched at the big hand and clung to it.\n\n\"No,\" Mrs. Maitland said, dryly; \"I don't think anything has happened\nto him.\"\n\nMrs. Richie had the grace to blush. \"Of course I meant Blair and\nNannie, too,\" she murmured.\n\n\"You never thought of 'em!\" Mrs. Maitland said, chuckling; \"now you\nmust have some supper.\"\n\nThey were in the midst of it when a note came from Mr. Ferguson to say\nthat he was on the track of the runaways. He had sent a despatch that\nwould insure their being returned by the next train, and he was himself\ngoing half-way up the road to meet them. Then a postscript: \"Tell Mrs.\nRichie not to worry.\"\n\n\"Doesn't seem much disturbed about my worry,\" said Mrs. Maitland,\njocosely significant; then with loud cheerfulness she tried to rally\nher guest: \"It's all right; what did I tell you? Where's my knitting?\nCome; I'll go over to the parlor with you; we'll sit there.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland's parlor was not calculated to cheer a panic-stricken\nmother. It was a vast room, rather chilly on this foggy November\nevening, and smelling of soot. On its remote ceiling was a design in\ndelicate relief of garlands and wreaths, which the dingy years had not\nbeen able to rob of its austere beauty. Two veined black-marble columns\nsupported an arch that divided the desert of the large room into two\nsmaller rooms, each of which had the center-table of the period, its\nbleak white-marble top covered with elaborately gilded books that no\none ever opened. Each room had, too, a great cut-glass chandelier,\nswathed in brown paper-muslin and looking like a gigantic withered\npear. Each had its fireplace, with a mantelpiece of funereal marble to\nmatch the pillars. Mrs. Maitland had refurnished this parlor when she\ncame to the old house as a bride; she banished to the lumber-room, or\neven to the auctioneer's stand, the heavy, stately mahogany of the\nearly part of the century, and purchased according to the fashion of\nthe day, glittering rosewood, carved and gilded and as costly as could\nbe found. Between the windows at each end of the long room were mirrors\nin enormous gilt frames; the windows themselves, topped with cornices\nand heavy lambrequins, were hung with crimson brocade; a grand piano,\nvery bare and shining, sprawled sidewise between the black columns of\nthe arch, and on the wall opposite the fireplaces were four large\nlandscapes in oil, of exactly the same size. \"Herbert likes pictures,\"\nthe bride said to herself when she purchased them. \"That goose Molly\nWharton wouldn't have been able to buy 'em for him!\" The only pleasant\nthing in the meaningless room was Nannie's drawing-board, which\ndisplayed the little girl's painstaking and surprisingly exact copy in\nlead-pencil, of some chromo--\"Evangeline\" perhaps, or some popular\nsentimentality of the sixties. In the ten years which had elapsed since\nMrs. Maitland had plunged into her debauch of furnishing--her one\nextravagance!--of course the parlors had softened; the enormous roses\nof the carpets had faded, the glitter of varnish had dimmed; but the\nchange was not sufficient to blur in Mrs. Maitland's eyes, all the\ncostly and ugly glory of the room. She cast a complacent glance about\nher as she motioned her nervous and preoccupied guest to a chair. \"How\ndo you like Mercer?\" she said, beginning to knit rapidly.\n\n\"Oh, very well; it is a little--smoky,\" Mrs. Richie said, glancing at\nthe clock.\n\nMrs. Maitland grunted. \"Mercer would be in a bad way without its smoke.\nYou ought to learn to like it, as I do! I like the smell of it, I like\nthe taste of it, I like the feel of it!\"\n\n\"Really?\" Mrs. Richie murmured; she was watching the clock.\n\n\"That smoke, let me tell you Mrs. Richie is the pillar of cloud, to\nthis country! (If you read your Bible, you'll know what that means.) I\nthink of it whenever I look at my stacks.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland's resentment at her guest's mild criticism was obvious;\nbut Mrs. Richie did not notice it. \"I think I'll go down to the station\nand meet the children,\" she said, rising.\n\n\"I'm afraid you are a very foolish woman,\" Sarah Maitland said;--and\nMrs. Richie sat down. \"Mr. Ferguson will bring 'em here. Anyway, this\nclock is half an hour slow. They'll be here before you could get to the\nstation.\" She chuckled, slyly. Her sense of humor was entirely\nrudimentary, and never got beyond the practical joke. \"I've been\nwatching you look at that clock,\" she said; then she looked at it\nherself and frowned. She was wasting a good deal of time over this\nbusiness of the children. But in spite of herself, glancing at the\ngraceful figure sitting in tense waiting at the fireside, she smiled.\n\"You are a pretty creature,\" she said; and Mrs. Richie started and\nblushed like a girl. \"If Robert Ferguson had any sense!\" she went on,\nand paused to pick up a dropped stitch. \"Queer fellow, isn't he?\" Mrs.\nRichie had nothing to say. \"Something went wrong with him when he was\nyoung, just after he left college. Some kind of a crash. Woman scrape,\nI suppose. Have you ever noticed that women make all the trouble in the\nworld? Well, he never got over it. He told me once that Life wouldn't\nplay but one trick on him. 'We're always going to sit down on a\nchair--and Life pulls it from under us,' he said. 'It won't do that to\nme twice.' He's not given to being confidential, but that put me on the\ntrack. And now he's got Elizabeth on his hands.\"\n\n\"She's a dear little thing,\" Mrs. Richie said, smiling; \"though I\nconfess she always fights shy of me; she doesn't like me, I'm afraid.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland lifted an eyebrow. \"She's a corked-up volcano. Robert\nFerguson ought to get married, and give her an aunt to look after her.\"\nShe glanced at Mrs. Richie again, with appraising eyes; \"pity he hasn't\nmore sense.\"\n\n\"I think I hear a carriage,\" Mrs. Richie said, coldly. Then she forgot\nMrs. Maitland, and stood waiting and trembling. A minute later Mr.\nFerguson ushered the three sleepy, whimpering children into the room,\nand Mrs. Richie caught her grimy, crying little boy in her arms and\ncried with him. \"Oh, David, oh, David--my darling! How could you\nfrighten mother so!\"\n\nShe was on her knees before him, and while her tears and kisses fell on\nhis tousled thatch of yellow hair, he burrowed his dirty little face\namong the laces around her white throat and bawled louder than ever.\nMrs. Maitland, her back to the fireplace, her hands on her hips, stood\nlooking on; she was very much interested. Blair, hungry and sleepy and\nevidently frightened, was nuzzling up against Mrs. Richie, catching at\nher hand and trying to hide behind her skirts; he looked furtively at\nhis mother, but he would not meet her eye.\n\n\"Blair,\" she said, \"go to bed.\"\n\n\"Nannie and me want some supper,\" said Blair in a whisper.\n\n\"You won't get any. Boys that go traveling at supper-time can get their\nown suppers or go hungry.\"\n\n\"It's my fault, Mamma,\" Nannie panted.\n\n\"No, it ain't!\" Blair said quickly, emerging from behind Mrs. Richie;\n\"it was me made her do it.\"\n\n\"Well, clear out, clear out! Go to bed, both of you,\" Mrs. Maitland\nsaid. But when the two children had scuttled out of the room she struck\nher knee with her fist and laughed immoderately.\n\nThe next morning, when the two children skulked palely into the\ndining-room, they were still frightened. Mrs. Maitland, however, did\nnot notice them. She was absorbed in trying in the murky light to read\nthe morning paper, propped against the silver urn in front of her.\n\n\"Sit down,\" she said; \"I don't like children who are late for\nbreakfast. Bless, O Lord, we beseech Thee, these things to our use, and\nus to Thy service and glory. Amen!--Harris! Light the gas.\"\n\nMercer's daylight was always more or less wan; but in the autumn the\nyellow fogs seemed to press the low-hanging smoke down into the great\nbowl of the hills at the bottom of which the town lay, and the wanness\nscarcely lightened, even at high noon. On such days the gas in the\ndining-room--or office, if one prefers to call it so--flared from\nbreakfast until dinner time. It flared now on two scared little faces.\nOnce Blair lifted questioning eyebrows at Harris, and managed when the\nman brought his plate of porridge to whisper, \"mad?\" At which the\nsympathetic Harris rolled his eyes speechlessly, and the two children\ngrew perceptibly paler. But when, abruptly, Mrs. Maitland crumpled her\nnewspaper together and threw it on the floor, her absorbed face showed\nno displeasure. The fact was, she had forgotten the affair of the night\nbefore; it was the children's obvious alarm which reminded her that the\nbusiness of scolding and punishing must be attended to. She got up from\nthe table and stood behind them, with her back to the fire; she began\nto nibble the upper joint of her forefinger, wondering just how to\nbegin. This silent inspection of their shoulders made the little\ncreatures quiver. Nannie crumbled her bread into a heap, and Blair\ncarried an empty spoon to his mouth with automatic regularity; Harris,\nin the pantry, in a paroxysm of sympathy, stretched his lean neck to\nthe crack of the half-open door.\n\n\"Children!\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am,\" Nannie quavered.\n\n\"Turn round.\"\n\nThey turned. Nannie began to cry. Blair twisted a button on his coat\nwith a grip that made his fingers white.\n\n\"Come into my room.\"\n\nThe children gasped with dismay. Mrs. Maitland's bedroom was a\nnightmare of a place to them both. It was generally dark, for the lower\nhalves of the inside shutters were apt to be closed; but, worse than\nthat, the glimmering glass doors of the bookcases that lined the walls\nheld a suggestion of mystery that was curiously terrifying. Whenever\nthey entered the room, the brother and sister always kept a frightened\neye on those doors. This dull winter morning, when they came quaking\nalong behind their mother into this grim place, it was still in the\nsqualor of morning confusion. Later, Harris would open the shutters and\ntidy things up; he would dust the painted pine bureau and Blair's\nphotographs and the slender green bottle of German cologne on which the\nred ribbons of the calendar were beginning to fade; now everything was\ndark and bleak and covered with dust. Mrs. Maitland sat down; the\nculprits stood hand in hand in front of her.\n\n\"Blair, don't you know it's wrong to take what doesn't belong to you?\"\n\n\"I took it,\" said the 'fraid-cat, faintly; she moved in front of her\nbrother as though to protect him.\n\n\"Blair told you to,\" his mother said.\n\n\"Yes,\" Blair blurted out, \"it was me told her to.\"\n\n\"People that take things that don't belong to them go to hell,\" Mrs.\nMaitland said; \"haven't you learned that in Sunday-school?\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"You ought to be punished very severely, Blair--and Nannie, too. But I\nam very busy this morning, so I shall only say\"--she hesitated; what on\nearth should she say! \"that--that you shall lose your allowance for\nthis week, both of you.\"\n\nOne of them muttered, \"Yes'm.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland looked as uncomfortable as they did. She wondered what to\ndo next. How much simpler a furnace was than a child! \"Well,\" she said,\n\"that's all--at present\"; it had suddenly occurred to her that\napprehension was a good thing; \"_at present_,\" she repeated darkly;\n\"and Blair, remember; thieves go to hell.\" She watched them with\nperplexed eyes as they hurried out of the room; just as they reached\nthe door she called: \"Blair!\"\n\nThe child stopped short in his tracks and quivered.\n\n\"Come here.\" He came, slowly, his very feet showing his reluctance.\n\"Blair,\" she said--in her effort to speak gently her voice grated; she\nput out her hand as if to draw him to her, but the child shivered and\nmoved aside. Mrs. Maitland looked at him dumbly; then bent toward him,\nand her hands, hanging between her knees, opened and closed, and even\nhalf stretched out as if in inarticulate entreaty. Nannie, in the\ndoorway, sobbing under her breath, watched with frightened,\nuncomprehending eyes. \"My son,\" Sarah Maitland said, with as much\nmildness as her loud voice could express, \"what did you mean to do when\nyou ran away?\" She smiled, but he would not meet her eyes. \"Tell me, my\nboy, why did you run away?\"\n\nBlair tried to speak, cleared his throat, and blurted out four husky\nwords: \"Don't like it here.\"\n\n\"Don't like what? Your home?\"\n\nBlair nodded.\n\n\"Why not?\" she asked, astonished.\n\n\"Ugly,\" Blair said, faintly.\n\n\"Ugly! What is ugly?\"\n\nBlair, without looking up, made a little, swift gesture with his hand.\n\"This,\" he said; then suddenly he lifted his head, gave her a sidewise,\nshrinking look, and dropped his eyes. The color flew into Mrs.\nMaitland's face; with an ejaculation of anger, she got on her feet.\n\"You are a very foolish and very bad little boy,\" she said; \"you don't\nknow what you are talking about. I had meant to increase your\nallowance, but now I won't do it. Listen to me; it is no matter whether\na house, or a--a person, is what you call 'ugly.' What matters is\nwhether they are useful. Everything in the world ought to be\nuseful--like our Works. If I ever hear you saying you don't like a\nthing because it's ugly, I shall--I shall not give you any money at\nall. Money!\" she burst out, suddenly fluent, \"money isn't _pretty_!\nDirty scraps of paper, bits of silver that look like lead--perhaps you\ncall money 'ugly,' too?\"\n\nHer vehemence was a sort of self-defense; it was a subtle confession\nthat she felt in this little repelling personality the challenge of an\nequal; but Blair only gaped at her in childish confusion; and instantly\nhis mother was herself again. \"Clear out, now; and be a good boy.\" When\nshe was alone, she sat at her desk in the dining-room for several\nminutes without taking up her pen. Her face burned from the slap of the\nchild's words; but below the scorch of anger and mortification her\nheart was bruised. He did not like her to put her arm about him! She\ndrew a long breath and began to read her letters; but all the while she\nwas thinking of that scene in the parlor the night before: Blair\ncrouching against Mrs. Richie, clinging to her white hand;--voluntarily\nSarah Maitland looked at her own hand; \"I suppose,\" she said to\nherself, \"he thinks hers is 'pretty'! Where does he get such notions? I\nwonder what kind of a woman she is, anyway; she never says anything\nabout her husband.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nThere came a day when Miss White's little school in the garret was\nbroken up. Mr. Ferguson declared that David and Blair needed a boot\ninstead of a petticoat to teach them their Latin--and a few other\nthings, too! He had found Mrs. Richie in tears because, under the big\nhawthorn in her own back yard, David had blacked Blair's eye, and had\nhimself achieved a bloody nose. Mrs. Richie was for putting on her\nthings to go and apologize to Mrs. Maitland, and was hardly restrained\nby her landlord's snort of laughter.\n\n\"Next time I hope he'll give him two black eyes, and Blair will loosen\none of his front teeth!\" said Mr. Ferguson.\n\nDavid's mother was speechless with horror.\n\n\"That's the worst of trusting a boy to a good woman,\" he barked,\nknocking off his glasses angrily; \"but I'll do what I can to thwart\nyou! I'll make sure there isn't any young-eyed cherubin business about\nDavid. He has got to go to boarding-school, and learn something besides\nhis prayers. If somebody doesn't rescue him from apron-strings, he'll\nbe a 'very, very good young man'--and then may the Lord have mercy on\nhis soul!\"\n\n\"I didn't know anybody could be too good,\" Mrs. Richie ventured.\n\n\"A woman can't be too good, but a man oughtn't to be,\" her landlord\ninstructed her.\n\nDavid's mother was too bewildered by such sentiments to\nprotest--although, indeed, Mr. Ferguson need not have been quite so\nconcerned about David's \"goodness.\" This freckled, clear-eyed\nyoungster, with straight yellow hair and good red cheeks, was just an\nhonest, growly boy, who dropped his clothes about on the floor of his\nroom, and whined over his lessons, and blustered largely when out of\nhis mother's hearing; furthermore, he had already experienced his first\nstogie--with a consequent pallor about the gills that scared Mrs.\nRichie nearly to death. But Robert Ferguson's jeering reference to\napron-strings resulted in his being sent to boarding school. Blair went\nwith him, \"rescued\" from the goodwoman regime of Cherry-pie's\ninstruction by Mr. Ferguson's advice to Mrs. Maitland; \"although,\"\nRobert Ferguson admitted, candidly, \"he doesn't need it as poor David\ndoes; his mother wouldn't know how to make a Miss Nancy of him, even if\nshe wanted to!\" Then, with a sardonic guess at Mrs. Richie's unspoken\nthought, he added that Mrs. Maitland would not dream of going to live\nin the town where her son was at school. \"She has sense enough to know\nthat Blair, or any other boy worth his salt, would hate his mother if\nshe tagged on behind,\" said Mr. Ferguson; \"of course you would never\nthink of doing such a thing, either,\" he ended, ironically.\n\n\"Of course not,\" said Mrs. Richie, faintly. So it was that, assisted by\nher landlord, David's mother thrust her one chicken out into the world\nunprotected by her hovering wing. About the time Miss White lost her\ntwo masculine pupils, the girls began to go to a day-school in Mercer,\nCherry-pie's entire deposition as a teacher being brought about\nbecause, poor lady! she fumbled badly when it came to a critical moment\nwith Elizabeth. It all grew out of one of the child's innumerable\nsquabbles with David--she got along fairly peaceably with Blair. She\nand Nannie had been comparing pigtails, and David had asserted that\nElizabeth's hair was \"the nicest\"; which so gratified her that she\nfirst hugged him violently, and then invited him to take her out rowing.\n\n\"I'll pay for the boat!\" she said, and pirouetted around the room,\nkeeping time with:\n\n  \"'Oh, that will be joyful, joyful, joyful!\n  Oh, that will be--'\n\n\"Uncle gave me a dollar yesterday,\" she interrupted herself,\nbreathlessly.\n\nTo this David, patiently straightening his collar after that ecstatic\nembrace, objected; but his magnanimity was lessened by his explanation\nthat he wasn't going to have any _girl_ pay for him! This ruffled\nElizabeth's pride for a moment; however, she was not averse to saving\nher dollar, so everything was arranged. David was to row her to\nWillis's, a country tavern two miles down the river, where, as all\nmiddle-aged Mercer will remember, the best jumbles in the world could\nbe purchased at the agreeable price of two for a cent. Elizabeth, who\nwas still congratulating herself on having \"nicer hair than Nannie,\"\nand who loved the river (and the jumbles), was as punctual as a clock\nin arriving at the covered bridge where at the toll-house wharf they\nwere to meet and embark. She had even been so forehanded as to bargain\nwith Mrs. Todd for the hire of the skiff, in which she immediately\nseated herself, the tiller-ropes in her hands, all ready for David to\ntake the oars. \"And I've waited, and waited, and waited!\" she told\nherself angrily, as she sat there in the faintly rocking skiff. And\nafter an hour of waiting, what should she see but David Richie racing\non the bridge with Blair Maitland! He had just simply forgotten his\nengagement! (Elizabeth was so nearly a young lady that she said\n\"engagement.\")\n\n\"I'll never forgive him,\" she said, and the dimple hardened in her\ncheek. Sitting in the boat, she looked up at the two boys, David in\nadvance, a young, lithe figure, in cotton small-clothes and jersey,\nleaping in great, beautiful strides, on and on and on, his face\nglowing, his eyes like stars; then, alas, he gave a downward glance and\nthere was Elizabeth, waiting fiercely in the skiff! His \"engagement\"\ncame back to him; there was just one astonished, faltering instant; and\nin it, of course, Blair shot ahead! It must be confessed that in his\nrage at being beaten David promptly forgot Elizabeth again, for though\nshe waited still a little longer for him and his apology, no David\nappeared, he and Blair being occupied in wrangling over their race. She\nwent home in a slowly gathering passion. _David had forgotten her!_ \"He\nlikes Blair better than me; he'd rather race with another boy than go\nout in a boat with me; and I said I'd pay for it--and I've only got one\ndollar in the whole world!\" At that stab of self-pity a tear ran down\nthe side of her nose (and she was still a whole block away from home!);\nwhen it reached her lip, she was obliged to put her tongue out\nfurtively and lick it away. But repression made the outbreak, when it\ncame, doubly furious. She burst in upon Miss White, her dry eyes\nblazing with rage.\n\n\"He made me wait; he didn't come; I hate him. I'll never speak to him\nagain. He hurt my feelings. He is a beast.\"\n\n\"Elizabeth! You mustn't use such unladylike words! When I was a young\nlady I never even heard such words. Oh, my lamb, if you don't control\nyour temper, something dreadful will happen to you some day!\"\n\n\"I hope something dreadful will happen to him some day,\" said\nElizabeth. And with that came the tears--a torrential rain, through\nwhich the lightning played and the thunder crashed. Miss White in real\nterror, left her, to get some smelling-salts, and the instant she was\nalone Elizabeth ran across the room and stood before her mirror; then\nshe took a pair of scissors in her shaking hand and hacked off lock\nafter lock, strand after strand, of her shining hair. When it was done,\nshe looked at the russet stubble that was left with triumphant rage.\n\"There, now! I guess he won't think my hair is nicer than Nannie's any\nmore. I _hate_ him!\" she said, and laughed out loud, her vivid face wet\nand quivering.\n\nMiss White, hurrying in, heard the laugh, and stood transfixed:\n\"Elizabeth!\" The poor, ugly, shorn head, the pile of gleaming hair on\nthe bureau, the wicked, tear-stained, laughing face brought the poor\nlady's heart into her throat. \"Elizabeth!\" she faltered again; and\nElizabeth ran and flung her arms about her neck.\n\n\"David forgot all about me,\" she sobbed. \"He is always hurting my\nfeelings! And I can't _bear_ to have my feelings hurt. Oh, Cherry-pie,\nkiss me! Kiss me!\"\n\nThat was the end of the outburst; the ensuing penitence was unbridled\nand temporary. The next morning she waylaid David to offer him some\ncandy, which he took with serene unconsciousness of any bad behavior on\nhis part.\n\n\"Awfully sorry I forgot about Willis's,\" he said casually; and took a\nhearty handful of candy.\n\nElizabeth, looking into the nearly empty box, winced; then said,\nbravely, \"Take some more.\" He took a good deal more.\n\n\"David, I--I'm sorry I cut my hair.\"\n\n\"Why, I didn't notice,\" David said, wrinkling up his freckled nose and\nglancing at her with some interest. \"It looks awfully, doesn't it?\"\n\n\"David, don't tell your mother, will you? She looks so sort of\nhorrified when I've been provoked. It almost makes me mad again,\"\nElizabeth said, candidly.\n\n\"Materna thinks it's dreadful in you.\"\n\n\"Do you mind about my hair?\" Elizabeth asked.\n\nDavid laughed uproariously. \"Why on earth should _I_ mind? If I were a\ngirl, you bet I'd keep my hair cut.\"\n\n\"Do you forgive me?\" she said, in a whisper; \"if you don't forgive me,\nI shall die.\"\n\n\"Forgive you?\" said David, astonished, his mouth full of candy; \"why,\nit's nothing to me if you cut off your hair. Only I shouldn't think\nyou'd want to look so like 'Sam Hill.' But I tell you what, Elizabeth;\nyou're too thin-skinned. What's the use of getting mad over every\nlittle thing?\"\n\n\"It wasn't so very little, to be forgotten.\"\n\n\"Well, yes; I suppose you were disappointed, but--\"\n\nElizabeth's color began to rise. \"Oh, I wasn't so terribly\ndisappointed. You needn't flatter yourself. I simply don't like to be\ninsulted.\"\n\n\"Ah, now, Elizabeth,\" he coaxed, \"there you go again!\"\n\n\"No, I don't. I'm _not_ angry. Only--you went with Blair; you didn't\nwant--\" she choked, and flew back into the house, deaf to his clumsy\nand troubled explanations.\n\nIn Miss White's room, Elizabeth announced her intention of entering a\nconvent, and it was then that Cherry-pie fumbled: she took the convent\nseriously! The next morning she broke the awful news to Elizabeth's\nuncle. It was before breakfast, and Mr. Ferguson--who had not time to\nread his Bible for pressure of business--had gone out into the\ngrape-arbor in his narrow garden to feed the pigeons. There was a crowd\nof them about his feet, their rimpling, iridescent necks and soft gray\nbosoms pushing and jostling against one another, and their pink feet\nactually touching his boots. When Miss White burst out at him, the\npigeons rose in startled flight, and Mr. Ferguson frowned.\n\n\"And she says,\" Miss White ended, almost in tears--\"she says she is\ngoing to enter a convent immejetly!\"\n\n\"My dear Miss White,\" said Elizabeth's uncle, grimly, \"there's no such\nluck.\"\n\nMiss White positively reeled. Then he explained, and Cherry-pie came\nnearer to her employer in those ten minutes than in the ten years in\nwhich she had looked after his niece. \"I don't care about Elizabeth's\ntemper; she'll get over that. And I don't care a continental about her\nhair or her religion; she can wear a wig or be a Mohammedan if it keeps\nher straight. She has a bad inheritance, Miss White; I would be only\ntoo pleased to know that she was shut up in a convent, safe and sound.\nBut this whim isn't worth talking about.\"\n\nMiss White retired, nibbling with horror, and that night Robert\nFerguson went in to tell his neighbor his worries.\n\n\"What _am_ I to do with her?\" he groaned. \"She cut off her hair?\" Mrs.\nRichie repeated, astounded; \"but why? How perfectly irrational!\"\n\n\"Don't say 'how irrational'; say 'how Elizabeth.'\"\n\n\"I wish she would try to control her temper,\" Mrs. Richie said,\nanxiously.\n\nBut Mr. Ferguson was not troubled about that. \"She's vain; that's what\nworries me. She cried all afternoon about her hair.\"\n\n\"She needs a stronger hand than kind Miss White's,\" Mrs. Richie said;\n\"why not send her to school?\" And the harassed uncle sighed with relief\nat the idea, which was put into immediate execution.\n\nWith growing hair and the wholesome companionship of other girls, of\ncourse the ascetic impulse died a natural death; but the temper did not\ndie. It only hid itself under that sense of propriety which is\nresponsible for so much of our good behavior. When it did break loose,\nthe child suffered afterward from the consciousness of having made a\nfool of herself--which is a wholesome consciousness so far as it\ngoes--but it did not go very far with Elizabeth; she never suffered in\nany deeper way. She took her temper for granted; she was not complacent\nabout it; she did not credit it to \"temperament,\" she was merely matter\nof fact; she said she \"couldn't help it.\" \"I don't want to get mad,\"\nshe used to say to Nannie; \"and of course I never mean any of the\nhorrid things I say. I'd like to be good, like you; but I can't help\nbeing wicked.\" Between those dark moments of being \"wicked\" she was a\njoyous, unself-conscious girl of generous loves, which she expressed as\nprimitively as she did her angers; indeed, in the expression of\naffection Elizabeth had the exquisite and sometimes embarrassing\ninnocence of a child who has been brought up by a sad old bachelor and\na timid old maid. As for her angers, they were followed by irrational\nefforts to \"make up\" with any one she felt she had wronged. She spent\nher little pocket-money in buying presents for her maleficiaries, she\ninvented punishments for herself; and generally she confessed her sin\nwith humiliating fullness. Once she confessed to her uncle, thereby\ngreatly embarrassing him:\n\n\"Uncle, I want you to know I am a great sinner; probably the chief of\nsinners,\" she said, breathing hard. She had come into his library after\nsupper, and was standing with a hand on the back of his chair; her eyes\nwere bright with unshed tears.\n\n\"Good gracious!\" said Robert Ferguson, looking at her blankly over his\nglasses, \"what on earth have you been doing now?\"\n\n\"I got mad, and I chopped up the feather in Cherry-pie's new bonnet,\nand I told her she was a hideous, monstrous old donkey-hag.\"\n\n\"Elizabeth!\"\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"Have you apologized?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Elizabeth; \"but what's the good of 'pologizing? _I said\nit._ 'Course I 'pologized; and I kissed her muddy rubbers when she\nwasn't looking; and I gave her all my money for a new feather\"--she\nstopped, and sighed deeply; \"and here is the money you gave me to go to\nthe theater. So now I haven't any money at all, in the world.\"\n\nPoor Robert Ferguson, with a despairing jerk at the black ribbon of his\nglasses, leaned back in his chair, helpless with perplexity. Why on\nearth did she give him back his money? He could not follow her mental\nprocesses. He said as much to Mrs. Richie the next time he went to see\nher. He went to see her quite often in those days. For the convenience\nof David and Elizabeth, a doorway had been cut in the brick wall\nbetween the two gardens, and Mr. Ferguson used it frequently. In their\nfive or six years of living next door to each other the acquaintance of\nthese two neighbors had deepened into a sort of tentative intimacy,\nwhich they never quite thought of as friendship, but which permitted\nmany confidences about their two children.\n\nAnd when they talked about their children, they spoke, of course, of\nthe other two, for one could not think of David without remembering\nBlair, or talk of Elizabeth without contrasting her with Nannie. Nannie\nhad none of that caroling vitality which made the younger girl an acute\nanxiety and a perpetual delight. She was like a little plant growing in\nthe shade--a gently good child, who never gave anybody any trouble; she\ncontinued to be a 'fraid-cat, and looked under the bed every night for\na burglar. With Blair at boarding-school her life was very solitary,\nfor of course there was no intimacy between her and her stepmother.\nMrs. Maitland was invariably kind to her, and astonishingly patient\nwith the rather dull little mind--one of those minds that are like\nsoftly tangled skeins of single zephyr; if you try to unwind the mild,\nelusive thoughts, they only knot tightly upon themselves, and the\nresult is a half-frightened and very obstinate silence. But Mrs.\nMaitland never tried to unwind Nannie's thoughts; she used to look at\nher sometimes in kindly amusement, as one might look at a kitten or a\ncanary; and sometimes she said to Robert Ferguson that Nannie was like\nher own mother;--\"but Blair has brains!\" she would say, complacently.\nSchool did not give the girl the usual intense friendships, and except\nfor Elizabeth, she had no companions; her one interest was Blair, and\nher only occupation out of school hours was her drawing--which was\nnothing more than endless, meaningless copying. It was Nannie's\nessential child-likeness that kept her elders, and indeed David and\nBlair too, from understanding that she and Elizabeth were no longer\nlittle girls. Perhaps the boys first realized Elizabeth's age when they\nsimultaneously discovered that she was pretty....\n\nElizabeth's long braids had been always attractive to the masculine\neye; they had suggested jokes about pigtails, and much of that peculiar\nhumor so pleasing to the young male; but the summer that she \"put up\nher hair,\" the puppies, so to speak, got their eyes open. When the boys\nsaw those soft plaits, no longer hanging within easy reach of a rude\nand teasing hand, but folded around her head behind her little ears;\nwhen they saw the small curls breaking over and through the brown\nbraids that were flecked with gilt, and the stray locks, like feathers\nof spun silk, clustering in the nape of her neck; when David and Blair\nsaw these things--it was about the time their voices were showing\namazing and ludicrous register--something below the artless brutalities\nof the boys' sense of humor was touched. They took abruptly their first\nperilous step out of boyhood. Of course they did not know it.... The\nsignificant moment came one afternoon when they all went out to the\ntoll-house for ice-cream. There was a little delay at the gate, while\nthe boys wrangled as to who should stand treat. \"I'll pull straws with\nyou,\" said Blair; Blair's pleasant, indolent mind found the appeal to\nchance the easiest way to settle things, but he was always good-natured\nwhen, as now, the verdict was against him. \"Come on,\" he commanded,\ngayly, \"I'll shell out!\" Mrs. Todd, who had begun to dispense pink and\nbrown ice-cream, for them when they were very little children, winked\nand nodded as they all came in together, and made a jocose remark about\n\"handsome couples\"; then she trundled off to get the ice-cream, leaving\nthem in the saloon. This \"saloon\" was an ell of the toll-house; it\nopened on a little garden, from which a flight of rickety steps led\ndown to a float where half a dozen skiffs were tied up, waiting to be\nhired. In warm weather, when the garden was blazing with fragrant\ncolor, Mrs. Todd would permit favored patrons to put their small tables\nout among the marigolds and zinnias and sit and eat and talk. The\nsaloon itself had Nottingham-lace window-curtains, and crewel texts\nenjoining remembrance of the Creator, and calling upon Him to \"bless\nour home.\" The tables, with marble tops translucent from years of\nspilled ice cream, had each a worsted mat, on which was a glass vase\nfull of blue paper roses; on the ceiling there was a wonderful star of\nscalloped blue tissue-paper--ostensibly to allure flies, but hanging\nthere winter and summer, year in and year out. Between the windows that\nlooked out on the river stood a piano, draped with a festooning scarf\nof bandanna handkerchiefs. These things seemed to Blair, at this stage\nof his esthetic development, very satisfying, and part of his pleasure\nin \"treating\" came from his surroundings; he used to look about him\nenviously, thinking of the terrible dining-room at home; and on sunny\ndays he used to look, with even keener pleasure, at the reflected\nripple of light, striking up from the river below, and moving endlessly\nacross the fly-specked ceiling. Watching the play of moving light, he\nwould put his tin spoon into his tumbler of ice-cream and taste the\nsnowy mixture with a slow prolongation of pleasure, while the two girls\nchattered like sparrows, and David listened, saying very little and\nalways ready to let Elizabeth finish his ice-cream after she had\ndevoured her own.\n\nIt was on one of these occasions that Blair, watching that long ripple\non the ceiling, suddenly saw the sunshine sparkle on Elizabeth's hair,\nand his spoon paused midway to his lips. \"Oh, say, isn't Elizabeth's\nhair nice?\" he said.\n\nDavid turned and looked at it. \"I've seen lots of girls with hair like\nthat,\" he said; but he sighed, and scratched his left ankle with his\nright foot. Blair, smiling to himself, put out a hesitating finger and\ntouched a shimmering curl; upon which Elizabeth ducked and laughed, and\ndancing over to the old tin pan of a piano pounded out \"Shoo Fly\" with\none finger. Blair, watching the lovely color in her cheek, said in\nhonest delight: \"When your face gets red like that, you are awfully\ngood-looking, Elizabeth.\"\n\n\"Good-looking\"; that was a new idea to the four friends. Nannie gaped;\nElizabeth giggled; David \"got red\" on his own account, and muttered\nunder his breath, \"Tell that to the marines!\" But into Blair's face had\ncome, suddenly, a new expression; his eyes smiled vaguely; he came\nsidling over to Elizabeth and stood beside her, sighing deeply:\n\"Elizabeth, you are an awful nice girl.\"\n\nElizabeth shrieked with laughter. \"Listen to Blair--he's spoony!\"\n\nInstantly Blair was angry; \"spooniness\" vanished in a flash; he did not\nspeak for fully five minutes. Just as they started home, however, he\ncame out of his glumness to remember Miss White. \"I'm going to take\nCherry-pie some ice-cream,\" he said; and all the way back he was so\nabsorbed in trying--unsuccessfully--to keep the pallid pink contents of\nthe mussy paper box from dripping on his clothes that he was able to\nforget Elizabeth's rudeness. But childhood, for all four of them, ended\nthat afternoon.\n\nWhen vacation was over, and they were back in the harness again, both\nboys forgot that first tremulous clutch at the garments of life; in\nfact, like all wholesome boys of fifteen or sixteen, they thought\n\"girls\" a bore. It was not until the next long vacation that the old,\nhappy, squabbling relationship began to be tinged with a new\nconsciousness. It was the elemental instinct, the everlasting human\nimpulse. The boys, hobbledehoys, both of them, grew shy and turned red\nat unexpected moments. The girls developed a certain condescension of\nmanner, which was very confusing and irritating to the boys. Elizabeth,\nas unaware of herself as the bud that has not opened to the bee, sighed\na good deal, and repeated poetry to any one who would listen to her.\nShe said boys were awfully rough, and their boots had a disagreeable\nsmell, \"I shall never get married,\" said Elizabeth; \"I hate boys.\"\nNannie did not hate anybody, but she thought she would rather be a\nmissionary than marry;--\"though I'm afraid I'd be afraid of the\nsavages,\" she confessed, timorously.\n\nDavid and Blair were confidential to each other about girls in general,\nand Elizabeth in particular; they said she was terribly stand-offish.\n\"Oh, well, she's a girl,\" said David; \"what can you expect?\"\n\n\"She's darned good-looking,\" Blair blurted out. And David said, with\nsome annoyance, \"What's that amount to?\" He said that, for his part, he\ndidn't mean to fool around after girls. \"But I'm older than you, Blair;\nyou'll feel that way when you get to be my age; it's only when a man is\nvery young that he bothers with 'em.\"\n\n\"That's so,\" said Blair, gloomily. \"Well, I never expect to marry.\"\nBlair was very gloomy just then; he had come home from school the\nembodiment of discontent. He was old enough now to suffer agonies of\nmortification because of his mother's occupation. \"The idea of a lady\nrunning an Iron Works!\" he said to David, who tried rather\nhalf-heartedly to comfort him; David was complacently sure that _his_\nmother wouldn't run an Iron Works! \"I hate the whole caboodle,\" Blair\nsaid, angrily. It was his old shrinking from \"ugliness.\" And everything\nat home was ugly;--the great old house in the midst of Maitland's\nShantytown; the darkness and grime of it; the smell of soot in the\nhalls; Harris's slatternly ways; his mother's big, beautiful, dirty\nfingers. \"When she sneezes,\" Blair said, grinding his teeth, \"I\ncould--swear! She takes the roof off.\" He grew hot with shame when Mrs.\nRichie, whom he admired profoundly, came to take supper with his mother\nat the office table with its odds and ends of china. (As the old Canton\ndinner service had broken and fire-cracked, Harris had replenished the\nshelves of the china-closet according to his own taste limited by Mrs.\nMaitland's economic orders.) Blair found everything hideous, or vulgar,\nor uncomfortable, and he said so to Nannie with a violence that\nbetrayed real suffering. For it is suffering when the young creature\nfinds itself ashamed of father or mother. Instinctively the child is\nproud of the parent, and if youth is wounded in its tenderest point,\nits sense of conventionality--for nothing is as conventional as\nadolescence--that natural instinct is headed off, and of course there\nis suffering. Mrs. Maitland, living in her mixture of squalor and\ndignity, had no time to consider such abstractions. As for there being\nanything unwomanly in her occupation, such an idea never entered her\nhead. To Sarah Maitland, no work which it was a woman's duty to do\ncould be unwomanly; she was incapable of consciously aping masculinity,\nbut to earn her living and heap up a fortune for her son, was, to her\nway of thinking, just the plain common sense of duty. But more than\nthat, the heart in her bosom would have proved her sex to her; how she\nloved to knit the pink socks for dimpled little feet! how she winced\nwhen her son seemed to shrink from her; how jealous she was still of\nthat goose Molly,--who had been another man's wife for as many years as\nHerbert Maitland had been in his grave. But Blair saw none of these\nthings that might have told him that his mother was a very woman.\nInstead, his conventionality was insulted at every turn; his love of\nbeauty was outraged. As a result a wall was slowly built between the\nmother and son, a wall whose foundations had been laid when the little\nboy had pointed his finger at her and said \"uggy.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland was, of course, perfectly unconscious of her son's hot\nmisery; she was so happy at having him at home again that she could not\nsee that he was unhappy at being at home. She was pathetically eager to\nplease him. Her theory--if in her absorbed life she could be said to\nhave a theory--was that Blair should have everything he wanted, so that\nhe should the sooner be a man. Money, she thought, would give him\neverything. She herself wanted nothing money could give, except food\nand shelter; the only use she had for money was to make more money; but\nshe realized that other people, especially young men, like the things\nit would buy. Twice during that particular vacation, for no cause\nexcept to gratify herself, she gave her son a wickedly large check; and\nonce, when Nannie told her that he wanted to pay for some painting\nlessons, though she demurred just for a moment, she paid the bill so\nthat his own spending-money should not be diminished.\n\n\"What on earth does a man who is going to run an Iron Works want with\npainting lessons?\" she said to the entreating sister. But even while\nshe made her grumbling protest, she wrote a check.\n\nAs for Blair, he took the money, as he took everything else that she\ngave him of opportunity and happiness, and said, \"Thank you, mother;\nyou are awfully good\"; but he shut his eyes when he kissed her. He was\nblind to the love, the yearning, the outstretched hands of\nmotherhood,--not because he was cruel, or hard, or mean; but because he\nwas young, and delighted in beauty.\n\nOf course his wretchedness lessened after a fortnight or so--habit does\nmuch to reconcile us to unpleasantness; besides that, his painting was\nan interest, and his voice began to be a delight to him; he used to\nsing a good deal, making Nannie play his accompaniments, and sometimes\nhis mother, working in the dining-room, would pause a moment, with\nlifted head, and listen and half smile--then fall to work again\nfuriously.\n\nBut the real solace to his misery and irritation came to him--a boy\nstill in years--in the sudden realization of _Elizabeth!_\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\"I am going to have a party,\" Blair told Nannie; \"I've invited David\nand Elizabeth, and four fellows; and you can ask four girls.\"\n\nNannie quaked. \"Do you mean to have them come to supper?\"\n\n\"You can call it 'supper'; I call it dinner.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid Mamma won't like it; it will disturb the table.\"\n\n\"I'm not going to have it in that hole of a dining-room; I'm going to\nhave it in the parlor. Harris says he can manage perfectly well. We'll\nhang a curtain across the arch and have the table in the back parlor.\"\n\n\"But Harris can't wait on us in there, and on Mamma in the\ndining-room,\" Nannie objected.\n\n\"We shall have our dinner at seven, after Harris has given mother her\nsupper on that beautiful table of hers.\"\n\n\"But--\" said Nannie.\n\n\"You tell her about it,\" Blair coaxed; \"she'll take anything from you.\"\n\nNannie yielded. Instructed by Blair, she hinted his purpose to Mrs.\nMaitland, who to her surprise consented amiably enough.\n\n\"I've no objections. And the back parlor is a very sensible\narrangement. It would be a nuisance to have you in here; I don't like\nto have things moved. Now clear out! Clear out! I must go to work.\" A\nweek later she issued her orders: \"Mr. Ferguson, I'll be obliged if\nyou'll come to supper to-morrow night. Blair has some kind of a bee in\nhis bonnet about having a party. Of course it's nonsense, but I suppose\nthat's to be expected at his age.\"\n\nRobert Ferguson demurred. \"The boy doesn't want me; he has asked a\ndozen young people.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland lifted one eyebrow. \"I didn't hear about the dozen young\npeople; I thought it was only two or three besides David and Elizabeth;\nhowever, I don't mind. I'll go the whole hog. He can have a dozen, if\nhe wants to. As for his not wanting you, what has that got to do with\nit? I want you. It's my house, and my table; and I'll ask who I please.\nI've asked Mrs. Richie,\" she ended, and gave him a quick look.\n\n\"Well,\" her superintendent said, indifferently, \"I'll come; but it's\nhard on Blair.\" When he went home that night, he summoned Miss White.\n\"I hope you have arranged to have Elizabeth look properly for Blair's\nparty? Don't let her be vain about it, but have her look right.\" And on\nthe night of the great occasion, just before they started for Mrs.\nMaitland's, he called his niece into his library, and knocking off his\nglasses, looked her over with grudging eyes: \"Don't get your head\nturned, Elizabeth. Remember, it isn't fine feathers that make fine\nbirds,\" he said; and never knew that he was proud of her!\n\nElizabeth, bubbling with laughter, holding her skirt out in small,\nwhite-gloved hands, made three dancing steps, dipped him a great\ncourtesy, then ran to him, and before he knew it, caught him round the\nneck and kissed him. \"You dear, darling, _precious_ uncle!\" she said.\n\nMr. Ferguson, breathless, put his hand up to his cheek, as if the\nunwonted touch had left some soft, fresh warmth behind it.\n\nElizabeth did not wait to see the pleased and startled gesture she\ngathered up her fluffy tarlatan skirt, dashed out into the garden,\nthrough the green gate in the wall, and bursting into the house next\ndoor, stood in the hall and called up-stairs: \"David! Come! Hurry!\nQuick!\" She was stamping her foot with excitement.\n\nDavid, who had had a perspiring and angry quarter of an hour with his\nfirst white tie, came out of his room and looked over the banisters,\nboth hands at his throat. \"Hello! What on earth is the matter?\"\n\n\"David--see!\" she said, and stood, quivering and radiant, all her\nwhiteness billowing about her.\n\n\"See what?\" David said, patiently.\n\n\"A long dress!\"\n\n\"A _what_?\" said David; then looking down at her, turning and twisting\nand preening herself in the dark hall like some shining white bird, he\nburst into a shout of laughter.\n\nElizabeth's face reddened. \"I don't see anything to laugh at.\"\n\n\"You look like a little girl dressed up!\"\n\n\"Little girl? I don't see much 'little girl' about it; I'm nearly\nsixteen.\" She gathered her skirt over her arm again, and retreated with\nangry dignity.\n\nAs for David, he went back to try a new tie; but his eyes were dreamy.\n\"George! she's a daisy,\" he said to himself.\n\nWhen, the day before, Mrs. Richie had told her son that she had been\ninvited to Blair's party, he was delighted. David had learned several\nthings at school besides his prayers, some of which caused Mrs. Richie,\nlike most mothers of boys, to give much time to her prayers. But as a\nresult, perhaps of prayers as well as of education, and in spite of Mr.\nFerguson's misgivings as to the wisdom of trusting a boy to a \"good\nwoman,\" he was turning out an honest young cub, of few words, defective\nsense of humor, and rather clumsy manners. But under his speechlessness\nand awkwardness, David was sufficiently sophisticated to be immensely\nproud of his pretty mother; only a laborious sense of propriety and the\nshyness of his sex and years kept him from, as he expressed it,\n\"blowing about her.\" He blew now, however, a little, when she said she\nwas going to the party: \"Blair'll be awfully set up to have you come.\nYou know he's terribly mashed on you. He thinks you are about the best\nthing going. Materna, now you dress up awfully, won't you? I want you\nto take the shine out of everybody else. I'm going to wear my dress\nsuit,\" he encouraged her. \"Why, say!\" he interrupted himself, \"that's\nfunny--Blair didn't tell me he had asked you.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Maitland asked me.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Maitland!\" David said, aghast; \"Materna, you don't suppose\n_she's_ coming, do you?\"\n\n\"I'm sure I hope so, considering she invited me.\"\n\n\"Great Casar's ghost!\" said David, thoughtfully; and added, under his\nbreath, \"I'm betting on his not expecting her. Poor Blair!\"\n\nBlair had need of sympathy. His plan for a \"dinner\" had encountered\ndifficulties, and he had had moments of racking indecision; but when,\non the toss of a penny, 'heads' declared for carrying the thing\nthrough, he held to his purpose with a perseverance that was amusingly\nlike his mother's large and unshakable obstinacies. He had endless\ntalks with Harris as to food; and with painstaking regard for artistic\neffect and as far as he understood it, for convention, he worked out\nevery detail of service and arrangement. His first effort was to make\nthe room beautiful; so the crimson curtains were drawn across the\nwindows, and the cut-glass chandeliers in both rooms emerged glittering\nfrom their brown paper-muslin bags. The table was rather overloaded\nwith large pieces of silver which Blair had found in the big\nsilver-chest in the garret; among them was a huge center ornament,\ncalled in those days an epergne--an extraordinary arrangement of\nprickly silver leaves and red glass cups which were supposed to be\nflowers. It was black with disuse, and Blair made Harris work over it\nuntil the poor fellow protested that he had rubbed the skin off his\nthumb--but the pointed leaves of the great silver thistle sparkled like\ndiamonds. Blair was charmingly considerate of old Harris so long as it\nrequired no sacrifice on his own part, but he did not relinquish a\nsingle piece of silver because of that thumb. With his large allowance,\nit was easy to put flowers everywhere--the most expensive that the\nseason afforded. When he ordered them, he bought at the same time a\ngreat bunch of orchids for Miss White. \"I can't invite her,\" he\ndecided, reluctantly; \"but her feelings won't be hurt if I send her\nsome flowers.\" As for the menu, he charged the things he wanted to his\nmother's meager account at the grocery-store. When he produced his list\nof delicacies, things unknown on that office-dining-room table, the\namazed grocer said to himself, \"Well, _at last_ I guess that trade is\ngoing to amount to something! Why, damn it,\" he confided to his\nbookkeeper afterward, \"I been sendin' things up to that there house for\nseventeen years, and the whole bill ain't amounted to shucks. That\nwoman could buy and sell me twenty times over. Twenty times? A hundred\ntimes! And I give you my word she eats like a day-laborer. Listen to\nthis\"--and he rattled off Blair's order. \"She'll fall down dead when\nshe sees them things; she don't even know how to spell 'em!\"\n\nBlair had never seen a table properly appointed for a dinner-party; but\nHarris had recollections of more elaborate and elegant days, a\nrecollection, indeed, of one occasion when he had waited at a\npolicemen's ball; and he laid down the law so dogmatically that Blair\nassented to every suggestion. The result was a humorous compound of\nHarris's standards and Blair's aspirations; but the boy, coming in to\nlook at the table before the arrival of his guests, was perfectly\nsatisfied.\n\n\"It's fine, Harris, isn't it?\" he said. \"Now, light up all the burners\non both chandeliers. Harris, give a rub to that thistle leaf, will you?\nIt's sort of dull.\" Harris looked at his swollen thumb. \"Aw', now, Mr.\nBlair,\" he began. \"Did you hear what I said?\" Blair said, icily--and\nthe leaf was polished! Blair looked at it critically, then laughed and\ntossed the old man a dollar. \"There's some sticking-plaster for you.\nAnd Harris, look here: those things--the finger-bowls; don't go and get\nmixed up on 'em, will you? They come last.\" Harris put his thumb in his\nmouth; \"I never seen dishes like that,\" he mumbled doubtfully; \"the\npolice didn't have 'em.\"\n\n\"It's the fashion,\" Blair explained; \"Mrs. Richie has them, and I've\nseen them at swell hotels. Most people don't eat in an office,\" he\nended, with a curl of his handsome lip.\n\nIt was while he was fussing about, whistling or singing, altering the\nangle of a spoon here or the position of a wine-glass there, that his\nmother came in. She had put on her Sunday black silk, and she had even\nadded a lace collar and a shell cameo pin; she was knitting busily, the\nball of pink worsted tucked under one arm. There was a sort of grim\namusement, tempered by patience, in her face. To have supper at seven\no'clock, and call it \"dinner\"; to load the table with more food than\nanybody could eat, and much of it stuff that didn't give the stomach\nany honest work to do--\"like that truck,\" she said, pointing an amused\nknitting-needle at the olives--was nonsense. But Blair was young; he\nwould get over his foolishness when he got into business. Meantime, let\nhim be foolish! \"I suppose he thinks he's the grand high cockalorum!\"\nshe told herself, chuckling. Aloud she said, with rough jocosity:\n\n\"What in the world is the good of all those flowers? A supper table is\na place for food, not fiddle-faddle!\"\n\nBlair reddened sharply. \"There are people,\" he began, in that voice of\nrestrained irritation which is veiled by sarcastic politeness--\"there\nare people, my dear mother, who think of something else than filling\ntheir stomachs.\" Mrs. Maitland's eye had left the dinner table, and was\nraking her son from head to foot. He was very handsome, this\nsixteen-year-old boy, standing tall and graceful in his new clothes,\nwhich, indeed, he wore easily, in spite of his excitement at their\nnewness.\n\n\"Well!\" she said, sweeping him with a glance. Her face glowed; \"I wish\nhis father could have lived to see him,\" she thought; she put out her\nhand and touched his shoulder. \"Turn round here till I look at you!\nWell, well! I suppose you're enjoying those togs you've got on?\" Her\nvoice was suddenly raucous with pride; if she had known how, she would\nhave kissed him. Instead she said, with loud cheerfulness: \"Well, my\nson, which is the head of the table? Where am I to sit?\"\n\n\"_Mother!_\" Blair said. He turned quite white. He went over to the\nimprovised serving-table, and picked up a fork with a trembling hand;\nput it down again, and turned to look at her. Yes; she was all dressed\nup! He groaned under his breath. The tears actually stood in his eyes.\n\"I thought,\" he said, and stopped to clear his voice, \"I didn't know--\"\n\n\"What's the matter with you?\" Mrs. Maitland asked, looking at him over\nher spectacles.\n\n\"I didn't suppose you would be willing to come,\" Blair said, miserably.\n\n\"Oh, I don't mind,\" she said, kindly; \"I'll stick it out for an hour.\"\n\nBlair ground his teeth. Harris, pulling on a very large pair of white\ncotton gloves--thus did he live up to the standards of the policemen's\nball--came shuffling across the hall, and his aghast expression when he\ncaught sight of Mrs. Maitland was a faint consolation to the despairing\nboy.\n\n\"Here! Harris! have you got places enough?\" Mrs. Maitland said. \"Blair,\nhave you counted noses? Mrs. Richie's coming, and Mr. Ferguson.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Richie!\" In spite of his despair, Blair had an elated moment. He\nwas devoted to David's mother, and there was some consolation in the\nfact that she would see that he knew how to do things decently! Then\nhis anger burst out. \"I didn't ask Mrs. Richie,\" he said, his voice\ntrembling.\n\n\"What time is supper?\" his mother interrupted, \"I'm getting hungry!\"\nShe took her place at the head of the table, sitting a little sidewise,\nwith one foot round the leg of her chair; she looked about impatiently,\nstriking the table softly with her open hand--a hand always beautiful,\nand to-night clean. \"What nonsense to have it so late!\"\n\n\"It isn't supper,\" Blair said; \"it's dinner; and--\" But at that moment\nthe door-bell saved the situation. Harris, stumbling with agitation,\nhad retreated to his pantry, so Mrs. Maitland motioned to Blair. \"Run\nand open the door for your friends,\" she said, kindly.\n\nBlair did not \"run,\" but he went; and if he could have killed those\nfirst-comers with a glance, he would have done so. As for Mrs.\nMaitland, still glowing with this new experience of taking part in her\nson's pleasure, she tramped into the front room to say how do you do\nand shake hands with two very shy young men, who were plainly awed by\nher presence. As the others came in, it was she who received them,\nstanding on the hearth-rug, her back to the empty fireplace which Blair\nhad filled with roses, all ready to welcome the timid youngsters, who\nin reply to her loud greetings stammered the commonplaces of the\noccasion.\n\n\"How are you, Elizabeth? What! a long dress? Well, well, you _are_\ngetting to be a big girl! How are you, David? And so you have a\nswallowtail, too? Glad to see you, Mrs. Richie. Who's this? Harry\nKnight? Well, Harry, you are quite a big boy. I knew your stepmother\nwhen she was Molly Wharton, and not half your age.\"\n\nHarry, who had a sense of humor, was able to laugh, but David was red\nwith wrath, and Elizabeth tossed her head. As for Blair, he grew paler\nand paler.\n\nYet the dreadful dinner went off fairly smoothly. Mrs. Maitland sat\ndown before anybody else. \"Come, good people, come!\" she said, and\nbegan her rapid \"Bless, O Lord,\" while the rest of the company were\nstill drawing up their chairs. \"Amen, soup, Mrs. Richie?\" she said,\nheartily. The ladling out of the soup was an outlet for her energy; and\nas Harris's ideals put all the dishes on the table at once, she was\nkept busy carving or helping, or, with the hospitable insistence of her\ngeneration, urging her guests to eat. Blair sat at the other end of the\ntable in black silence. Once he looked at Mrs. Richie with an agonized\ngratitude in his beautiful eyes, like the gratitude of a hurt puppy\nlapping a friendly and helping hand; for Mrs. Richie, with the gentlest\ntact, tried to help him by ignoring him and talking to the young people\nabout her. Elizabeth, too, endeavored to do her part by assuming (with\nfurtive glances at David) a languid, young-lady-like manner, which\nwould have made Blair chuckle at any less terrible moment. Even Mr.\nFerguson, although still a little dazed by that encounter with his\nniece, came to the rescue--for the situation was, of course,\npatent--and talked to Mrs. Maitland; which, poor Blair thought, \"at\nleast shut her up\"!\n\nMrs. Maitland was, of course perfectly unconscious that any one could\nwish to shut her up; she did not feel anything unusual in the\natmosphere, and she was astonishingly patient with all the stuff and\nnonsense. Once she did strike the call-bell, which she had bidden\nHarris to bring from the office table, and say, loudly: \"Make haste,\nHarris! Make haste! What is all this delay?\" The delay was Harris's\nagitated endeavor to refresh his memory about \"them basins.\"\n\n\"Is it _now_?\" he whispered to Blair, furtively rubbing his thumb on\nthe shiny seam of his trousers. Blair, looking a little sick, whispered\nback:\n\n\"Oh, throw 'em out of the window.\"\n\n\"Aw', now, Mr. Blair,\" poor Harris protested, \"I clean forgot; is it\nwith these here tomatoes, or with the dessert?\"\n\n\"Go to the devil!\" Blair said, under his breath. And the finger-bowls\nappeared with the salad.\n\n\"What's this nonsense?\" Mrs. Maitland demanded; then, realizing Blair's\neffort, she picked up a finger-bowl and looked at it, cocking an amused\neyebrow. \"Well, Blair,\" she said, with loud good nature, \"we are\nputting on airs!\"\n\nBlair pretended not to hear. For the whole of that appalling experience\nhe had nothing to say--even to Elizabeth, sitting beside him in the new\nwhite dress, the spun silk of her brown hair shimmering in the amazing\nglitter of the great cut-glass chandelier. The other young people,\nglancing with alarmed eyes now at Blair, and now at his mother,\nfollowed their host's example of silence. Mrs. Maitland, however, did\nher duty as she saw it; she asked condescending questions as to \"how\nyou children amuse yourselves,\" and she made her crude jokes at\neverybody's expense, with side remarks to Robert Ferguson about their\nfamilies: \"That Knight boy is Molly Wharton's stepson; he looks like\nhis father. Old Knight is an elder in The First Church; he hands round\nthe hat for other people to put their money in--never gives anything\nhimself. I always call his wife 'goose Molly.' ... Is that young\nClayton, Tom Clayton's son? He looks as if he had some gumption; Tom\nwas always Mr. Doestick's friend. ... I suppose you know that that West\nboy's grandmother wasn't sure who his grandfather was? ... Mrs.\nRichie's a pretty woman, Friend Ferguson; where are your eyes!\" ...\n\nWhen it was over, that terrible thirty minutes--for Mrs. Maitland drove\nHarris at full speed through all Blair's elaborations--it was Mrs.\nRichie who came to the rescue.\n\n\"Mrs. Maitland,\" she said, \"sha'n't you and I and Mr. Ferguson go and\ntalk in your room, and leave the young people to amuse themselves?\" And\nMrs. Maitland's quick agreement showed how relieved she was to get\nthrough with all the \"nonsense.\"\n\nWhen their elders had left them, the \"young people\" drew a long breath\nand looked at one another. Nannie, almost in tears, tried to make some\nwhispered explanation to Blair, but he turned his back on her. David,\nwith a carefully blase air, said, \"Bully dinner, old man.\" Blair gave\nhim a look, and David subsided. When the guests began a chatter of\nrelief, Blair still stood apart in burning silence. He wished he need\nnever see or speak to any of them again. He hated them all; he\nhated--But he did not finish this, even in his thoughts.\n\nWhen the others had recovered their spirits, and Nannie had begun to\nplay on the piano, and somebody had suggested that they should all\nsing--\"And then let's dance!\" cried Elizabeth--Blair disappeared. Out\nin the hall, standing with clenched hands in the dim light, he said to\nhimself he wished they would all clear out! \"I am sick of the whole\ndarned business; I wish they'd clear out!\"\n\nIt was there that Elizabeth found him. She had forgotten her\ndispleasure at David, and was wildly happy; but she had missed Blair,\nand had come, in a dancing whirl of excitement, to find him. \"What are\nyou doing? Come right back to the parlor!\"\n\nBlair, turning, saw the smooth cheek, pink as the curve of a shell, the\nsoft hair's bronze sheen, the amber darkness of the happy eyes. \"Oh,\nElizabeth!\" he said, and actually sobbed.\n\n\"Blair! What _is_ the matter?\"\n\n\"It was disgusting, the whole thing.\"\n\n\"What was disgusting?\"\n\n\"That awful dinner--\"\n\n\"Awful? You are perfectly crazy! It was lovely! What are you talking\nabout?\" In her dismayed defense of her first social function, she put\nher hands on his arm and shook it. \"Why! It is the first dinner I ever\nwent to in all my life; and look: six-button gloves! What do you think\nof that? Uncle told Cherry-pie I could have whatever was proper, and I\ngot these lovely gloves. They are awfully fashionable!\" She pulled one\nglove up, not only to get its utmost length, but also to cover that\nscar which her fierce little teeth had made so long ago. \"Oh, Blair, it\nreally was a perfectly _beautiful_ dinner,\" she said, earnestly.\n\nShe was so close to him that it seemed as if the color on her cheek\nburned against his, and he could smell the rose in her brown hair. \"Oh,\nElizabeth,\" he said, panting, \"you are an angel!\"\n\n\"It was simply lovely!\" she declared. In her excitement she did not\nnotice that new word. Blair trembled; he could not speak. \"Come right\nstraight back!\" Elizabeth said; \"please! Everybody will have a\nperfectly splendid time, if you'll just come back. We want you to sing.\nPlease!\" The long, sweet corners of her eyes implored him.\n\n\"Elizabeth,\" Blair whispered, \"I--I love you.\"\n\nElizabeth caught her breath; then the exquisite color streamed over her\nface. \"Oh!\" she said faintly, and swerved away from him. Blair came a\nstep nearer. They were both silent. Elizabeth put her hand over her\nlips, and stared at him with half-frightened eyes. Then Blair:\n\n\"Do you care, a little, Elizabeth?\"\n\n\"We must go back to the parlor,\" she said, breathing quickly.\n\n\"Elizabeth, _do_ you?\"\n\n\"Oh--Blair!\"\n\n\"Please, Elizabeth,\" Blair said; and putting his arms round her very\ngently, he kissed her cheek.\n\nElizabeth looked at him speechlessly; then, with a lovely movement,\ncame nestling against him. A minute later they drew apart; the girl's\nface was quivering with light and mystery, the young man's face was\namazed. Then amazement changed to triumph, and triumph to power, and\npower to something else, something that made Elizabeth shrink and utter\na little cry. In an instant he caught her violently to him and kissed\nher--kissed the scar on her upraised, fending arm, then her neck, her\neyes, her mouth, holding her so that she cried out and struggled; and\nas he let her go, she burst out crying. \"Oh--oh--_oh_--\" she said; and\ndarting from him, ran up-stairs, stumbling on the unaccustomed length\nof her skirt and catching at the banisters to keep from falling. But at\nthe head of the stairs she paused; the tears had burned off in flashing\nexcitement. She hesitated; it seemed as if she would turn and come back\nto him. But when he made a motion to bound up after her, she smiled and\nfled, and he heard the door of Nannie's room bang and the key turn in\nthe lock.\n\nBlair Maitland stood looking after her; in that one hot instant\nboyishness had been swept out of his face.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\"They have all suddenly grown up!\" Mrs. Richie said, disconsolately.\nShe had left the \"party\" early, without waiting for her carriage,\nbecause Mrs. Maitland's impatient glances at her desk had been an\nunmistakable dismissal.\n\n\"I will walk home with you,\" Robert Ferguson said.\n\n\"Aren't you going to wait for Elizabeth?\"\n\n\"David will bring her home.\"\n\n\"He'll be only too glad of the chance; how pretty she was to-night! You\nmust have been very proud of her.\"\n\n\"Not in the least. Beauty isn't a thing to be proud of. Quite the\ncontrary.\"\n\nMrs. Richie laughed: \"You are hopeless, Mr. Ferguson! What is a girl\nfor, if not to be sweet and pretty and charming? And Elizabeth is all\nthree.\"\n\n\"I would rather have her good.\"\n\n\"But prettiness doesn't interfere with goodness! And Elizabeth is a\ndear, good child.\"\n\n\"I hope she is,\" he said\n\n\"You _know_ she is,\" she declared.\n\n\"Well, she has her good points,\" he admitted; and put his hand up to\nhis lean cheek as if he still felt the flower-like touch of Elizabeth's\nlips.\n\n\"But they have all grown up,\" Mrs. Richie said. \"Mr. Ferguson, David\nwants to smoke! What shall I do?\"\n\n\"Good heavens! hasn't he smoked by this time?\" said Robert Ferguson,\nhorrified. \"You'll ruin that boy yet!\"\n\n\"Oh, when he was a little boy, there was one awful day, when--\" Mrs.\nRichie shuddered at the remembrance; \"but now he wants to really smoke,\nyou know.\"\n\n\"He's seventeen,\" Mr. Ferguson said, severely. \"I should think you\nmight cut the apron-strings by this time.\"\n\n\"You seem very anxious about apron-strings for David,\" she retorted\nwith some spirit. \"I notice you never show any anxiety about Blair.\"\n\nAt which her landlord laughed loudly: \"I should say not! He's been\nbrought up by a man--practically.\" Then he added with some generosity,\n\"But I'm not sure that an apron-string or two might not have been a\ngood thing for Blair.\"\n\nMrs. Richie accepted the amend good-naturedly. \"My tall David is very\nnice, even if he does want to smoke. But I've lost my boy.\"\n\n\"He'll be a boy,\" Robert Ferguson said, \"until he makes an ass of\nhimself by falling in love. Then, in one minute, he'll turn into a man.\nI--\" he paused, and laughed: \"I was twenty, just out of college, when I\nmade an ass of myself over a girl who was as vain as a peacock. Well,\nshe was beautiful; I admit that.\"\n\n\"You were very young,\" Mrs. Richie said gravely; the emotion behind his\ncareless words was obvious. They walked along in silence for several\nminutes. Then he said, contemptuously:\n\n\"She threw me over. Good riddance, of course.\"\n\n\"If she was capable of treating you badly, of course it was well to\nhave her do so--in time,\" she agreed; \"but I suppose those things cut\ndeep with a boy,\" she added gently. She had a maternal instinct to put\nout a comforting hand, and say \"never mind.\" Poor man! because, when he\nwas twenty a girl had jilted him, he was still, at over forty,\ndefending a sensitive heart by an armor of surliness. \"Won't you come\nin?\" she said, when they reached her door; she smiled at him, with her\npleasant leaf-brown eyes,--eyes which were less sad, he thought, than\nwhen she first came to Mercer. (\"Getting over her husband's death, I\nsuppose,\" he said to himself. \"Well, she has looked mournful longer\nthan most widows!\")\n\nHe followed her into the house silently, and, sitting down on her\nlittle sofa, took a cigar out of his pocket. He began to bite off the\nend absently, then remembered to say, \"May I smoke?\"\n\nThe room was cool and full of the fragrance of white lilies. Mr.\nFerguson had planted a whole row of lilies against the southern wall of\nMrs. Richie's garden. \"Such things are attractive to tenants; I find it\nimproves my property,\" he had explained to her, when she found him\ngrubbing, unasked, in her back yard. He looked now, approvingly at the\njug of lilies that had replaced the grate in the fireplace; but Mrs.\nRichie looked at the clock. She was tired, and sometimes her good\nneighbor stayed very late.\n\n\"Poor Blair!\" she said. \"I'm afraid his dinner was rather a\ndisappointment. What charming manners he has,\" she added, meditatively;\n\"I think it is very remarkable, considering--\"\n\nMr. Ferguson knocked off his glasses. \"Mrs. Maitland's manners may not\nbe as--as fine-ladyish as some people's, I grant you,\" he said, \"but I\ncan tell you, she has more brains in her little finger than--\"\n\n\"Than I have in my whole body?\" Mrs. Richie interrupted gaily; \"I know\njust what you were going to say.\"\n\n\"No, I wasn't,\" he defended himself; but he laughed and stopped barking.\n\n\"It is what you thought,\" she said; \"but let me tell you, I admire Mrs.\nMaitland just as much as you do.\"\n\n\"No, you don't, because you can't,\" he said crossly; but he smiled. He\ncould not help forgiving Mrs. Richie, even when she did not seem to\nappreciate Mrs. Maitland--the one subject on which the two neighbors\nfell out. But after the smile he sighed, and apparently forgot Mrs.\nMaitland. He scratched a match, held it absently until it scorched his\nfingers; blew it out, and tossed it into the lilies; Mrs. Richie\nwinced, but Mr. Ferguson did not notice her; he leaned forward, his\nhands between his knees, the unlighted cigar in his fingers: \"Yes; she\nthrew me over.\"\n\nFor a wild moment Mrs. Richie thought he meant Mrs. Maitland; then she\nremembered. \"It was very hard for you,\" she said vaguely.\n\n\"And Elizabeth's mother,\" he went on, \"my brother Arthur's wife, left\nhim. He never got over the despair of it. He--killed himself.\"\n\nMrs. Richie's vagueness was all gone. \"Mr. Ferguson!\"\n\n\"She was bad--all through.\"\n\n\"Oh, _no_!\" Helena Richie said faintly.\n\n\"She left him, for another man. Just as the girl I believed in left me.\nI would have doubted my God, Mrs. Richie, before I could have doubted\nthat girl. And when she jilted me, I suppose I did doubt Him for a\nwhile. At any rate, I doubted everybody else. I do still, more or less.\"\n\nMrs. Richie was silent.\n\n\"We two brothers--the same thing happened to both of us! It was worse\nfor him than for me; I escaped, as you might say, and I learned a\nvaluable lesson; I have never built on anybody. Life doesn't play the\nsame trick on me twice. But Arthur was different. He was of softer\nstuff. You'd have liked my brother Arthur. Yes; he was too good to\nher--that was the trouble. If he had beaten her once or twice, I don't\nbelieve she would have behaved as she did. Imagine leaving a good\nhusband, a devoted husband--\"\n\n\"What I can't imagine,\" Helena Richie said, in a low voice, \"is leaving\na living child. _That_ seems to me impossible.\"\n\n\"The man married her after Arthur--died,\" he went on; \"I guess she paid\nthe piper in her life with him! I hope she did. Oh, well; she's dead\nnow; I mustn't talk about her. But Elizabeth has her blood in her; and\nshe is pretty, just as she was. She looks like her, sometimes.\nThere--now you know. Now you understand why I worry so about her. I\nused to wish she would die before she grew up. I tried to do my duty to\nher, but I hoped she would die. Yet she seems to be a good little\nthing. Yes, I'm pretty sure she is a good little thing. To-night,\nbefore we went to the dinner, she--she behaved very prettily. But if I\nsaw her mother in her, I would--God knows what I would do! But except\nfor this fussing about clothes, she seems all right. You know she\nwanted a locket once? But you think that is only natural to a girl? Not\na vanity that I need to be anxious about? Her mother was vain--a\nshallow, selfish theatrical creature!\" He looked at her with worried\neyes. \"I am dreadfully anxious, sometimes,\" he said simply.\n\n\"There's nothing to be anxious about,\" she said, in a smothered voice,\n\"nothing at all.\"\n\n\"Of course I'm fond of her,\" he confessed, \"but I am never sure of her.\"\n\n\"You ought to be sure of her,\" Mrs. Richie said; \"her little\nvanities--why, it is just natural for a girl to want pretty dresses!\nBut to think--Poor little Elizabeth!\" She hid her face in her hands;\n\"and poor bad mother,\" she said, in a whisper.\n\n\"Don't pity _her_! She was not the one to pity. It was Arthur who--\" He\nleft the sentence unfinished; his face quivered.\n\n\"Oh,\" she cried, \"you are all wrong. She is the one to pity, I don't\ncare how selfish and shallow she was! As for your brother, he just\ndied. What was dying, compared to living? Oh, you don't understand.\nPoor bad women! You might at least be sorry for them. How can you be so\nhard?\"\n\n\"I suppose I am hard,\" he said, half wonderingly, but very meekly;\n\"when a good woman can pity Dora--that was her name; who am I to judge\nher? I'll try not to be so hard,\" he promised.\n\nHe had risen. Mrs. Richie tried to speak, but stopped and caught her\nbreath at the bang of the front door.\n\n\"It's David!\" she said, in a terrified voice. Her face was very pale,\nso pale that David, coming abruptly into the room, stood still in his\ntracks, aghast.\n\n\"Why, Materna! What's up? Mother, something is the matter!\"\n\n\"It's my fault, David,\" Robert Ferguson said, abashed. \"I was telling\nyour mother a--a sad story. Mrs. Richie, I didn't realize it would pain\nyou. Your mother is a very kind woman, David; she's been sympathizing\nwith other people's troubles.\"\n\nDavid, looking at him resentfully, came and stood beside her, with an\naggressively protecting manner. \"I don't see why she need bother about\nother people's troubles. Say, Materna, I--I wouldn't feel badly. Mr.\nFerguson, I--you--\" he blustered; he was very much perturbed.\n\nThe fact was David was not in an amiable humor; Elizabeth had been very\nqueer all the way home. \"High and mighty!\" David said to himself;\ntreating him as if he were a little boy, and she a young lady! \"And I'm\nseventeen--the idea of her putting on such airs!\" And now here was her\nuncle making his mother low-spirited. \"Materna, I wouldn't bother,\" he\ncomforted her.\n\nMrs. Richie put a soothing hand on his arm. \"Never mind,\" she said; she\nwas still pale, \"Yes, it was a sad story. But I thank you for telling\nme, Mr. Ferguson.\"\n\nHe tried awkwardly to apologize for having distressed her, and then\ntook himself off. When he opened his own door, even before he closed it\nagain, he called out, \"Miss White!\"\n\n\"Yes, sir?\" said the little governess, peering rabbit-like from the\nparlor.\n\n\"Miss White, I've been thinking; I'm going to buy Elizabeth a piece of\njewelry; a locket, I think. You can tell her so. Mrs. Richie says she's\nquite sure she isn't really vain in wanting such things.\"\n\n\"I have been at my post, sir, since Elizabeth was three years old,\"\nMiss White said with spirit, \"and I have frequently told you that she\nwas not vain. I'll go and tell her what you say, immejetly!\"\n\nBut when Cherry-pie went to carry the great news she found Elizabeth's\ndoor locked.\n\n\"What? Uncle is going to give me a locket?\" Elizabeth called out in\nanswer to her knock. \"Oh, joy! Splendid!\"\n\n\"Let me in, and I'll tell you what he said,\" Miss White called back.\n\n\"No! I can't!\" cried the joyous young voice. \"I'm busy!\"\n\nShe was busy; she was holding a lamp above her head, and looking at\nherself in the mirror over the mantelpiece. Her hair was down, tumbling\nin a shining mass over her shoulders, her eyes were like stars, her\ncheeks rose-red. She was turning her white neck from side to side,\nthrowing her head backward, looking at herself through half-shut eyes;\nher mouth was scarlet. \"Blair is in love with me!\" she said to herself.\nShe felt his last kiss still on her mouth; she felt it until it seemed\nas if her lip bled.\n\n\"David Richie needn't talk about 'little girls' any more. _I'm\nengaged!_\" She put the lamp down on the mantelpiece, shook her mane of\nhair back over her bare shoulders, and then, her hands on her hips, her\nshort petticoat ruffling about her knees, she began to dance. \"Somebody\nis in love with me!\n\n    \"'Oh, isn't it joyful, joyful, joyful--'\"\n\n[Illustration: \"BLAIR IS IN LOVE WITH ME!\"]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nWhen the company had gone,--\"I thought they never _would_ go!\" Nannie\nsaid--she rushed at her brother. \"Blair!\"\n\nThe boy flung up his head proudly. \"She told you, did she?\"\n\n\"You're engaged!\" cried Nannie, ecstatically.\n\nBlair started. \"Why!\" he said. \"So I am! I never thought of it.\" And\nwhen he got his breath, the radiant darkness of his eyes sparkled into\nlaughter. \"Yes, _I'm engaged!_\" He put his hands into his pockets and\nstrutted the length of the room; a minute later he stopped beside the\npiano and struck a triumphant chord; then he sat down and began to play\nuproariously, singing to a crashing accompaniment:\n\n  \"'... lived a miner, a forty-niner,\n  With his daughter Clementine!\n  Oh my darling, oh my _darling_--'\"\n\n--the riotous, beautiful voice rang on, the sound overflowing through\nthe long rooms, across the hall, even into the dining-room. Harris,\nwiping dishes in the pantry, stopped, tea-towel in hand, and listened;\nSarah Maitland, at her desk, lifted her head, and the pen slipped from\nher fingers. Blair, spinning around on the piano-stool, caught his\nsister about her waist in a hug that made her squeak. Then they both\nshrieked with laughter.\n\n\"But Blair!\" Nannie said, getting her breath; \"shall you tell Mamma\nto-night?\"\n\nBlair's face dropped. \"I guess I won't tell anybody yet,\" he faltered;\n\"oh, that awful dinner!\"\n\nAs the mortification of an hour ago surged back upon him, he added to\nthe fear of telling his mother a resentment that would retaliate by\nsecrecy. \"I won't tell her at all,\" he decided; \"and don't you, either.\"\n\n\"I!\" said Nannie. \"Well, I should think not. Gracious!\"\n\nBut though Blair did not tell his mother, he could not keep the great\nnews to himself; he saw David the next afternoon, and overflowed.\n\nDavid took it with a gasp of silence, as if he had been suddenly hit\nbelow the belt; then in a low voice he said, \"You--_kissed_ her. Did\nshe kiss you?\"\n\nBlair nodded. He held his head high, balancing it a little from side to\nside; his lips were thrust out, his eyes shone. He was standing with\nhis feet well apart, his hands deep in his pockets; he laughed,\nreddening to his forehead, but he was not embarrassed. For once David's\nold look of silent, friendly admiration did not answer him; instead\nthere was half-bewildered dismay. David wanted to protest that it\nwasn't--well, it wasn't _fair_. He did not say it; and in not saying it\nhe ceased to be a boy.\n\n\"I suppose it was when you and she went off after dinner? You needn't\nhave been so darned quiet about it! What's the good of being so--mum\nabout everything? Why didn't you come back and tell? You're not ashamed\nof it, are you?\"\n\n\"A man doesn't tell a thing like that,\" Blair said scornfully.\n\n\"Well!\" David snorted, \"I suppose some time you'll be married?\"\n\nBlair nodded again. \"Right off.\"\n\n\"Huh!\" said David; \"your mother won't let you. You are only sixteen.\nDon't be an ass.\"\n\n\"I'll be seventeen next May.\"\n\n\"Seventeen! What's seventeen? I'm pretty near eighteen, and I haven't\nthought of being married;--at least to anybody in particular.\"\n\n\"You couldn't,\" Blair said coldly; \"you haven't got the cash.\"\n\nDavid chewed this bitter fact in silence; then he said, \"I thought you\nand Elizabeth were kind of off at dinner. You didn't talk to each other\nat all. I thought you were both huffy; and instead of that--\" David\npaused.\n\n\"That damned dinner!\" Blair said, dropping his love-affair for his\ngrievance. Blair's toga virilis, assumed in that hot moment in the\nhall, was profanity of sorts. \"David, I'm going to clear out. I can't\nstand this sort of thing. I'll go and live at a hotel till I go to\ncollege; I'll--\"\n\n\"Thought you were going to get married?\" David interrupted him\nviciously.\n\nBlair looked at him, and suddenly understood,--David was jealous!\n\"Gorry!\" he said blankly. He was honestly dismayed. \"Look here,\" he\nbegan, \"I didn't know that _you_--\"\n\n\"I don't know what you're talking about,\" David broke in\ncontemptuously; \"if you think _I_ care, one way or the other, you're\nmistaken. It's nothing to me. 'By\"; and he turned on his heel.\n\nIt was a hot July afternoon; the sun-baked street along which they had\nbeen walking was deep with black dust and full of the clamor of\ntraffic. Four big gray Flemish horses, straining against their\nbreastplates, were hauling a dray loaded with clattering iron rods; the\nsound, familiar enough to any Mercer boy, seemed to David at that\nmoment intolerable. \"I'll get out of this cursed noise,\" he said to\nhimself, and turned down a narrow street toward the river. It occurred\nto him that he would go over the covered bridge, and maybe stop and get\na tumbler of ice-cream at Mrs. Todd's. Then he would strike out into\nthe country and take a walk; he had nothing else to do. This vacation\nbusiness wasn't all it was cracked up to be; a man had better fun at\nschool; he was sick of Mercer, anyhow.\n\nHe had reached Mrs. Todd's saloon by that time, and through the white\npalings of the fence he had glimpses of happy couples sitting at\nmarble-topped tables among the marigolds and coreopsis, taking slow,\ndelicious spoonfuls of ice-cream, and gazing at each other with\nlanguishing eyes. David felt a qualm of disgust; for the first time in\nhis life he had no desire for ice-cream. A boy like Blair might find it\npleasant to eat ice-cream with a lot of fellows and girls out in the\ngarden of a toll-house, with people looking in through the palings; but\nhe had outgrown such things. The idea of Blair, at his age, talking\nabout being in love! Blair didn't know what _love_ meant. And as for\nElizabeth, how could she fall in love with Blair? He was two months\nyounger than she, to begin with. \"No woman ought to marry a man younger\nthan she is,\" David said; he himself, he reflected, was much older than\nElizabeth. That was how it ought to be. The girl should always be\nyounger than the fellow. And anyway, Blair wasn't the kind of man for a\ngirl like Elizabeth to marry. \"He wouldn't understand her. Elizabeth\ngoes off at half-cock sometimes, and Blair wouldn't know how to handle\nher. I understand her, perfectly. Besides that, he's too selfish. A\nwoman ought not to marry a selfish man,\" said David. However, it made\nno difference to him whom she married. If Elizabeth liked that sort of\nthing, if she found Blair--who was only a baby anyhow--the kind of man\nshe could love, why then he was disappointed in Elizabeth. That was\nall. He was not jealous, or anything like that; he was just\ndisappointed; he was sorry that Elizabeth was that kind of girl. \"Very,\nvery sorry,\" David said to himself; and his eyes stung.... (Ah, well;\none may smile; but the pangs are real enough to the calf! The trouble\nwith us is we have forgotten our own pangs, so we doubt his.) ... Yes,\nDavid was sorry; but the whole darned business was nothing to him,\nbecause, unlike Blair, he was not a boy, and he could not waste time\nover women; he had his future to think of. In fact, he felt that to\nmake the most of himself he must never marry.\n\nThen suddenly these bitter forecastings ceased. He had come upon some\nboys who were throwing stones at the dust-grimed windows of an unused\nfoundry shed. Along the roof of the big, gaunt building, dilapidated\nand deserted, was a vast line of lights that had long been a target for\nevery boy who could pick up a pebble. Glass lay in splinters on the\nslope of sheet-iron below the sashes, and one could look in through\nyawning holes at silent, shadowy spaces that had once roared with light\nfrom swinging ladles and flowing cupolas; but there were a few whole\npanes left yet. At the sound of crashing glass, David, being a human\nboy, stopped and looked on, at first with his hands in his pockets;\nthen he picked up a stone himself. A minute later he was yelling and\nsmashing with the rest of them; but when he had broken a couple of\nlights, curiously enough, desire failed; he felt a sudden distaste for\nbreaking windows,--and for everything else! It was a sort of spiritual\nnausea, and life was black and bitter on his tongue. He was conscious\nof an actual sinking below his breast-bone. \"I'm probably coming down\nwith brain fever,\" he told himself; and he had a happy moment of\nthinking how wretched everybody would be when he died. Elizabeth would\nbe _very_ wretched! David felt a wave of comfort, and on the impulse of\nexpected death, he turned toward home again.... However, if he should\nby any chance recover, marriage was not for him. It occurred to him\nthat this would be a bitter surprise to Elizabeth, whose engagement\nwould of course be broken as soon as she heard of his illness; and\nagain he felt happier. No, he would never marry. He would give his life\nto his profession--it had long ago been decided that David was to be a\ndoctor. But it would be a lonely life. He looked ahead and saw himself\na great physician--no common doctor, like that old Doctor King who came\nsometimes to see his mother; but a great man, dying nobly in some awful\nepidemic. When Elizabeth heard of his magnificent courage, she'd feel\npretty badly. Rather different from Blair. How much finer than to be\nmerely looking forward to a lot of money that somebody else had made!\nBut perhaps that was why Elizabeth liked Blair; because he was going to\nhave money? And yet, how could she compare Blair with,--well, _any_\nfellow who meant to work his own way? Here David touched bottom\nabruptly. \"How can a fellow take money he hasn't earned?\" he said to\nhimself. David's feeling about independence was unusual in a boy of his\nyears, and it was not altogether admirable; it was, in fact, one of\nthose qualities that is a virtue, unless it becomes a vice.\n\nWhen he was half-way across the bridge, he stopped to look down at the\nslow, turbid river rolling below him. He stood there a long time,\nleaning on the hand-rail. On the dun surface a sheen of oil gathered,\nand spread, and gathered again. He could hear the wash of the current,\nand in the railing under his hand he felt the old wooden structure\nthrill and quiver in the constant surge of water against the pier below\nhim. The sun, a blood-red disk, was slipping into the deepening haze,\nand on either side of the river the city was darkening into dusk. All\nalong the shore lights were pricking out of the twilight and sending\nwavering shafts down into the water. The coiling smoke from furnace\nchimneys lay level and almost motionless in the still air; sometimes it\nwas shot with sparks, or showed, on its bellying black curves, red\ngleams from hidden fires below.\n\nDavid, staring at the river with absent, angry eyes, stopped his\nmiserable thoughts to watch a steamboat coming down the current. Its\nsmoke-stacks were folded back for passing under the bridge, and its\ngreat paddlewheel scarcely moved except to get steerageway. It was\npushing a dozen rafts, all lashed together into a spreading sheet. The\nsmell of the fresh planks pierced the acrid odor of soot that was\nsettling down with the night mists. On one of the rafts was a shanty of\nnewly sawed pine boards; it had no windows, but it was evidently a\nhome, for a stove-pipe came through its roof, and there was a woman\nsitting in its little doorway, nursing her baby. David, looking down,\nsaw the downy head, and a little crumpled fist lying on the white, bare\nbreast. The woman, looking up as they floated below him, caught his\neye, and drew her blue cotton dress across her bosom. David suddenly\nput his hand over his lips to hide their quiver. The abrupt tears were\non his cheeks. \"Oh--_Elizabeth_!\" he said. The revolt, the anger, the\njealousy, were all gone. He sobbed under his breath. He had forgotten\nthat he had said it made no difference to him,--\"not the slightest\ndifference.\" It did make a difference! All the difference in the\nworld.... \"Oh, Elizabeth!\"... The barges had slid farther and farther\nunder the bridge; the woman and the child were out of sight; the\nsteamboat with its folded smoke-stacks slid after them, leaving a wake\nof rocking, yellow foam; the water splashed loudly against the piers.\nIt was nearly dark there on the footpath, and quite deserted. David put\nhis head down on his arms on the railing and stood motionless for a\nlong moment.\n\nWhen he reached home, he found his mother in the twilight, in the\nlittle garden behind the house. David, standing behind her, said\ncarelessly, \"I have some news for you, Materna.\"\n\n\"Yes?\" she said, absorbed in pinching back her lemon verbena.\n\n\"Blair is--is spoony over Elizabeth. Here, I'll snip that thing for\nyou.\"\n\nMrs. Richie faced him in amazement. \"What! Why, but they are both\nchildren, and--\" she stopped, and looked at him. \"Oh--_David!_\" she\nsaid.\n\nAnd the boy, forgetting the spying windows of the opposite houses,\ndropped his head on her shoulder. \"Materna--Materna,\" he said, in a\nstifled voice.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nNobody except David took the childish love-affair very seriously, not\neven the principals--especially not Elizabeth. . . .\n\nDavid did not see her for a day or two, except out of the corner of his\neye when, during the new and still secret rite of shaving--for David\nwas willing to shed his blood to prove that he was a man--he looked out\nof his bedroom window and saw her down in the garden helping her uncle\nfeed his pigeons. He did not want to see her. He was younger than his\nyears, this honest-eyed, inexpressive fellow of seventeen, but for all\nhis youth he was hard hit. He grew abruptly older that first week; he\ndidn't sleep well; he even looked a little pale under his freckles, and\nhis mother worried over his appetite. When she asked him what was the\nmatter, he said, listlessly, \"Nothing.\" They were very intimate friends\nthese two, but that moment on the bridge marked the beginning of the\nperiod--known to all mothers of sons--of the boy's temporary retreat\ninto himself. . . . When a day or two later David saw Elizabeth, or\nrather when she, picking a bunch of heliotrope in her garden, saw him\nthrough the open door in the wall, and called to him to come \"right\nover! as fast as your legs can carry you!\"--he was, she thought, \"very\nqueer.\" He came in answer to the summons, but he had nothing to say.\nShe, however, was bubbling over with talk. She took his hand, and,\nrunning with him into the arbor, pulled him down on the seat beside her.\n\n\"David! Where on earth have you been all this time? David, _have you\nheard?_\"\n\n\"I suppose you mean--about you and Blair?\" he said. He did not look at\nher, but he watched a pencil of sunshine, piercing the leaves overhead,\nfaintly gilding the bunches of green grapes that had a film of soot on\ntheir greenness, and then creeping down to rest on the heliotrope in\nher lap.\n\n\"Yes!\" said Elizabeth. \"Isn't it the most exciting thing you ever\nheard? David, I want to show you something.\" She peered out through the\nleaves to make sure that they were unobserved. \"It's a terrific\nsecret!\" she said, her eyes dancing. Her fingers were at her throat,\nfumbling with the fastening of her dress, which caught, and had to be\npulled open with a jerk; then she drew half-way from her young bosom a\nring hanging on a black silk thread. She bent forward a little, so that\nhe might see it. \"I keep it down in there so Cherry-pie won't know,\"\nshe whispered. \"_Look!_\"\n\nDavid looked--and looked away.\n\nElizabeth, with a blissful sigh, dropped the ring back again into the\nwarm whiteness of that secret place. \"Isn't it perfectly lovely? It's\nmy engagement ring! I'm so excited!\"\n\nDavid was silent.\n\n\"Why, David Richie! You don't care a bit!\"\n\n\"Why, yes, I do,\" he said. He took a grape from a bunch beside him,\nrubbed the soot off on his trousers, and ate it; then blinked wryly.\n\"Gorry, that's sour.\"\n\n\"You--don't--like--my engagement!\" Elizabeth declared slowly.\nReproachful tears stood in her eyes; she fastened her dress with\nindignant fingers. \"I think you are perfectly horrid not to be\nsympathetic. It's very important to a girl to get engaged and have a\nring.\"\n\n\"It's very pretty,\" David managed to say.\n\n\"Pretty? I should say it was pretty! It cost fifty dollars! Blair said\nso. David, what on earth is the matter! Don't you like me being\nengaged?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's all right,\" he evaded. He shut his eyes, which were still\nwatering from that sour grape, but even with closed eyes he saw again\nthat soft place where Blair's ring hung, warm and secret; the pain\nbelow his own breast-bone was very bad for a minute, and the hot\nfragrance of the heliotrope seemed overpowering. He swallowed hard,\nthen looked at one of Mr. Ferguson's pigeons, walking almost into the\narbor. The pigeon stopped, hesitated, cocked a ruby eye on the two\nhumans on the wooden seat, and fluttered back into the sunny garden.\n\n\"Why, you _mind_!\" Elizabeth said, aghast.\n\n\"Oh, it's nothing to me,\" David managed to say; \"course, I don't care.\nOnly I didn't know you liked Blair so much; so it was a--a surprise,\"\nhe said miserably.\n\nElizabeth's consternation was beyond words. There was a perceptible\nmoment before she could find anything to say. \"Why, I never dreamed\nyou'd mind! David, truly, I like you best of any boy I know;--only, of\ncourse now, being engaged to Blair, I have to like him best?\"\n\n\"Yes that's so,\" David admitted.\n\n\"Truly, I like you dreadfully, David. If I'd supposed you'd mind--But,\noh, David, it's so interesting to be engaged. I really can't stop. I'd\nhave to give him back my ring!\" she said in an agonized voice. She\npressed her hand against her breast, and poor David's eyes followed the\nardent gesture.\n\n\"It's all right,\" he said with a gulp.\n\nElizabeth was ready to cry; she dropped her head on his shoulder and\nbegan to bemoan herself. \"Why on earth didn't you _say_ something? How\ncould I know? How stupid you are, David! If I'd known you minded, I'd\njust as lief have been engaged to--\" Elizabeth stopped short. She sat\nup very straight, and put her hand to the neck of her dress to make\nsure it was fastened. At that moment a new sense was born in her; for\nthe first time since they had known each other, her straightforward\neyes--the sexless eyes of a child--faltered, and refused to meet\nDavid's. \"I think maybe Cherry-pie wants me now,\" she said shyly, and\nslipped away, leaving David mournfully eating green grapes in the\narbor. This was the last time that Elizabeth, uninvited, put her head\non a boy's shoulder.\n\nA week later she confided to Miss White the great fact of her\nengagement; but she was not so excited about it by that time. For one\nthing, she had received her uncle's present of a locket, so the ring\nwas not her only piece of jewelry; and besides that, since her talk\nwith David, being \"engaged\" had seemed less interesting. However, Miss\nWhite felt it her duty to drop a hint of what had happened to Mr.\nFerguson: had it struck him that perhaps Blair Maitland was--was\nthinking about Elizabeth?\n\n\"Thinking what about her?\" Mr. Ferguson said, lifting his head from his\npapers with a fretted look.\n\n\"Why,\" said Miss White, \"as I am always at my post, sir, I have\nopportunities for observing; in fact, I shouldn't wonder if they\nwere--attached.\" Cherry-pie would have felt that a more definite word\nwas indelicate. \"Of course I don't exactly _know_ it,\" said Miss White,\nfaithful to Elizabeth's confidence, \"but I recall that when I was a\nyoung lady, young gentlemen did become attached--to other young ladies.\"\n\n\"Love-making? At her age? I won't have it!\" said Robert Ferguson. The\nold, apprehensive look darkened in his face; his feeling for the child\nwas so strangely shadowed by his fear that \"Life would play another\ntrick on him,\" and Elizabeth would disappoint him some way, that he\ncould not take Cherry-pie's information with any appreciation of its\nhumor. \"Send her to me,\" he said.\n\n\"Mr. Ferguson,\" poor old Miss White ventured, \"if I might suggest, it\nwould be well to be very kind, because--\"\n\n\"Kind?\" said Robert Ferguson, astonished; he gave an angry thrust at\nthe black ribbon of his glasses that brought them tumbling from his\nnose. \"Was I unkind? I will see her in the library after supper.\"\n\nMiss White nibbled at him speechlessly. \"If he is severe with her, I\ndon't know what she _won't_ do,\" she said to herself.\n\nBut Mr. Ferguson did not mean to be severe. When Elizabeth presented\nherself in his library, the interview began calmly enough. Her uncle\nwas brief and to the point, but he was not unkind. She and Blair were\ntoo young to be engaged,--\"Don't think of it again,\" he commanded.\n\nElizabeth looked tearful, but she did not resent his dictum;--David's\nlack of sympathy had been very dampening to romance. It was just at the\nend that the gunpowder flared.\n\n\"Now, remember, I don't want you to be foolish Elizabeth.\"\n\n\"I don't think being in love is foolish, Uncle.\"\n\n\"Love! What do you know about love? You are nothing but a silly little\ngirl.\"\n\n\"I don't think I'm very little; and Blair is in love with me.\"\n\n\"Blair is as young and as foolish as you are. Even if you were older, I\nwouldn't allow it. He is selfish and irresponsible, and--\"\n\n\"I think,\" interrupted Elizabeth, \"that you are very mean to abuse\nBlair behind his back. It isn't fair.\" Her uncle was perfectly\ndumfounded; then he went into harsh reproof. Elizabeth grew whiter and\nwhiter and the dimple in her cheek lengthened into a long, hairline. \"I\nwish I didn't live with you. I wish my mother were alive. _She_ would\nbe good to me!\"\n\n\"Your mother?\" said Robert Ferguson; his involuntary grunt of cynical\namusement touched the child like a whip. Her fury was appalling. She\nscreamed at him that she hated him! She loved her mother! She was going\nto marry Blair the minute she was grown up! Then she whirled out of the\nroom, almost knocking over poor old Miss White, whose \"post\" had been\nanxiously near the key-hole.\n\nUp-stairs, her rage scared her governess nearly to death: \"My lamb!\nYou'll get overheated, and take cold. When I was a young lady, it was\nthought unrefined to speak so--emphatically. And your dear uncle didn't\nmean to be severe; he--\"\n\n'\"Dear uncle'?\" said Elizabeth, \"dear devil! He hurt my feelings. He\nmade fun of my mother!\" As she spoke, she leaped at a photograph of\nRobert Ferguson which stood on her bureau, and, doubling her hand,\nstruck the thin glass with all her force. It splintered, and the blood\nspurted from her cut knuckles on to her uncle's face.\n\nMiss White began to cry. \"Oh, my dear, my dear, try to control\nyourself, or you'll do something dreadful some day!\" Cherry-pie's\nefforts to check Elizabeth's temper were like the protesting\ntwitterings of a sparrow in a thunder-storm. When she reproved her now,\nthe furious little creature, wincing and trying to check the bleeding\nwith her handkerchief, did not even take the trouble to reply. Later,\nof course, the inevitable moment of penitence came; but it was not\nbecause she had lost her temper; loss of temper was always a trifling\nmatter to Elizabeth; it was because she had been disrespectful to her\nuncle's picture. That night, when all the household was in bed, she\nslipped down-stairs, candle in hand, to the library. On the mantelpiece\nwas a photograph of herself; she took it out of the frame, tore it into\nlittle bits, stamped on it, grinding her heel down on her own young\nface; then she took off the locket Mr. Ferguson had given her,--a most\nsimple affair of pearls and turquoise; kissed it with passion, and\nlooked about her: where should it be offered up? The ashes in the\nfireplace? No; the house-maid would find it there. Then she had an\ninspiration--the deep well of her uncle's battered old inkstand! Oh, to\nblacken the pearls, to stain the heavenly blue of the turquoise! It was\nalmost too frightful. But it was right. She had hurt his feelings by\nsaying she wished she didn't have to live with him, and she had\ninsulted his dear, dear, _dear_ picture! So, with a tearful hiccup, she\ndropped the locket into the ink-pot that stood between the feet of a\nspattered bronze Socrates, and watched it sink into a black and\nterrible grave. \"I'm glad not to have it,\" she said, and felt that she\nhad squared matters with her conscience.\n\nAs for Robert Ferguson, he did not notice that the photograph had\ndisappeared, nor did he plunge his pen deep enough to find a pearl, nor\nunderstand the significance of the bound-up hand, but the old worry\nabout her came back again. Her mother had defended her own wicked\nlove-affair, with all the violence of a selfish woman; and in his panic\nof apprehension, poor little Elizabeth's defense of Blair seemed to be\nof the same nature. He was so worried over it that he was moved to do a\nvery unwise thing. He would, he said to himself, put Mrs. Maitland on\nher guard about this nonsense between the two children.\n\nThe next morning when he went into her office at the Works, he found\nthe place humming with business. As he entered he met a foreman, just\ntaking his departure with, so to speak, his tail between his legs. The\nman was scarlet to his forehead under the lash of his employer's\ntongue. It had been administered in the inner room; but the door was\nopen into the large office, and as Mrs. Maitland had not seen fit to\nmodulate her voice, the clerks and some messenger-boys and a couple of\ntraveling-men had had the benefit of it. Ferguson, reporting at that\nopen door, was bidden curtly to come in and sit down. \"I'll see you\npresently,\" she said, and burst out into the large office. Instantly\nthe roomful of people, lounging about waiting their turn, came to\nattention. She rushed in among them like a gale, whirling away the\nstraws and chaff before her, and leaving only the things that were\nworth while. She snapped a yellow envelope from a boy's hand, and even\nwhile she was ripping it open with a big forefinger, she was reading\nthe card of an astonished traveling-man: \"No, sir; no, sir; your bid\nwas one-half of one per cent, over Heintz. Your people been customers\nso long that they thought that I--? I never mix business and\nfriendship!\" She stood still long enough to run her eye over the\ndrawing of a patent, and toss it back to the would-be inventor. \"No, I\ndon't care to take it up with you. Cast it for you? Certainly. I'll\ncast anything for anybody\"; and the man found his blueprint in his hand\nbefore he could begin his explanation. \"What? Johnson wants to know\nwhere to get the new housing to replace the one that broke yesterday?\nTell Johnson that's what I pay him to decide. I have no time to do his\nbusiness for him--my own is all I can attend to! Mr. Ferguson!\" she\ncalled out, as she came banging back into the private office, \"what\nabout that ore that came in yesterday?\" She sat down at her desk and\nlistened intently to a somewhat intricate statement involving\nmanufacturing matters dependent upon the quality of certain shipments\nof ore. Then, abruptly she gave her orders.\n\nRobert Ferguson, making notes as rapidly as he could, smiled with\nsatisfaction at the power of it all. It was as ruthless and as\nadmirable as a force of nature. She would not pause, this woman, for\nflesh and blood; she was as impersonal as one of her own great shears\nthat would bite off a \"bloom\" or a man's head with equal precision, and\nin doing so would be fulfilling the law of its being. Assuredly she\nwould stop Blair's puppy-love in short order!\n\nBusiness over, Sarah Maitland leaned back in her chair and laughed.\n\"Did you hear me blowing Dale up? I guess he'll stay put for a while\nnow! But I'm afraid I was angry,\" she confessed sheepishly; \"and there\nis nothing on earth so foolish as to be angry at a fool.\"\n\n\"There is nothing on earth so irritating as a fool,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, but it's absurd to waste your temper on 'em. I always say to\nmyself, 'Sarah Maitland, if he had your brains, he'd have your job.'\nThat generally keeps me cool; but I'm afraid I shall never learn to\nsuffer Mr. Doestick's friends, gladly. Read your Bible, and you'll know\nwhere that comes from! I tell you, friend Ferguson, you ought to thank\nGod every day that you weren't born a fool; and so ought I. Well what\ncan I do for you?\"\n\n\"I am bothered about Elizabeth and Blair.\"\n\nShe looked at him blankly for a moment. \"Elizabeth? Blair? What about\nElizabeth and Blair?\"\n\n\"It appears,\" Robert Ferguson said, and shoved the door shut with his\nfoot, \"it appears that there has been some love-making.\"\n\n\"Love-making?\" she repeated, bewildered.\n\n\"Blair has been talking to Elizabeth,\" he explained. \"I believe they\ncall themselves engaged.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland flung her head back with a loud laugh. At the shock of\nsuch a sound in such a place, one of the clerks in the other room spun\nround on his stool, and Mrs. Maitland, catching sight of him through\nthe glass partition, broke the laugh off in the middle. \"Well, upon my\nword!\" she said.\n\n\"Of course it's all nonsense, but it must be stopped.\"\n\n\"Why?\" said Mrs. Maitland. And her superintendent felt a jar of\nastonishment.\n\n\"They are children.\"\n\n\"Blair is sixteen,\" his mother said thoughtfully; \"if he thinks he is\nin love with Elizabeth, it will help to make a man of him. Furthermore,\nI'd rather have him make love than make pictures;--that is his last\nfancy,\" she said, frowning. \"I don't know how he comes by it. Of\ncourse, my husband did paint sometimes, I admit; but he never wanted to\nmake a business of it. He was no fool, I can tell you, if he did make\npictures!\"\n\nRobert Ferguson said dryly that he didn't think she need worry about\nBlair. \"He has neither industry nor humility,\" he said, \"and you can't\nbe an artist without both of 'em. But as for this love business, they\nare children!\"\n\nMrs. Maitland was not listening. \"To be in love will be steadying him\nwhile he's at college. If he sticks to Elizabeth till he graduates, I\nsha'n't object.\"\n\n\"I shall object.\"\n\nBut she did not notice his protest.\n\n\"She has more temper than is quite comfortable,\" she ruminated; \"but,\nafter all, to a young man being engaged is like having a dog; one dog\ndoes as well as another; one girl does as well as another. And it isn't\nas if Blair had to consider whether his wife would be a 'good manager,'\nas they say; he'll have enough to waste, if he wants to. He'll have\nmore than he knows what to do with!\" There was a little proud bridling\nof her head. She, who had never wasted a cent in her life, had made it\npossible for her boy to be as wasteful as he pleased. \"Yes,\" she said,\nwith the quick decision which was so characteristic of her, \"yes, he\ncan have her.\"\n\n\"No, he can't,\" said Elizabeth's uncle.\n\n\"What?\" she said, in frank surprise.\n\n\"Blair will have too much money. Inherited wealth is the biggest\nhandicap a man can have.\"\n\n\"Too much money?\" she chuckled; \"your bearings are getting hot, ain't\nthey? Come, come! I'm not so sure you need thank God. How can a man\nhave too much money? That's nonsense!\" She banged her hand down on the\ncall-bell on her desk. \"Evans! Bring me the drawings for those\nchannels.\"\n\n\"I tell you I won't have it,\" Robert Ferguson repeated.\n\n\"I mean the blue-prints!\" Mrs. Maitland commanded loudly; \"you have no\nsense, Evans!\" Ferguson got up; she had a way of not hearing when she\nwas spoken to that made a man hot along his backbone. Robert Ferguson\nwas hot, but he meant to have the last word; he paused at the door and\nlooked back.\n\n\"I shall not allow it.\"\n\n\"Good-day, Mr. Ferguson,\" said his employer, deep in the blue-prints.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nElizabeth's uncle need not have concerned himself so seriously about\nthe affairs of Elizabeth's heart. The very next day the rift between\nthe lovers began:\n\n\"What on earth have you done to your hand?\" asked Blair.\n\n\"I cut it. I was angry at Uncle, and broke his picture, and--\"\n\nBlair shouted with laughter. \"Oh, Elizabeth, what a goose you are!\nThat's just the way you used to bite your arm when you were mad. You\nalways did cut off your nose to spite your face! Where is your locket?\"\n\n\"None of your business!\" said Elizabeth savagely. It was easy to be\nsavage with Blair, because David's lack of interest in her affairs had\ntaken the zest out of \"being engaged\" in the most surprising way. But\nshe had no intention of not being engaged! Romance was too flattering\nto self-love to be relinquished; nevertheless, after the first week or\ntwo she lapsed easily, in moments of forgetfulness, into the old\nmatter-of-fact squabbling and the healthy unreasonableness natural to\nlifelong acquaintance. The only difference was that now, when she and\nBlair squabbled, they made up again in new ways; Blair, with gusts of\nwhat Elizabeth, annoyed and a little disgusted, called \"silliness\";\nElizabeth, with strange, half-scared, wholly joyous moments of\nconscious power. But the \"making-up\" was far less personal than the\nfallings-out; these, at least, meant individual antagonisms, whereas\nthe reconciliations were something larger than the girl and\nboy--something which bore them on its current as a river bears straws\nupon its breast. But they played with that mighty current as\nthoughtlessly as all young creatures play with it. Elizabeth used to\ntake her engagement ring from the silk thread about her neck, and,\nputting it on her finger, dance up and down her room, her right hand on\nher hip, her left stretched out before her so that she could see the\nsparkle of the tiny diamond on her third finger. \"I'm engaged!\" she\nwould sing to herself.\n\n\"'Oh, isn't it joyful, joyful, joyful!'\n\n\"Blair's in love with me!\" The words were so glorious that she rarely\nremembered to add, \"I'm in love with Blair.\" The fact was, Blair was\nmerely a necessary appendage to the joy of being engaged. When he\nirritated her by what she called \"silliness,\" she was often frankly\ndisagreeable to him.\n\nAs for Blair, he, too, had his ups and downs. He swaggered, and threw\nhis shoulders back, and cast appraising eyes on women generally, and\nthought deeply on marriage. But of Elizabeth he thought very little.\nBecause she was a girl, she bored him quite as often as he bored her.\nIt was because she was a woman that there came those moments when he\noffended her; and in those moments she had but little personality to\nhim. In fact, their love-affair, so far as they understood it, apart\nfrom its elemental impulses which they did not understand, was as much\nof a play to them as the apple-tree housekeeping had been.\n\nSo Mr. Ferguson might have spared himself the unpleasant interview with\nBlair's mother. He recognized this himself before long, and was even\nable to relax into a difficult smile when Mrs. Richie ventured a mild\npleasantry on the subject. For Mrs. Richie had spoken to Blair, and\nunderstood the situation so well that she could venture a pleasantry.\nShe had sounded him one evening in the darkness of her narrow garden.\n\nDavid was not at home, and Blair was glad of the chance to wait for\nhim--so long as Mrs. Richie let him lounge on the grass at her feet.\nHis adoration of David's mother, begun in his childhood, had\nstrengthened with his years; perhaps because she was all that his own\nmother was not.\n\n\"Blair,\" she said, \"of course you and I both realize that Elizabeth is\nonly a child, and you are entirely too wise to talk seriously about\nbeing engaged to her. She is far too young for that sort of thing. Of\ncourse _you_ understand that?\"\n\nAnd Blair, feeling as though the sword of manhood had been laid on his\nshoulder, and instantly forgetting the smaller pride of being\n\"engaged,\" said in a very mature voice, \"Oh, certainly _I_ understand.\"\n\nIf, in the dusk of stars and fireflies, with the fragrance of white\nstocks blossoming near the stone bench that circled the old\nhawthorn-tree in the middle of the garden--if at that moment Mrs.\nRichie had demanded Elizabeth's head upon a charger, Blair would have\nrejoiced to offer it. But this serene and gentle woman was far too wise\nto wring any promise from the boy, although, indeed, she had no\nopportunity, for at that moment Mr. Ferguson knocked on the green door\nbetween the two gardens and asked if he might come in and smoke his\ncigar in his neighbor's garden. \"I'll smoke the aphids off your\nrose-bushes,\" he offered. \"You are very careless about your roses!\"\n\n\"A 'bad tenant'?\" said Mrs. Richie, smiling. And poor Blair picked\nhimself up, and went sulkily off.\n\nBut Mrs. Richie's flattering assumption that Blair and she looked at\nthings in the same way, and David's apparent indifference to\nElizabeth's emotions, made the childish love-affair wholesomely\ncommonplace on both sides. By mid-September it was obvious that the\nprospect of college was attractive to Blair, and that the moment of\nparting would not be tragic to Elizabeth. The romance did not come to a\nrecognized end, however, until a day or two before Blair started East.\nThe four friends, and Miss White, had gone out to Mrs. Todd's, where\nDavid had stood treat, and after their tumblers of pink and brown and\nwhite ice-cream had been emptied, and Mrs. Todd had made her usual joke\nabout \"good-looking couples,\" they had taken two skiffs for a slow\ndrift down the river to Willis's.\n\nWhen they were rowing home again, the skiffs at first kept abreast, but\ngradually, in spite of Miss White's desire to be \"at her post,\" and\nDavid's entire willingness to hold back, Blair and Elizabeth\nappropriately fell behind, with only a little shaggy dog, which\nElizabeth had lately acquired, to play propriety. In the yellow\nSeptember afternoon the river ran placidly between the hills and\nlow-lying meadows; here and there, high on a wooded hillside, a maple\nflamed among the greenness of the walnuts and locusts, or the chestnuts\nshowed the bronze beginnings of autumn. Ahead of them the sunshine had\nmelted into an umber haze, which in the direction of Mercer deepened\ninto a smudge of black. Elizabeth was twisting her left hand about to\nget different lights on her ring, which she had managed to slip on her\nfinger when Cherry-pie was not looking. Blair, with absent eyes, was\nsinging under his breath:\n\n   \"'Oh! I came to a river, an' I couldn't get across;\n    Sing \"Polly-wolly-doodle\" all the day!\n   An' I jumped upon a nigger, an' I thought he was a hoss;\n    Sing Polly-wolly--'\n\n\"Horrid old hole, Mercer,\" he broke off, resting on his oars and\nletting the boat slip back on the current.\n\n\"I like Mercer!\" Elizabeth said, ceasing to admire the ring. \"Since\nyou've come home from boarding-school you don't like anything but the\nEast.\" She began to stroke her puppy's head violently. Blair was\nsilent; he was looking at a willow dipping its swaying finger-tips in\nthe water.\n\n\"Blair! why don't you answer me?\"\n\nBlair, plainly bored, said, \"Well, I don't like hideousness and dirt.\"\n\n\"David likes Mercer.\"\n\n\"I bet Mrs. Richie doesn't,\" Blair murmured, and began to row lazily.\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Richie!\" cried Elizabeth; \"you think whatever she thinks is\nabout perfect.\"\n\n\"Well, isn't it?\"\n\nElizabeth's lip hardened. \"I suppose you think she's perfect too?\"\n\n\"I do,\" Blair said.\n\n\"She thinks I'm dreadful because, sometimes, I--get provoked,\"\nElizabeth said angrily.\n\n\"Well, you are,\" Blair agreed calmly.\n\n\"If I am so wicked, I wonder you want to be engaged to me!\"\n\n\"Can't I like anybody but you?\" Blair said, and yawned.\n\n\"You can like everybody, for all I care,\" she retorted. Blair whistled,\nupon which Elizabeth became absorbed in petting her dog, kissing him\nardently between his eyes.\n\n\"I hate to see a girl kiss a dog,\" Blair observed;\n\n\"'Sing Polly-wolly-doo--'\"\n\n\"Don't look, then,\" said Elizabeth, and kissed Bobby again.\n\nBlair sighed, and gave up his song. Bobby, obviously uncomfortable,\nscrambled out of Elizabeth's lap and began to stretch himself on the\nuncertain floor of the skiff.\n\n\"Lie down!\" Blair commanded, and poked the little creature, not\nungently, with his foot. Bobby yelped, gave a flying nip at his ankle,\nand retreated to the shelter of his mistress's skirts. \"Confound that\ndog!\" cried Blair.\n\n\"You are a horrid boy!\" she said, consoling her puppy with frantic\ncaresses. \"I'm glad he bit you!\"\n\nBlair, rubbing his ankle, said he'd like to throw the little wretch\noverboard.\n\nWell, of course, Elizabeth being Elizabeth, the result was inevitable.\nThe next instant the ring lay sparkling in the bottom of the boat. \"I\nbreak my engagement! Take your old ring! You are a cruel, wicked boy,\nand I hate you--so there!\" \"I must say I don't see why you should\nexpect me to enjoy being bitten,\" Blair said hotly. \"Well, all right;\nthrow me over, if you want to. I shall never trust a woman again as\nlong as I live!\" He began to row fiercely. \"I only hope that darned pup\nisn't going mad.\"\n\n\"I hope he _is_ going mad,\" said Elizabeth, trembling all over, \"and I\nhope you'll go mad, too. Put me on shore this instant!\"\n\n\"Considering the current, I fear you will have to endure my society for\nseveral instants,\" Blair said.\n\n\"I'd rather be drowned!\" she cried furiously, and as she spoke, even\nbefore he could raise his hand to stop her, with Bobby in her arms she\nsprang lightly over the side of the boat into the water. There was a\nterrific splash--but, alas! Elizabeth, in preferring death to Blair's\nsociety, had not calculated upon the September shallows, and even\nbefore the horrified boy could drop his oars and spring to her\nassistance, she was on her feet, standing knee-deep in the muddy\ncurrent.\n\nThe water completely extinguished the fires of wrath. In the hubbub\nthat followed, the ejaculations and outcries, Nannie's tears, Miss\nWhite's terrified scolding, Blair's protestations to David that it\nwasn't his fault--through it all, Elizabeth, wading ashore, was silent.\nOnly at the landing of the toll-house, when poor distracted Cherry-pie\nbade the boys get a carriage, did she speak:\n\n\"I won't go in a carriage. I am going to walk home.\"\n\n\"My lamb! you'll take cold! You mustn't!\"\n\n\"You look like the deuce,\" Blair told her anxiously; and David blurted\nout, \"Elizabeth, you can't walk home; you're a perfect object!\"\nElizabeth, through the mud trickling over her eyes, flashed a look at\nhim:\n\n\"_That's_ why I'm going to walk!\" And walk she did--across the bridge,\nalong the street, a dripping little figure stared at by passers-by, and\nfollowed by the faithful but embarrassed four--by five, indeed, for\nBlair had fished Bobby out of the water, and even stopped, once in a\nwhile when no one was looking, to give the maker of all this trouble a\nfurtive and apologetic pat. At Elizabeth's door, in a very scared frame\nof mind lest Mr. Ferguson should come out and catch him, Blair\nattempted to apologize.\n\n\"Don't be silly,\" Elizabeth said, muddy and shivering, but just; \"it\nwasn't your fault. But we're not engaged any more.\" And that was the\nend of the love-story!\n\nElizabeth told Cherry-pie that she had \"broken with Blair Maitland\n_forever!_\" Miss White, when she went to make her report of the\ndreadful event to Mr. Ferguson, added that she felt assured the young\npeople had got over their foolishness. Elizabeth's uncle, telling the\nstory of the ducking to David's horrified mother, said that he was\ngreatly relieved to know that Elizabeth had come to her senses.\n\nBut with all the \"tellings\" that buzzed between the three households,\nnobody thought of telling Mrs. Maitland. Why should they? Who would\nconnect this woman of iron and toil and sweat, of noise and motion,\nwith the sentimentalities of two children? She had to find it out for\nherself.\n\nAt breakfast on the morning of the day Blair was to start East, his\nmother, looking over the top of her newspaper at him, said abruptly:\n\n\"Blair, I have something to say to you before you go. Be at my office\nat the Works at ten-fifteen.\" She looked at him amiably, then pushed\nback her chair. \"Nannie! Get my bonnet. Come! Hurry! I'm late!\"\n\nNannie, running, brought the bonnet, a bunch of rusty black crepe, with\nstrings frayed with many tyings. \"Oh, Mamma,\" she said softly, \"do let\nme get you a new bonnet?\"\n\nBut Mrs. Maitland was not listening. \"Harris!\" she called loudly, \"tell\nWatson to have those roller figures for me at eleven. And I want the\nlinen tracing--Bates will know what I mean--at noon without fail.\nNannie, see that there's boiled cabbage for dinner.\"\n\nA moment later the door banged behind her. The abrupt silence was like\na blow. Nannie and Harris caught their breaths; it was as if the oxygen\nhad been sucked out of the air; there was a minute before any one\nbreathed freely. Then Blair flung up his arms in a wordless protest; he\nactually winced with pain. He glanced around the unlovely room; at the\ntable, with its ledgers and clutter of unmatched china--old Canton, and\nheavy white earthenware, and odd cups and saucers with splashing\ndecorations which had pleased Harris's eye; at the files of newspapers\non the sideboard, the grimy walls, the untidy fireplace. \"Thank Heaven!\nI'm going off to-day. I wish I need never come back,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, Blair, that is a dreadful thing to say!\"\n\n\"It may be dreadful, but that's the way I feel. I can't help my\nfeelings, can I? The further mother and I are apart, the better we love\neach other. Well! I suppose I've got to go and see her bossing a lot of\nmen, instead of sitting at home, like a lady;--and I'll get a dreadful\nblowing up. Of course she knows about the engagement now, thanks to\nElizabeth's craziness.\"\n\n\"I don't believe she knows anything about it,\" Nannie tried to\nencourage him.\n\n\"Oh, you bet old Ferguson has told her,\" Blair said, gloomily. \"Say,\nNannie, if Elizabeth doesn't look out she'll get into awful hot water\none of these days with her devil of a temper--and she'll get other\npeople into it, too,\" he ended resentfully. Blair hated hot water, as\nhe hated everything that was unbeautiful. \"Mother is going to take my\nhead off, of course,\" he said.\n\nBut Sarah Maitland, entirely ignorant of what had happened, had no such\nintention; she had gone over to her office in a glow of personal\npleasure that warmed up the details of business. She intended to take\nBlair that morning through the Works,--not as he had often gone before,\ntagging after her, a frightened child, a reluctant boy--but as the\nprince, formally looking over the kingdom into which he was so soon to\ncome! He was in love: therefore he would wish to be married; therefore\nhe would be impatient to get to work! It was all a matter of logical\nand satisfactory deduction. How many times in this hot summer, when\nvery literally she was earning her son's bread by the sweat of her\nbrow, had she looked at Elizabeth and Blair, and found enjoyment in\nthese deductions! Nobody would have imagined it, but the big, ungainly\nwoman _dreamed!_ Dreamed of her boy, of his business success, of his\nlove, of his wife,--and, who knows? perhaps those grimy pink baby socks\nbegan to mean something more personal than the missionary barrel. It\nwas her purpose, on this particular morning, to tell him, after they\nhad gone through the Works, just where, when he graduated, he was to\nbegin. Not at the bottom!--that was Ferguson's idea. \"He ought to start\nat the bottom, if he is ever to get to the top,\" Ferguson had barked.\nNo, Blair need not start at the bottom; he could begin pretty well up\nat the top; and he should have a salary. What an incentive that would\nbe! First she would tell him that now, when he was going to college,\nshe meant to increase his allowance; then she would tell him about the\nsalary he would have when he got to work. How happy he would be! For a\nboy to be in love, and have all the pocket-money he wanted, and a great\nbusiness to look forward to; to have work--work! the finest thing in\nthe world!--all ready to his hand,--what more could a human being\ndesire? At the office, she swept through the morning business with a\nspeed that took her people off their feet. Once or twice she glanced at\nthe clock; Blair was always unpunctual. \"He'll get _that_ knocked out\nof him when he gets into business,\" she thought, grimly.\n\nIt was eleven before he came loitering across the Yards. His mother,\nlifting her head for a moment from her desk, and glancing impatiently\nout of the dirt-begrimed office window, saw him coming, and caught the\ngleam of his patent-leather shoes as he skirted a puddle just outside\nthe door. \"Well, Master Blair,\" she said to herself, flinging down her\npen, \"you'll forget those pretty boots when you get to walking around\nyour Works!\"\n\nBlair, dawdling through the outer office, found his way to her sanctum,\nand sat down in a chair beside her desk. He glanced at her shrinkingly,\nand looked away. Her bonnet was crooked; her hair was hanging in wisps\nat the back of her neck; her short skirt showed the big, broad-soled\nfoot twisted round the leg of her chair. Blair saw the muddy sole of\nthat shoe, and half closed his eyes. Then remembering Elizabeth, he\nfelt a little sick; \"she's going to row about it!\" he thought, and\nquailed.\n\n\"You're late,\" she said; then, without stopping for his excuses, she\nproceeded with the business in hand. \"I'm going to increase your\nallowance.\"\n\nBlair sat up in astonishment.\n\n\"I mean while you're at college. After that I shall stop the allowance\nentirely, and you will go to work. You will go on a salary, like any\nother man.\" Her mouth clicked shut in a tight line of satisfaction.\n\nThe color flew into Blair's face. \"Why!\" he said. \"You are awfully\ngood, Mother. Really, I--\"\n\n\"I know all about this business of your engagement to Elizabeth,\" Mrs.\nMaitland broke in, \"though you didn't see fit to tell me about it\nyourself.\" There was something in her voice that would have betrayed\nher to any other hearer; but Blair, who was sensitive to Mrs. Richie's\nslightest wish, and careful of old Cherry-pie's comfort, and generously\nthoughtful even of Harris--Blair, absorbed in his own apprehensions,\nheard no pain in his mother's voice. \"I know all about it,\" Mrs.\nMaitland went on. \"I won't have you call yourselves engaged until you\nare out of college, of course. But I have no objection to your looking\nforward to being engaged, and married, too. It's a good thing for a\nyoung man to expect to be married; keeps him clean.\"\n\nBlair was struck dumb. Evidently, though she did not know what had\nhappened, she did know that he had been engaged. Yet she was not going\nto take his head off! Instead she was going to increase his allowance\nbecause, apparently, she approved of him!\n\n\"So I want to tell you,\" she went on, \"though you have not seen fit to\ntell me anything, that I'm willing you should marry Elizabeth, as soon\nas you can support her. And you can do that as soon as you graduate,\nbecause, as I say, when you are in the Works, I shall pay you\"--her\niron face lighted--\"I shall pay you _a salary!_ a good salary.\"\n\nMore money! Blair laughed with satisfaction; the prospect soothed the\nsting of Elizabeth's \"meanness\"--which was what he called it, when he\ndid not remember to name it, darkly, \"faithlessness.\" He was so\ncomforted that he had, for the first time in his life, an impulse to\nconfide in his mother; \"Elizabeth got provoked at me\"--there was a\nboyish demand for sympathy in his tone; \"and--\"\n\nBut Mrs. Maitland interrupted him. \"Come along,\" she said, chuckling.\nShe got up, pulled her bonnet straight, and gave her son a jocose\nthrust in the ribs that made him jump. \"I can't waste time over lovers'\nquarrels. Patch it up! patch it up! You can afford to, you know, before\nyou get married. You'll get your innings later, my boy!\" Still\nchuckling at her own joke, she slammed down the top of her desk and\ntramped into the outer office.\n\nBlair turned scarlet with anger. The personal familiarity extinguished\nhis little friendly impulse to blurt out his trouble with Elizabeth, as\ncompletely as a gust of wind puts out a scarcely lighted candle. He got\nup, his teeth set, his hands clenched in his pockets, and followed his\nmother through the Yards--vast, hideous wastes, scorching in the\nSeptember heats, full of endless rows of pig, piles of scrap, acres, it\nseemed to Blair, of slag. The screeching clamor of the place reeked\nwith the smell of rust and rubbish and sour earth, and the air was\nvibrant with the clatter of the \"buggies\" on the narrow-gauge tracks\nthat ran in a tangled network from one furnace to another. Blair,\ntrudging along behind his mother, cringing at the ugliness of\neverything about him, did not dare to speak; he still felt that dig in\nthe ribs, and was so angry he could not have controlled his voice.\n\nMrs. Maitland walked through her Iron Works as some women walk through\na garden:--lovingly. She talked to her son rapidly; this was so and so;\nthere was such and such a department; in that new shed she meant to put\nthe draftsmen; over there the timekeeper;--she paused. Blair had left\nher, and was standing in an open doorway of the foundry, watching,\nbreathlessly, a jibcrane bearing a great ladle full of tons of liquid\nmetal that shimmered above its white-hot expanse with the shifting blue\nflames of escaping gas. Seething and bubbling, the molten iron slopped\nin a flashing film over the side of the caldron, every drop, as it\nstruck the black earth, rebounding in a thousand exploding points of\nfire. Above the swaying ladle, far up in the glooms under the roof, the\nshadows were pierced by the lurching dazzle of arc-lamps; but when the\nladle tipped, and with a crackling roar the stream of metal flowed into\na mold, the sizzling violet gleam of the lamps was abruptly\nextinguished by the intolerable glare of light.\n\n\"Oh,\" Blair said breathlessly, \"how wonderful!\"\n\n\"It _is_ wonderful,\" his mother said. \"Thomas, here, can move the lever\nthat tips the ladle with his two fingers--and out comes the iron as\nneatly as cream out of a jug!\"\n\nBlair was so entirely absorbed in the fierce magnificence of light, and\nin the glowing torsos of the molders, planted as they were against the\nprofound shadows of the foundry, that when she said, \"Come on!\" he did\nnot hear her. Mrs. Maitland, standing with her hands on her hips, her\nfeet well apart, held her head high; she was intensely gratified by his\ninterest. \"If his father had only lived to see him!\" she said to\nherself. In her pride, she almost swaggered; she nodded, chuckling, to\nthe molder at her elbow:\n\n\"He takes to it like a duck to water, doesn't he, Jim?\" \"And,\" said\nJim, telling the story afterward, \"I allowed I'd never seen a young\nfeller as knowing about castings as him. She took it down straight. You\ncan't pile it on too thick for a woman, about her young 'un.\"\n\n\"Somebody ought to paint it,\" Blair said, under his breath.\n\nMrs. Maitland's face glowed; she came and stood beside him a moment in\nsilence, resting her big, dirty hand on his shoulder. Then she said,\nhalf sheepishly, \"I call that ladle the 'cradle of civilization.' Think\nwhat's inside of it! There are rails, that will hold New York and San\nFrancisco together, and engines and machines for the whole world; there\nare telegraph wires that will bring--think of all the kinds of news\nthey will bring, Blair,--wars, and births of babies! There are bridges\nin it, and pens that may write--well, maybe love-letters,\" she said,\nwith sly and clumsy humor, \"or even write, perhaps, the liberty of a\nrace, as Lincoln's pen wrote it. Yes!\" she said, her face full of\nluminous abstraction, \"the cradle of civilization!\"\n\nHe could hardly hear her voice in the giant tumult of exploding metal\nand the hammering and crashing in the adjacent mill; but when she said\nthat, he looked round at her with the astonishment of one who sees a\nfamiliar face where he has supposed he would see a stranger. He forgot\nhis shame in having a mother who ran an iron-mill; he even forgot that\nimpudent thrust in the ribs; a spark of sympathy leaped between them as\nreal in its invisibility as the white glitter of the molten iron\nsputtering over their heads. \"Yes,\" he said, \"it's all that, and it is\nmagnificent, too!\"\n\n\"Come on!\" she said, with a proud look. Over her shoulder she flung\nback at him figures and statistics; she told him of the tons of bridge\nmaterials on the books; the rail contract she had just taken was a big\nthing, very big! \"We've never handled such an order, but we can do it!\"\n\nThey were walking rapidly from the foundry to the furnaces; Sarah\nMaitland was inspecting piles of pig, talking to puddlers, all the\nwhile bending and twisting between her strong fingers, with their\nblackened nails, a curl of borings, perhaps biting on it, thoughtfully,\nwhile she considered some piece of work, then blowing the crumbs of\niron out from between her lips and bursting into quick directions or\nfault-finding. She stood among her men, in her short skirt, her gray\nhair straggling out over her forehead from under her shabby bonnet, and\ngave her orders; but for the first time in her life she was\nself-conscious--Blair was looking on! listening! thinking, no doubt,\nthat one of these days he would be doing just what she was doing! For\nthe moment she was as vain as a girl; then, abruptly, her happy\nexcitement paused. She stood still, flinching and wincing, and putting\na hand up to her eye.\n\n\"Ach!\" she said; \"a filing!\" she looked with the other sympathetically\nwatering eye at her son. \"Here, take this thing out.\"\n\n\"_I_?\" Blair said, dismayed. \"Oh, I might hurt you.\" Then, in his\nhelplessness and concern--for, ignorant as he was, he knew enough of\nthe Works to know that an iron filing in your eye is no joke--he\nturned, with a flurried gesture, to one of the molders. \"Get a doctor,\ncan't you? Don't stand there staring!\"\n\n\"Doctor?\" said Mrs. Maitland. She gave her son a look, and laughed.\n\"He's afraid he'll hurt me!\" she said, with a warm joyousness in her\nvoice; \"Jim, got a jack-knife? Just dig this thing out.\" Jim came,\ndirty and hesitating, but prepared for a very common emergency of the\nWorks. With a black thumb and forefinger he raised the wincing lid, and\nwith the pointed blade of the jack-knife lifted, with delicacy and\nprecision, the irritating iron speck from the eyeball. \"'Bliged,\" Mrs.\nMaitland said. She clapped a rather grimy handkerchief over the poor\nred eye, and turned to Blair. \"Come on!\" she said, and struck him on\nthe shoulder so heartily that he stumbled. Her cheek was blackened by\nthe molder's greasy fingers, and so smeared with tears from the still\nwatering eye that he could not bear to look at it. He hesitated, then\noffered her his handkerchief, which at least had the advantage of being\nclean. She took it, glanced at its elaborate monogram, and laughed;\nthen she dabbed her eye with it. \"I guess I'll have to put some of that\ncologne of yours on this fancy thing. Remember that green bottle with\nthe calendar and the red ribbons on it, that you gave me when you were\na little fellow? I've never had anything of my own fine enough to use\nthe stuff on!\"\n\nWhen they got back to the office again she was very brief and\nbusiness-like with him. She had had a fine morning, but she couldn't\nwaste any more time! \"You can keep all this that you have seen in your\nmind. I don't know just where I shall put you. If you have a\npreference, express it.\" Then she told him what his salary would be\nwhen he got to work, and what allowance he was to have for the present.\n\n\"Now, clear out, clear out!\" she said; \"good-by\"; and turned her cheek\ntoward him for their semi-annual parting. Blair, with his eyes shut,\nkissed her.\n\n\"Good-by, Mother. It has been awfully interesting. And I am awfully\nobliged to you about the allowance.\" On the threshold of the office he\nhalted. \"Mother,\" he said,--and his voice was generous even to\nwistfulness; \"Mother, that cradle thing was stunning.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland nodded proudly; when he had gone, she folded his\nhandkerchief up, and with a queer, shy gesture, slipped it into the\nbosom of her dress. Then she rang her bell. \"Ask Mr. Ferguson to step\nhere.\" When her superintendent took the chair beside her desk, she was\nall business; but when business was over and he got up, she stopped\nhim: \"Tell the bookkeeper to double Blair's allowance, beginning\nto-day.\"\n\nFerguson made a memorandum.\n\n\"And Mr. Ferguson, I have told Blair that I consent to his engagement\nwith Elizabeth, and I shall make it possible for them to be married as\nsoon as he graduates--\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"I do this,\" she went on, her satisfaction warm in her voice, \"because\nI think he needs the incentive that comes to a young man when he wants\nto get married. It is natural and proper. And I will see that things\nare right for them.\"\n\n\"In the first place,\" said Robert Ferguson, \"I would not permit\nElizabeth to marry Blair; but fortunately we need not discuss that.\nThey have quarreled, and there is no longer any question of such a\nthing.\"\n\n\"Quarreled! but only this morning, not an hour ago, he let me\nsuppose--\" She paused. \"Well, I'm sorry.\" She paused again, and made\naimless marks with her pen on the blotter. \"That's all this morning,\nMr. Ferguson.\" And though he lingered to tell her, with grim amusement,\nof Elizabeth's angry bath, she made no further comment.\n\nWhen he had left the office she got up and shut the door. Then she went\nback to her chair, and leaning an elbow on her desk, covered her lips\nwith her hand. After she had sat thus for nearly ten minutes, she\nsuddenly rang for an office-boy. \"Take this handkerchief up to the\nhouse to my son,\" she said; \"he forgot it.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nFor the next five or six years Blair was not often at home. At the end\nof his freshman year he was conditioned, and found a tutor and the\nseashore and his sketching--for he painted with some enthusiasm just at\nthat time--much more attractive than his mother and Mercer. After that\nhe went to Europe in the long vacations.\n\n\"How much vacation have I had since I began to run his business for\nhim?\" his mother said once in answer to Nannie's intercession that he\nmight be allowed to travel. But she let him go. She did not know how to\ndo anything else; she always let him do what he pleased, and have what\nhe wanted; she gave him everything, and she exacted no equivalent,\neither in scholarship or conduct. It never occurred to her to make him\nappreciate his privileges by paying for them, and so, of course, she\npauperized him.\n\n\"Blair likes Europe,\" she said one Sunday afternoon to David Richie,\nwho had come in to see Nannie, \"but as for me, I wouldn't take an hour\nof my good time, or spend a dollar of my good money, to see the best of\ntheir cathedrals and statues and things. Do you mean to say there is a\ncathedral in the world as handsome as my new foundry?\"\n\n\"Well,\" David said modestly, \"I haven't seen any cathedrals, you know,\nMrs. Maitland.\"\n\n\"It's small loss to you, David,\" she said kindly. \"But I wish I'd\nthought to invite you to go along with Blair last summer. You might\nhave liked it, though you are a pretty sensible fellow in most things.\"\n\"Oh, I can't go to Europe till I can earn enough to pay my own way,\"\nDavid replied, and added with a quick look at Nannie, \"besides, I like\nbeing in Mercer.\"\n\n\"Blair has no need to earn money,\" said Mrs. Maitland carelessly; then\nshe blew out her lips in a bubbling sigh. \"And he would rather see a\ncathedral than his mother.\"\n\nThe pathos of that pricked even the pleasant egotism of youth; David\nwinced, and Nannie tried to murmur something of her brother's needing\nthe rest.\n\nMrs. Maitland gave her grunt of amusement. \"Rest! What's he ever done\nto tire him? Well! Clear out, clear out, you two,--if you're going to\ntake a walk. I'm glad _you_ came back for your vacation, David, at any\nrate. Nannie needs shaking up. She sticks at home here with me, and a\ngirl ought to see people once in a while.\" She glanced at the two young\ncreatures shrewdly. \"Why not?\" she reflected. She had never thought of\nit before, but \"why not?\" It would be a very sensible arrangement. The\nnext moment she had decided that it should be! Nannie's money would be\na help to the boy, and he needn't depend on his doctoring business. \"I\nmust put it through,\" she said to herself, just as she might have said\nthat she should put through a piece of work in the office.\n\nThis match-making purpose made her invite David to supper very\nfrequently, and every time he came she was apt, after he had taken his\ndeparture, to tramp into Nannie's parlor in the hope of being told that\nthe \"sensible arrangement\" had been made. When she found them together,\nand caught a word or two about Elizabeth, she had no flash of insight.\nBut, except to her, the situation as regarded David and Elizabeth was\nperfectly clear.\n\nWhen, seven years before, the two boys had gone off together to\ncollege, Blair had confided to his friend that his faith in women was\nforever destroyed, \"Though I shall love Elizabeth, always,\" he said.\n\n\"Maybe she'll come round?\" David tried to comfort him.\n\n\"If she doesn't, I shall never love another woman,\" Blair said darkly.\n\nDavid was silent. But as he and Blair were just then in the Damon and\nPythias stage, and had sworn to each other that \"no woman should ever\ncome between them,\" he gave a hopeless shrug. \"That dishes me,\" he said\nto himself; \"so long as he will never love any other girl, I can't cut\nin.\"\n\nIt would have been rather a relief to Mrs. Richie to know that her son\nhad reached this artless conclusion, for the last thing she desired was\nthat David's calflove should harden into any real purpose.\nElizabeth--sweet-hearted below the careless selfishness of a temper\nwhich it never occurred to her must be controlled--was a most kissable\nyoung creature to her elders, and Mrs. Richie was heartily fond of her;\nbut all the same she did not want a daughter-in-law with a temper!\nElizabeth, on her part, repelled by David's mother's unattainable\nperfections, never allowed the older woman to feel intimate with her.\nThat first meeting so many years ago, when they had each recoiled from\nthe other, seemed to have left a gulf between them, which had never\nquite closed up. So Mrs. Richie was just as well pleased that in the\nnext few years David, for one reason or another, did not see his old\nneighbor very often. By the time he was twenty-four, and well along in\nhis course at the medical school, she had almost forgotten her vague\napprehensions. The pause in the intimacy of the mother and son--the\ninevitable pause that comes between the boy's seventeenth and twentieth\nyears--had ended, and David and his mother were frank and confidential\nfriends again; yet, though she did not know it, one door was still\nclosed between them: \"He's forgotten all about it,\" Mrs. Richie told\nherself comfortably; and never guessed that in silence he remembered.\nOf course David's boyish idea of honor was no longer subject to the\nclaim of friendship, for Blair had entirely recovered from his first\npassion. The only thing he feared now was his own unworth. After all,\nwhat had a dumb fellow like himself to offer such a radiant being?\n\nFor indeed she was radiant. The girl he had known nearly all his life,\nimpetuous, devoid of self-consciousness, giving her sweet, sexless love\nwith both generous hands, had vanished with the old frank days of\ndropping an uninvited head on a boy's shoulder. Now, though she was\nstill impetuous, still unconscious of self, she was glowing with\nwomanhood, and ready to be loved. She was not beautiful, except in so\nfar as she was young, for youth is always beautiful; she was tall, of a\nsweet and delicate thinness, and with the faint coloring of a\nblush-rose; her dimple was exquisite; her brows were straight and fine,\nshading eyes wonderfully star-like, but often stormy--eyes of clear,\ndark amber, which, now that David had come home, were full of dreams.\n\nBefore her joyous personality, no wonder poor inarticulate David was\ntorn with apprehensions! He did not share them with his mother, who,\nwith more or less misgiving, began to guess how things were for\nherself; he knew instinctively that Mrs. Richie's gentle, orderly mind\ncould not possibly understand Elizabeth, still less appreciate the\npeculiar charm to his inherent reasonableness of her sweet, stormy,\nundisciplined temperament. Nannie Maitland could not understand either,\nand yet it was to Nannie--kind, literal little Nannie, who never\nunderstood anything abstract, that David revealed his heart. She was\nintensely sympathetic, and having long ago relinquished the\nsister-in-law dream, encouraged him to rave about Elizabeth to his\nheart's content; in fact, for at least a year before Mrs. Maitland had\nevolved that \"sensible arrangement\" for her stepdaughter, David,\nwhenever he was at home, used to go to see Nannie simply to pour out\nhis hopes or his dismays. It was mostly dismays, for it seemed to him\nthat Elizabeth was as uncertain as the wind! \"She does--she doesn't,\"\nhe used to say to himself; and then he would question Nannie, who,\nhaving received certain confidences from the other side, would reassure\nhim so warmly that he would take heart again.\n\nAt the time that he finally dared to put his fate to the touch, Mrs.\nMaitland's match-making intentions for Nannie had reached a point where\nshe had made up her mind to put the matter through without any more\ndelay. \"I'll speak to Mrs. Richie about it, and get the thing settled,\"\nshe said to herself; \"no use dawdling along this way!\" But just the day\nbefore she found time to speak to Mrs. Richie--it was in David's\nmidwinter recess--something happened.\n\nElizabeth had accepted--not too eagerly, of course--an invitation to\nwalk with him; and off they went, down Sandusky Street to the river and\nacross the old covered bridge. They stopped to say how do you do to\nMrs. Todd, who was peering out from behind the scarlet geraniums in the\nwindow of the \"saloon.\" Elizabeth took the usual suggestive joke about\na \"pretty pair\" with a little hauteur, but David beamed, and as he left\nthe room he squeezed Mrs. Todd suddenly round her fat waist, which made\nher squeak but pleased her very much. \"Made for each other!\" she\nwhispered wheezily; and David slipped a bill into her hand through\nsheer joy.\n\n\"Better have some ice-cream,\" the old lady wheedled; \"such hot blood\nneeds cooling.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Todd, _she_ is so cool, I don't need ice-cream,\" the young\nfellow mourned in her motherly ear.\n\n\"Get out with ye! Ain't you got eyes? She's waitin' to eat you up,--and\nstarvin' for ye!\" And David hurried after Elizabeth, who had reached\nthe toll-gate and was waiting, if not to eat him, at any rate for his\ncompany.\n\n\"She's a dear old soul!\" he said joyfully.\n\n\"I believe you gave her a kiss,\" Elizabeth declared.\n\n\"I gave her a hug. She said things I liked!\"\n\nElizabeth, guessing what the things might have been, swerved away from\nthe subject, and murmured how pretty the country looked. There had been\na snow-storm the night before, and the fields were glistening, unbroken\nsheets of white; the road David chose was followed by a brook, that ran\nchuckling between the agate strips of ice along its banks; here and\nthere a dipping branch had been caught and was held in a tinkling\ncrystal prison, and here and there the ice conquered the current, and\nthe water could be heard gurgling and complaining under its snowy\ncovering. David thought that all the world was beautiful,--now that\nMrs. Todd had bidden him use his eyes!\n\n\"Remember when we used to sled down this hill, Elizabeth?\"\n\nShe turned her cool, glowing face toward him and nodded. \"Indeed I do!\nAnd you used to haul my sled up to the top again.\"\n\n\"I don't think I have forgotten anything we did.\"\n\nInstantly she veered away from personalities. \"Isn't it a pity Blair\ndislikes Mercer so much? Nannie is dreadfully lonely without him.\"\n\n\"She has you; I don't see how she can be lonely.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't count for anything compared to Blair.\" Her breath carried\nquickly. The starry light was in her eyes, but he did not see it. He\nwas not daring to look at her.\n\n\"You count for everything to me,\" he said, in a constrained voice.\n\nShe was silent.\n\n\"Elizabeth...do you think you could--care? a little?\"\n\nShe looked away from him without a word. David trembled; \"It's all\nup--\" he said to himself; and even as he said it, a small, cold hand\nwas stretched out to him,--a hand that trembled:\n\n\"David, I am not good enough. Truly, I'm not.\"\n\nThe very shock of having his doubts and fears crumble so suddenly, made\nhim stand stock-still; he turned very white. \"What!\" he said, in a low\nvoice, \"You--_care_? Oh no, you don't! You can't. I can't believe it.\"\n\nUpon which Elizabeth was instantly joyous again. \"Well, I won't, if you\ndon't want me to,\" she said gaily, and walked on, leaving him standing,\namazed, in the snow. Then she looked back at him over her shoulder. At\nthat arch and lovely look he bounded to her, stammering something, he\ndid not know what himself; but she laughed, glowing and scolding,\nswerving over to the other side of the path. \"David! We are on a public\nroad. Stop! Please!\"\n\n\"To think of your caring,\" he said, almost in a whisper. His face, with\nits flash of ecstasy, was like wine to her; all her soul spoke\nfearlessly in her eyes: \"Care? Why, David, I was only so awfully afraid\nyou weren't going to ask me!\"\n\nHis lip trembled. He was quite speechless. But Elizabeth was bubbling\nover with joy; then suddenly, her exhilaration flagged. \"What will your\nmother say? She doesn't like me.\"\n\n\"Elizabeth! she loves you! How could she help it? How could anybody\nhelp it?\"\n\n\"It's my temper,\" she said, sighing; \"my wicked temper. Of course I\nnever mean anything I say, and I can't imagine why people mind; but\nthey do. Last week I made Cherry-pie cry. Of course she oughtn't to\nhave been hurt;--she knows me. You see I am really a devil, David, to\nmake dear, old Cherry-pie unhappy! But I don't believe I will ever lose\nmy temper again as long as I live. I am going to be good, like your\nmother.\" The tears stood in her eyes. \"Mrs. Richie is so simply perfect\nI am sort of afraid of her. I wish she had ever been wicked, like me.\nDavid, what shall we do if she won't consent?\"\n\n\"She'll consent all right,\" he said, chuckling; and added with the\nsweet and trusting egotism of youth: \"the only thing in the world\nMaterna wants, you know, is my happiness. But do you suppose it would\nmake any difference if she didn't consent? You are for me,\" he said\nwith an abrupt solemnity that was almost harsh. \"Nothing in the world\ncan take you from me.\"\n\nAnd she whispered, \"Nothing.\"\n\nThen David, like every lover who has ever loved, cast his challenge\ninto the grinning face of Fate: \"This is forever, Elizabeth.\"\n\n\"Forever, David.\"\n\nOn their way home, as they passed the toll-house, he left her and ran\nup the path to tap on the window; when Mrs. Todd beamed at him through\nthe geraniums, \"_I've got her!_\" he cried. And the gay old voice called\nback, \"Glory be!\"\n\nOn the bridge in the gathering dusk they stood for some time without\nspeaking, looking down at the river. Once or twice a passer-by glanced\nat the two figures leaning there on the hand-rail, and wondered at the\nfoolishness of people who would stand in the cold and look at a river\nfull of ice; but David and Elizabeth did not see the passing world. The\nhurrying water ran in a turbulent, foam-streaked flood; great sheets of\nice, rocking and grinding against one another, made a continuous soft\ncrash of sound. Sometimes one of them would strike the wooden casing of\na pier, and then the whole bridge jarred and quivered, and the cake of\nice, breaking and splintering, would heap itself on a long white spit\nthat pushed up-stream through the rushing current. The river was yellow\nwith mud torn up by a freshet back among the hills, but the last rays\nof the sun,--a disk of copper sinking into the brown haze behind the\nhills,--caught on the broken edges of the icy snow, and made a sudden\nwhite glitter almost from shore to shore.\n\n\"Elizabeth,\" David said, \"I want to tell you something. I stood right\nhere, and looked at a raft coming down the river, the evening that\nBlair told me that you and he--\"\n\n\"Don't!\" she said, shivering.\n\n\"I won't,\" he told her tenderly; \"you were only a child; it didn't mean\nanything. Don't you suppose I understand? But I wanted you to know that\nit was then, nearly eight years ago, when I was just a boy, that I\nrealized that _I_--\" he paused.\n\nShe looked at him silently; her lip quivered and she nodded.\n\n\"And I have never changed since,\" he said. \"I stood just here, leaning\non this railing, and I was so wretched!\" he laughed under his breath;\n\"I didn't know what was the matter with me! I was only a cub, you know.\nBut\"--he spoke very softly--\"all of a sudden I knew. Elizabeth, a woman\non the raft looked up at me. There was a little baby. . . . Dear, it\nwas then that I knew I loved you.\"\n\nAt those elemental words her heart came up into her throat. She could\nnot speak, but suddenly she stooped and kissed the battered hand-rail\nwhere he said his hands had rested.\n\nDavid, horrified, glancing right and left in the dusk and seeing no\none, put a swift arm about her in which to whisper a single word. Then,\nvery softly, he kissed her cheek. For a moment she seemed to ebb away\nfrom him; then, abruptly, like, the soft surge of a returning wave, she\nsank against his breast and her lips demanded his. . . .\n\nThat night David told his mother. He had been profoundly shaken by\nElizabeth's lovely unexpected motion there in the twilight on the\nbridge; it was a motion so divinely unconscious of the outside world,\nthat he was moved to the point of finding no words to say how moved he\nwas. But she had felt him tremble from head to foot when her lips\nburned against his,--so she needed no words. His silence still lasted\nwhen, after an hour next door with her, he came home and sat down on\nthe sofa beside his mother. He nuzzled his blond head against hers for\na moment; then slipped an arm round her waist.\n\n\"It's all right, Materna,\" he said, with a sort of gasp.\n\n\"What is, dear?\"\n\n\"Oh, mother, the idea of asking! The only thing in the world.\"\n\n\"You mean--you and Elizabeth?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said.\n\nShe was silent for a moment; when she spoke her voice broke a little.\n\"When was it, dear?\"\n\n\"This afternoon,\" he said. And once started, he overflowed: \"I can't\nget my breath yet, though I've known it since a quarter past four!\"\n\nMrs. Richie laughed, and then sighed. \"David, of course I'm happy, if\nyou are; but--I hope she's good enough for you, dear.\" She felt him\nstiffen against her shoulder.\n\n\"Good enough? for _me!_ Materna, she is perfect! Don't you suppose I\nknow? I've know her nearly all my life, and I can say she is perfect.\nShe is as perfect as you are; she said you were perfect this afternoon.\nYes; I never supposed I could say that any woman was as good, and\nlovely, and pure, as you--\"\n\n\"David, _please_ don't say such things.\"\n\nDavid was not listening. \"But I can say it of Elizabeth! Oh, what a\nlucky fellow I am! I always thought Blair would get her. He's such a\nmighty good fellow,--and so darned good-looking, confound him!\" David\nruminated affectionately. \"And he can talk; he's not bottled up, like\nme. To think she would look at me, when she could have had him,--or\nanybody else! It seems kind of mean to cut Blair out, when he isn't\nhere. He hasn't seen her, you know, for about two years.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you would like to call it off until he gets home, and give him\na chance?\"\n\nDavid grinned. \"No, thank you. Oh, Materna, she is, you know, really,\nso--so sort of wonderful! Some time I want to talk to you about her. I\ndon't believe anybody quite understands Elizabeth but me. But to think\nof her caring for me! To think of my having two such women to care for\nme.\" He took her hand gently and kissed it. \"Mother,\" he said--he spoke\nwith almost painful effort; \"Mother, I want to tell you something. I\nwant to tell you, because, being what you are, you can't in the least\nunderstand what it means; but I do want you to know: I've never kissed\nany woman but you, Materna, until I kissed--_Her_.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Helena Richie, in a stifled voice, \"don't, David, don't; I\ncan't bear it! And if she doesn't make you happy--\"\n\n\"Make me happy?\" David said. He paused; that unasked kiss burned once\nmore against his lips; he almost shivered at the pang of it. \"Materna,\"\nhe said hoarsely, \"if she or I were to die to-night, I, at any rate,\nhave had happiness enough in these few hours to have made it worth\nwhile to have lived.\"\n\n\"Love doesn't mean just happiness,\" she said.\n\nDavid was silent for a moment; then he said, very gently, \"You are\nthinking of--of your little boy, who died?\"\n\n\"Yes; and of my marriage; it was not happy, David.\"\n\nHe pressed his cheek against hers, without speaking. The grief of an\nunhappy marriage he had long ago guessed, and in this moment of his own\nhappiness the remembrance of it was intolerable to him. As for the\nother grief: \"when I think of the baby,\" he said, softly, \"I feel as if\nthat little beggar gave me my mother. I feel as if I had his job; and\nif I am not a good son--\" he stopped, and looked at her, smiling; but\nsomething in her face--perhaps the pitiful effort to smile back through\nthe tears of an old, old sorrow, gave him a sudden, solemn thrill; the\nrace pain stirred in him; he seemed to see his own child, dead, in\nElizabeth's arms.\n\n\"Mother!\" he said, thickly, and caught her in his arms. She felt his\nheart pounding heavily in his side, but she smiled. \"Yes,\" she said,\n\"my little boy gave me another son, though I didn't deserve him! No,\nno, I didn't,\" she insisted, laying her soft mother-hand over his\nprotesting lips; \"I used to wonder sometimes, David, why God trusted\nyou to me, instead of to a--a better woman--\" again she checked his\noutburst that God had never made a better woman! \"Hush, dear, hush. But\nI didn't mean that love might mean sorrow. There are worse things in\nthe world than sorrow,\" she ended, almost in a whisper.\n\n\"Yes, there are worse things,\" he said quietly; \"of course I know that.\nBut they are not possible things where Elizabeth is concerned. There is\nonly one thing that can hurt us: Death.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear, my dear! Life can hurt so much more than death! So _much_\nmore.\"\n\nBut David had nothing more to say of life and love. He retreated\nabruptly to the matter of fact; he had gone to his limit, not only of\nexpression, but of that modesty of soul which forbids exposure of the\nemotions, and is as exquisite in a young man as physical modesty is in\na girl. He was unwilling, indeed he was unable, to show even to his\nmother, even, perhaps, to Elizabeth, the speechless depths that had\nbeen stirred that afternoon by the first kiss of passion, and stirred\nagain that night by the sight of tears for a baby,--a baby dead for\nalmost a quarter of a century! He got up, thrust his hands into his\npockets, and whistled. \"Heaven knows how long it will be before we can\nbe married! How soon do you think I can count on getting patients\nenough to get married?\"\n\nMrs. Richie laughed, though there was still a break of pain in her\nvoice. \"My dear boy, when you leave the medical school I mean to give\nyou an allowance which,--\"\n\n\"No, Maternal\" he interrupted her; \"I am going to stand on my own\nlegs!\" David's feeling about self-support gave him a satisfaction out\nof all proportion to the pain it sometimes gave his mother. She winced\nnow, as if his words hurt her.\n\n\"David! All that I have is yours.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said again. \"I couldn't accept anything. I believe if a man\ncan't take care of his wife himself, he has no business to have a wife.\nIt's bad enough for you to be supporting a big, hungry medical student;\nbut I swear you sha'n't feed his wife, too. I can't be indebted, even\nto you!\" he ended, with the laughing cock-sureness of high-minded youth.\n\n\"Indebted? Oh, David!\" she said. For a moment his words wounded her;\nbut when he had left her to go back to Elizabeth again, and she sat\nalone by her fireside, she forgot this surface wound in some deeper\npain. David had said he had never kissed any woman but her, until he\nkissed _Her_. He had said that the things that were \"worse than death\"\nwere not possible to Elizabeth. For a moment this soft mother felt a\nstab of something like jealousy; then her thought went back to that\ndeeper pain. He had not supposed anybody could be as \"perfect\" as his\nmother. Helena Richie cowered, as if the sacred words were whips; she\ncovered her face with her hands, and sat a long time without moving.\nPerhaps she was thinking of a certain old letter, locked away in her\ndesk, and in her heart,--for she knew every word of it: \"My child, your\nsecret belongs to your Heavenly Father. It is never to be taken from\nHis hands, except for one reason: to save some other child of His.\nNever for any smaller reason of peace of mind to yourself.\"\n\nWhen she lifted her bowed head from her hands the fire was out. There\nwere tears upon her face.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nIt was the very next afternoon that Mrs. Maitland found time to look\nafter Nannie's matrimonial interests. In the raw December twilight she\ntramped muddily into Mrs. Richie's firelit parlor, which was fragrant\nwith hyacinths blossoming on every window-sill. Mr. Ferguson had\nstarted them in August in his own cellar, for, as any landlord will\ntell you, it is the merest matter of business to do all you can for a\ngood tenant. Mrs. Maitland found her superintendent and Mrs. Richie\njust shaking hands on David's luck, Mrs. Richie a little tremulous, and\nRobert Ferguson a little grudging, of course.\n\n\"Well, I hope they'll be happy,\" he said, sighing; \"I suppose some\nmarriages _are_ happy, but--\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Ferguson, you are delightful!\" Mrs. Richie said; and it was at\nthat moment that Mrs. Maitland came tramping in. Instantly the large,\nvital presence made the charming room seem small and crowded. There\nwere too many flowers, too many ornaments, too many photographs of\nDavid. Mrs. Maitland sat down heavily on a gilded chair, that creaked\nso ominously that she rose and looked at it impatiently.\n\n\"Foolish sort of furniture,\" she said; \"give me something solid,\nplease, to sit on. Well, Mrs. Richie! How do you do?\"\n\n\"Nannie has told you our great news?\" Mrs. Richie inquired.\n\n\"Oh, so it's come to a head, has it?\" Mrs. Maitland said, vastly\npleased. \"Of course I knew what was in the wind, but I didn't know it\nwas settled. Fact is, I haven't seen her, except at breakfast, and then\nI was in too much of a hurry to think of it. Well, well, nothing could\nbe better! That's what I came to see you about; I wanted to hurry\nthings along. What do you say to it, Mr. Ferguson?\"\n\nMrs. Maitland looked positively benign. She was sitting, a little\ngingerly, on the edge of the yellow damask sofa at one side of the\nfireplace, her feet wide apart, her skirt pulled back over her knees,\nso that her scorching petticoat was somewhat liberally displayed. Her\nbig shoes began to steam in the comfortable heat of a soft-coal fire\nthat was blazing and snapping between the brass jambs.\n\nMrs. Richie had drawn up a chair beside her, and Robert Ferguson stood\nwith his elbow on the mantelpiece looking down at them. Even to Mr.\nFerguson Mrs. Maitland's presence in the gently feminine room was\nincongruous. There was a little table at the side of the sofa, and Mrs.\nMaitland, thrusting out a large, gesticulating hand, swept a silver\npicture-frame to the floor; in the confusion of picking it up and\nputting it into a safer place the little emotional tension of the\nmoment vanished. Mrs. Richie winked away a tear, and laughed, and said\nit was too absurd to think that their children were men and women, with\ntheir own lives and interests and hopes--and love-affairs!\n\n\"But love-making is in the air, apparently,\" she said; \"young Knight is\ngoing to be married.\"\n\n\"What, Goose Molly's stepson?\" Mrs. Maitland said. \"She used to make\nsheep's-eyes at--at somebody I knew. But she didn't get him! Well, I\nmust give the boy a present.\"\n\n\"And the next thing,\" Mrs. Richie went on, \"will be Nannie's\nengagement. Only it will be hard to find anybody good enough for\nNannie!\"\n\n\"_Nannie_?\" said Mrs. Maitland blankly. \"She is to be Elizabeth's\nbridesmaid, of course,--unless she gets married before our wedding\ncomes off. A young doctor has to have patients before he can have a\nwife, so I'm afraid the chances are Elizabeth will be Nannie's\nbridesmaid.\"\n\nShe was so full of these maternal and womanly visions that the sudden\nslight rigidity of Mrs. Maitland's face did not strike her.\n\n\"Nannie has been so interested,\" Mrs. Richie went on. \"David will\nalways be grateful to her for helping his cause. I don't know what he\nwould have done without Nannie to confide in!\"\n\nMrs. Maitland's face relaxed. So Nannie had not been slighted? She\nherself, Nannie's mother, had made a mistake; that was all. Well, she\nwas sorry; she wished it had been Nannie. Poor 'thing, it was lonely\nfor her, in that big, empty house! But these two people, patting\nthemselves on the back with their personal satisfaction about their\nchildren, they must not guess her wish. There was no resentment in her\nmind; it was one of the chances of business. David had chosen\nElizabeth,--more fool David! \"for Nannie'll have--\" Mrs. Maitland made\nsome rapid calculations; \"but it's not my kettle of fish,\" she\nreflected; and hoisted herself up from the low, deeply cushioned sofa.\n\n\"I hope Elizabeth will put her mind on housekeeping,\" she said. \"A\nyoung doctor has to get all the pork he can for his shilling! He needs\na saving wife.\"\n\n\"She'll have to be a saving wife, I'm afraid,\" Mrs. Richie said, with\nrueful pride, \"for that foolish boy of mine declines, if you please, to\nbe helped out by an allowance from me.\"\n\n\"Oh, he'll have more sense when he's more in love,\" Mrs. Maitland\nassured her easily. \"I never knew a man yet who would refuse honest\nmoney when it was offered to him. Well, Mrs. Richie, with all this\nmarrying going on, I suppose the next thing will be you and friend\nFerguson.\" Even as she said it, she saw in a flash an inevitable\nmeaning in the words, and she gave a great guffaw of laughter. \"Bless\nyou! I didn't mean _that_! I meant you'd be picking up a wife\nsomewhere, Mr. Ferguson, and Mrs. Richie, here, would be finding a\nhusband. But the other way would be easier, and a very sensible\narrangement.\"\n\nThe two victims of her peculiar sense of humor held themselves as well\nas they could. Mrs. Richie reddened slightly, but looked blank. Robert\nFerguson's jaw actually dropped, but he was able to say casually that\nof course it would be some time before the young people could be\nmarried.\n\n\"Well, give my love to Elizabeth,\" Mrs. Maitland said: \"tell her not to\njump into the river if she gets angry with David. Do you remember how\nshe did that in one of her furies at Blair, Mr. Ferguson?\" She gave a\ngrunt of a laugh, and took herself off, pausing at the front door to\ncall back, \"Don't forget my good advice, you people!\"\n\nRobert Ferguson, putting on his hat with all possible expedition, got\nout of the house almost as quickly as she did. \"I'd like to choke her!\"\nhe said to himself. He felt the desire to choke Mrs. Maitland several\ntimes that evening as he sat in his library pretending to read his\nnewspaper. \"She ought to be ashamed of herself! Mrs. Richie will think\nI have been--heaven knows what she will think!\"\n\nBut the truth was, Mrs. Richie thought nothing at all; she forgot the\nincident entirely. It was Robert Ferguson who did the embarrassed\nthinking.\n\nAs for Mrs. Maitland, she went home through Mercer's mire and fog, her\niron face softening into almost feminine concern. She was saying to\nherself that if Nannie didn't care, why, she didn't care! \"But if she\nhankers after him\"--Mrs. Maitland's face twinged with annoyance; \"if\nshe hankers after him, I'll make it up to her in some way. I'll give\nher a good big check!\" But she must make sure about the \"hankering.\" It\nwould not be difficult to make sure. In these silent years together,\nthe strong nature had drawn the weak nature to it, as a magnet draws a\nspeck of iron. Nannie, timid to the point of awe, never daring even in\nher thoughts to criticize the powerful personality that dominated her\ndaily life, nestled against it, so to speak, with perfect content.\nSarah Maitland's esthetic deficiencies which separated her so\ntragically from her son, did not alienate Nannie. The fact that her\nstepmother was rich, and yet lived in a poverty-stricken locality; that\nthe inconvenience of the old house amounted to squalor; that they were\nalmost completely isolated from people of their own class;--none of\nthese things disturbed Nannie. They were merely \"Mamma's ways,\" that\nwas all there was to say about them. She was not confidential with Mrs.\nMaitland, because she had nothing to confide. But if her stepmother had\never asked any personal question, she would have been incapable of not\nreplying. Mrs. Maitland knew that, and proposed to satisfy herself as\nto the \"hankering.\"\n\nSupper was on the table when she got home, and though while bolting her\nfood she glanced at Nannie rather keenly, she did not try to probe her\nfeelings. \"But she looks down in the mouth,\" Sarah Maitland thought.\nThere must have been delicacy somewhere in the big nature, for she was\ncareful not to speak of Elizabeth's engagement before Harris, for fear\nthe girl might, by some involuntary tremor of lip or eyelid, betray\nherself.\n\n\"I'll look in on you after supper,\" she said.\n\nNannie, with a start, said, \"Oh, thank you, Mamma.\"\n\nWhen Mrs. Maitland, with her knitting and a fistful of unopened\nletters, came over to the parlor, she had also, tucked into her belt, a\ncheck.\n\nIt had never occurred to Nannie, in all these years and with a very\nliberal allowance, to mitigate her parlor. It was still a place of\nmirrors, grown perhaps a little dim; of chandeliers in balloons of\nbrown paper-muslin, which, to be sure, had split here and there with\nage, so that a glimmer of cut glass sparkled dimly through the cracks;\na place of marble-topped tables, and crimson brocade curtains dingy\nwith age and soot; a place where still the only human thing was\nNannie's drawing-board. She was bending over it now, copying with a\nfaithful pencil a little picture of a man and a maid, and a dove and a\nLove. She was going to give the drawing to Elizabeth; in fact, she had\nbegun it several days ago with joyous anticipation of this happy\nhappening. But now, as she worked, her hand trembled. She had had a\nletter from Blair, and all her joyousness had fled:\n\n\"_The Dean is an ass, of course; but mother'll get excited about it,\nI'm afraid. Do smooth her down, if you can._\"\n\nNo wonder Nannie's hand trembled!\n\nMrs. Maitland, putting her letters on the table, sat down heavily and\nbegan to knit. She glanced at Nannie over her spectacles. \"Better get\nthrough with it,\" she said to herself. Then, aloud, \"Well, Nannie, so\nDavid and Elizabeth have made a match of it?\"\n\nFor a minute Nannie's face brightened. \"Yes! Isn't it fine? I'm so\npleased. David has been crazy about her ever since he was a boy.\"\n\nWell! She was heart-whole! There was no doubt of that; Mrs. Maitland,\nvisibly relieved, dismissed from her mind the whole foolish business of\nlove-making. She began to read her letters, Nannie watching her\nfurtively. When the third letter was taken up--a letter with the seal\nof the University in the upper left-hand corner of the\nenvelope--Blair's sister breathed quickly. Mrs. Maitland, ripping the\nenvelope open with a thrust of her forefinger, read it swiftly; then\nagain, slowly. Then she said something under her breath and struck her\nfist on the table. Nannie's fingers whitened on her pencil. Sarah\nMaitland got up and stood on the hearth-rug, her back to the fire.\n\n\"I'll have to go East,\" she said, and began to bite her forefinger.\n\n\"Oh, Mamma,\" Nannie broke out, \"I am sure there isn't anything really\nwrong. Perhaps he has been--a little foolish. Men are foolish in\ncollege. David got into hot water lots of times. But Blair hasn't done\nanything really bad, and--\"\n\nMrs. Maitland gave her a somber look. \"He wrote to you, did he?\" she\nsaid. And Nannie realized that she had not advanced her brother's\ncause. Mrs. Maitland picked up her letters and began to sort them out.\n\"When is he going to grow up?\" she said. \"He's twenty-four; and he's\nbeen dawdling round at college for the last two years! He's not bad; he\nhasn't stuff enough in him to be bad. He is just lazy and useless; and\nhe's had every chance young man could have!\"\n\n\"Mamma!\" Nannie protested, \"it isn't fair to speak that way of Blair,\nand it isn't true, not a word of it!\" Nannie, the 'fraid-cat of twenty\nyears ago,--afraid still of thunder-storms and the dark and Sarah\nMaitland, and what not,--Nannie, when it came to defending Blair, had\nall the audacious courage of love. \"He is not lazy, he is not useless;\nhe is--he is--\" Nannie stammered with angry distress; \"he is dear, and\ngood, and kind, and never did any harm in his life. Never! It's\nperfectly dreadful, Mamma, for you to say such things about him!\"\n\n\"Well, well!\" said Sarah Maitland, lifting an amused eyebrow. It was as\nif a humming-bird had attacked a steel billet. Her face softened into\npleased affection. \"Well, stick up for him,\" she said; \"I like it in\nyou, my dear, though what you say is foolish enough. You remind me of\nyour mother. But your brother has brains. Yes, I'll say that for\nhim,--he's like me; he has brains. That's why I'm so out of patience\nwith him,\" she ended, lapsing into moody displeasure again. \"If he was\na fool, I wouldn't mind his behaving like a fool. But he has brains.\"\nThen she said, briefly, \"'Night,\" and tramped off to the dining room.\n\nThe next morning when Nannie, a little pale from a worried night, came\ndown to breakfast, her stepmother's place was empty.\n\n\"Yes,\" Harris explained; \"she went off at twelve, Miss Nannie. She\ndidn't let on where. She said you'd know.\"\n\n\"I know,\" poor Nannie said, and turned paler than ever.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nAfter Mrs. Maitland had had an interview with the Dean, she went off\nacross the yard, under the great elms dripping in the rainy January\nthaw. Following his directions, she found her way through the corridors\nof a new building whose inappropriate expensiveness was obvious at\nevery turn. Blair had rooms there, as had most of the sons of rich\nfathers. The whole place smelt of money! In Blair's apartment money was\nless obvious than beauty--but it was expensive beauty. He had a few\ngood pictures, and on one wall a wonderful tapestry of forest foliage\nand roebucks, that he had picked up in Europe at a price which added to\nthe dealer's affection for traveling Americans. The furnishing was in\nquiet and, for that period, remarkably good taste; masculine enough to\nbalance a certain delicacy of detail--exquisite Tanagra figures,\nwater-colors and pastels of women in costumes of rose and violet gauze,\nincense smoldering in an ivory jar, and much small bijouterie that\nmeant an almost feminine appreciation of exquisite and costly\nprettiness.\n\nMrs. Maitland came tramping down the hall, her face set and stern; but\nsuddenly, almost at Blair's door, she paused. Some one was singing; she\nknew the voice--beautiful, joyous, beating and pulsating with life:\n\n  \"Drink to me only with thine eyes,\n  And I will pledge with mine.\"\n\nShe moved over to a window that lit the long corridor, and listened:\n\n  \"Or leave a kiss . . .\"\n\nSarah Maitland stared out into the rain; the bare branches of the trees\nwhipped against one another in the wind, but she did not see them. She\nleaned her forehead on the glass, listening to the golden voice. A warm\nwave seemed to rise in her breast, a wave of cosmic satisfaction in\nthis vitality that was _hers_, because he was hers! Her eyes blurred so\nwith emotion that she did not see the rocking branches in the rain. All\nthe hardness of her face melted, under those melting cadences into\nexultant maternity:\n\n  \"Or leave a kiss but in the cup,\n  And I'll not look for wine;\n  The thirst that from the soul--\"\n\nShe smiled, then turned and knocked peremptorily at her son's door.\n\nBlair, pausing in his song to comment on a thirst that rises otherwhere\nthan in the soul, roared out a jolly command to \"come in!\" but for an\ninstant he did not realize who stood on the threshold; nor was his\nmother able to distinguish him in the group of men lounging about a\nroom dim with tobacco smoke. He was standing with his back to the door,\npulling a somewhat reluctant cork from a bottle of sherry gripped\nbetween his knees.\n\nBlair was immensely popular at college, not only because of the easy\ngenerosities of his wealth,--which were often only a pleasant form of\nselfishness that brought the fellows about him as honey brings flies,\nbut because of a certain sympathetic quality of mind, a genius for\ncompanionship that was almost a genius for friendship. Now, his room\nwas full of men. One of his guests was sitting on the window-sill,\nkicking his heels and swaying rhythmically back and forth to the twang\nof his banjo. One had begun to read aloud with passionate emphasis a\npoem, of which happily Mrs. Maitland did not catch the words; all of\nthem were smoking. The door opened, but no one entered. One of the\nyoung men, feeling the draught, glanced languidly over his\nshoulder,--and got on his feet with extraordinary expedition! He said\nsomething under his breath. But it was the abrupt silence of the room\nthat made Blair turn round. It did not need his stammering dismay, his\nhalf-cringing--\"Clear out, will you, you fellows \"--to get the men out\nof the room. They did not know who she was, but they knew she was\nSomebody. She did not speak, but the powerful personality seemed to\nsweep in and clear the atmosphere of its sickly triviality. She stood\nblocking up the doorway, looking at them; they were mostly Seniors, but\nthere was not a man among them who did not feel foolish under that\nlarge and quiet look. Then she stepped a little aside. The movement was\nunmistakable. They jostled one another like a flock of sheep in their\neffort to get away quickly. Somebody muttered, \"Good afternoon--\" but\nthe others were speechless. They left a speechless host behind them.\n\nMrs. Maitland, her rusty bonnet very much on one side, watched them go;\nthen she closed the door behind them, and stood looking at her son who\nwas still holding the corkscrew in his hands. Her feet were planted\nfirmly wide apart, her hands were on her hips; her eyebrow was lifting\nominously. \"Well?\" she said; with the echo of that golden voice still\nin her ears, her own voice was, even to herself, unexpectedly mild.\n\n\"I didn't expect you,\" Blair managed to say.\n\n\"I inferred as much,\" she said dryly; \"so this is the way you keep up\nwith your classes?\"\n\n\"There are no lectures at this time of day,\" he said. \"If you had been\nso kind, my dear mother, as to let me know you were coming\"--he spoke\nwith that exaggerated and impertinent politeness that confesses fright;\n\"I would have met you. Instead of that, you--you--you burst in--\" he\nwas getting whiter and whiter. The thought that the men had seen the\nunkempt figure, the powerful face, the straggling locks of hair, the\nbare hands,--seen, in fact, the unlovely exterior of a large and\ngenerous nature, a nature which, alas, he, her son, had never seen;\nthat they had seen her, and guessed, of course, that she was his\nmother, was positively unendurable to Blair. He tried to speak, but his\nvoice shook into silence. His dismay was not entirely ignoble; the\nsituation was excruciating to a man whose feeling for beauty was a form\nof religion; his mortification had in it the element of horror for a\nprofaned ideal; his mother was an esthetic insult to motherhood.\n\n\"I've no fault to find with your friends being here, if they don't\ninterfere with your studies,\" Mrs. Maitland said.\n\n\"Oh,\" he said rather blankly; then his shame of her stung him into\nfury: \"why didn't you tell me that you--\"\n\n\"I've been to see the Dean,\" she said; \"sit down there and listen to\nme. Here, give me a chair; not that pincushion thing! Give me a chair\nfit for a man to sit on,--if you've got one in this upholstery shop.\"\n\nBlair, with trembling hands, pushed a mahogany chair to her side. He\ndid not sit down himself. He stood with folded arms and downcast eyes.\n\nShe was not unkind; she was not even ungentle. She was merely explicit:\n_he was a fool_. All this business,--she pointed to the bottle and the\nempty glasses; all this business was idiotic, it was a boy's\nfoolishness. \"It shows how young you are, Blair,\" she said kindly,\n\"though the Lord knows you are old enough in years to have some sense!\"\nBut if he kept the foolishness up, and this other tomfoolery on account\nof which she had had to leave the Works and spend her valuable time\ntalking to the Dean, why, he might be expelled. He would certainly be\nsuspended. And that would put off his getting into business for still\nanother year. \"And you are twenty-four!\" she said.\n\nWhile she talked she looked about her, and the mother-softness began to\ndie out of her eyes. Sarah Maitland had never seen her son's room; she\nsaw, now, soft-green hangings, great bowls of roses, a sideboard with\nan array of glasses, a wonderfully carved ivory jar standing on a\nteak-wood table whose costliness, even to her uneducated eyes, was\nobvious. Suddenly she put on her spectacles, and still talking, rose,\nand walked slowly about the room glancing at the water-colors. By and\nby, just at the end of her harangue,--to which Blair had listened in\ncomplete silence,--she paused before a row of photographs on the\nmantelpiece; then, in the midst of a sentence, she broke off with an\nexclamation, leaned forward, and seizing a photograph, tore it in two,\nacross the smiling face and the bare bosom, across the lovely, impudent\nline of the thigh, and flung it underfoot. \"Shame on you! to let your\nmother see a thing like that!\"\n\n\"I didn't ask my mother to see it.\"\n\n\"If you have thoughts like this,\" she said, \"Elizabeth did well to\nthrow you over for David.\"\n\nBlair lifted one eyebrow with a glimmer of interest. \"Oh, David has got\nher, has he?\"\n\n\"At any rate, he's a _man!_ He doesn't live like this\"--she made a\ncontemptuous gesture; \"muddling with silks and paintings, and pictures\nof bad women! What kind of a room is this for a man? Full of flowers\nand stinking jars, and cushions, and truck? It's more fit for a--a\ncreature like that picture\"--she set her heel on the smiling face;\n\"than for a man! I ought never to have sent you here. I ought to have\nput you to puddling.\" She looked at him in growing agitation. \"My God!\nBlair, what are you--living this way, with silks and perfumery and clay\nbaby dolls? You've got no guts to you! I didn't mind your making a fool\nof yourself; that's natural; nobody can get to be a man till he's been\na fool; but this--\" She stood there, with one hand on the mantelpiece\nbeside the row of photographs and bits of carving and little silver\ntrinkets, and looked at him in positive fright. \"And you are _my_ son,\"\nshe said.\n\nThe torrent of her angry shame suddenly swept Blair's manhood of\ntwenty-four years away; her very power stripped him bare as a baby; it\nalmost seemed as if she had sucked his masculinity out of him and\nincorporated it into herself. He stood there like a cringing schoolboy\nexpecting to be whipped. \"One of the men gave me that picture; I--\"\n\n\"You ought to have slapped his face! Listen to me: you are going to be\nlooked after,--do you hear me? You are going to be watched. Do you\nunderstand?\" She gathered up the whole row of photographs, innocent and\noffensive together, and threw them into the fire. \"You are going to\nwalk straight, or you are coming home, and going to work.\"\n\nIt was a match to gunpowder; in an instant Blair's temper, the terrific\ntemper of the uniformly and lazily amiable man, flashed into furious\nwords.\n\nStammering with rage, he told her what he thought of her; to record his\nopinion is not for edification. Even Sarah Maitland flinched before it.\nShe left him with a bang. She saw the Dean again, and her\nrecommendations of espionage were so extreme and so unwise that he\nfound himself taking Blair's part in his effort to save the young man\nfrom the most insolent intrusion upon his privacy. She went back to\nMercer in a whirl of anger but in somber silence. She had scorched and\nstung under the truths her son told her about herself; she had bled\nunder the lies she had told him as to her feeling for him. She looked\nten years older for that hour in his room. But she had nothing to say.\nShe told poor, frightened Nannie that she had \"seen Master Blair\"; she\nadded that he was a fool. To Robert Ferguson she was a little more\nexplicit:\n\n\"Blair has not been behaving himself; he's in debt; he has been\ngambling. See that all these bills are paid. Tell Watson to give him a\nhundred dollars more a month; I won't have him running in debt in this\nway. Now what about the Duluth order?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nMr. Ferguson made no protest in regard to Blair's increased allowance.\n\"If his mother wants to ruin him, it isn't my business,\" he said. The\nfact was, he had not recovered from his astonished resentment at Sarah\nMaitland's joke in Mrs. Richie's parlor. He thought about it\nconstantly, and asked himself whether he did not owe his neighbor an\napology of some kind. The difficulty was to know what kind, for after\nall _he_ was perfectly innocent! \"Such an idea never entered my head,\"\nhe thought angrily; \"but of course, if there has been anything in my\nconduct to put it into Mrs. Maitland's head, I ought to be thrashed!\nPerhaps I'd better not go in next door more than two or three times a\nweek?\" So, for once, Robert Ferguson was distinctly out with his\nemployer, and when she told him to see that Blair had a hundred dollars\nmore a month, he said, in his own mind, \"be hanged to him! What\ndifference does it make to me if she ruins him?\" and held his\ntongue--until the next day. Then he barked out a remonstrance: \"I\nsuppose you know your own business, but if _I_ had a boy I wouldn't\nincrease his allowance because he was in debt.\"\n\n\"I want to keep him from getting in debt again,\" she explained, her\nface falling into troubled lines.\n\n\"If you will allow me to say so--having been a boy myself, that's not\nthe way to do it.\"\n\nSarah Maitland flung herself back in her chair, and struck the desk\nwith her fist. \"I am at my wit's end to know what to do about him! My\nidea has been to make a man of him, by giving him what he wants, not\nmaking him fuss over five-cent pieces. He's had everything; he's never\nheard '_no_' in his life. And yet--look at him!\"\n\n\"That's the trouble with him. He's had too much. He needs a few no's.\nBut he's like most rich boys; there isn't one rich man's son in ten who\nis worth his salt. If he were _my_ boy,\" said Robert Ferguson, with\nthat infallibility which everybody feels in regard to the way other\npeople's children should be brought up, \"if he were my son, I'd put him\nto work this summer.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland blew her lips out in a great sigh; then nibbled her\nforefinger, staring with blank eyes straight ahead of her. She was\ngreatly perplexed. \"I'll think it over,\" she said; \"I'll think it over.\nHold on; what's your hurry? I want to ask you something: your neighbor\nthere, Mrs. Richie, seems to be a very attractive woman; 'fair and\nforty,' as the saying is--only I guess she's nearer fifty? But she's\nmighty good-looking, whatever her age is.\"\n\nThe color came into Robert Ferguson's face; this time he was really\noffended. Mrs. Maitland was actually venturing--\"I have never noticed\nher looks,\" he said stiffly, and rose.\n\n\"It just struck me when I caught you in there the other day,\" she\nruminated; \"what do you know about her?\" Buried deep in the casual\nquestion was another question, but Robert Ferguson did not hear it; she\nwas _not_ going to venture! He was so relieved, that he was instantly\nhimself again. He told her briefly what little he knew: Mrs. Richie was\na widow; husband dead many years. \"I have an idea he was a crooked\nstick,--more from what she hasn't said than what she has said. There's\na friend of hers I meet once in a while at her house, a Doctor King,\nand he intimated to me that her husband was a bad lot. It appears he\nhurt their child, when he was drunk. She never forgave him. I don't\nblame her, I'm sure; the baby died. It was after the death of the\nhusband that she adopted David. She has no relations apparently; some\nfriends in Old Chester, I believe; this Doctor King is one of 'em.\"\n\n\"Is she going to marry him?\" Mrs. Maitland said.\n\n\"There might be objections on the part of the present incumbent,\" he\nsaid, with his meager smile.\n\nMrs. Maitland admitted that the doctor's wife presented difficulties;\n\"but perhaps she'll die,\" she said, cheerfully; \"I'm interested to know\nthat Mrs. Richie has friends; I was wondering--\" She did not say what\nshe wondered. \"She's a nice woman, Robert Ferguson, and a good woman,\n_and_ a good-looking woman, too; 'fair and'--well, say 'fifty'! And if\nyou had any sense--\"\n\nBut this time Robert Ferguson really did get out of the office.\n\nHis advice about Blair, however, seemed superfluous. So far as behavior\nwent, Mrs. Maitland had no further occasion to increase his allowance.\nHis remaining months in the university were decorous enough, though his\nscholarship was no credit to him. He \"squeaked through,\" as he\nexpressed it to his sister, gaily, when she came east to see him\ngraduate, three years behind the class in which he had entered college.\nBut as to his conduct, that domiciliary visit had hardened him into a\nsort of contemptuous common sense. And his annoyed and humiliated\nmanhood, combined with his esthetic taste, sufficed, also, to keep\nthings fairly peaceful when he was at home, which was rarely for more\nthan a week or two at a time. Quarrels with his mother had become\nexcruciating experiences, like discords on the piano; they set his\nteeth on edge, though they never touched his heart. To avoid them, he\nwould, he told Nannie, chuckling at her horror,--\"lie like the devil!\"\nHis lying, however, was nothing more serious than a careful and\nentirely insincere politeness; but it answered his purpose, and \"rows,\"\nas he called them, were very rare; although, indeed, his mother did her\npart in avoiding them, too. To Sarah Maitland, a difference with her\nson meant a pang at the very center of her being--her maternity; her\nheart was seared by it, but her taste was not offended because she had\nno taste. So, for differing reasons, peace was kept. The next fall,\nafter a summer abroad, Blair went back to the university and took two\nor three special courses; also he began to paint rather seriously; all\nof which was his way of putting off the evil day of settling down in\nMercer.\n\nMeantime, life grew quite vivid to his sister. Elizabeth had once said\nthat Nannie was \"born an old maid\"; and certainly these tranquil,\ngently useless years of being very busy about nothing, and living quite\nalone with her stepmother, had emphasized in her a simplicity and\nliteralness of mind that was sometimes very amusing to the other three\nfriends. At any rate, hers was a pallid little personality--perhaps it\ncould not have been anything else in the household of a woman like\nSarah Maitland, with whom, domestically, it was always either peace, or\na sword! Nannie was incapable of anything but peace. \"You are a\n'fraid-cat,\" Elizabeth used to tell her, \"but you're a perfect dear!\"\n\"Nannie is unscrupulously good,\" Blair said once; and her soft\nstubbornness in doing anything she conceived to be her duty, warranted\nhis criticism. But during the first year that David and Elizabeth were\nengaged, her stagnant existence in the silent old house began to stir;\nlittle shocks of reality penetrated the gentle primness of her thought,\nand she came creeping out into the warmth and sunshine of other\npeople's happiness; indeed, her shy appreciation of the lovers'\nexperiences became almost an experience of her own, so closely did she\nnestle to all their emotions! It was a real blow to her when it was\ndecided that David should enter a Philadelphia hospital as an interne.\n\"Won't he be at home even for the long vacations?\" Nannie asked,\nanxiously; when she was told that hospitals did not give \"vacations,\"\nher only consolation was that she would have to console Elizabeth.\n\nBut when Robert Ferguson heard what was going to happen, he had nothing\nto console him. \"I'll have a love-sick girl on my hands,\" he complained\nto Mrs. Richie. \"You'll have to do your share of it,\" he barked at her.\nHe had come in through the green door in the garden wall, with a big\nclump of some perennial in his hands, and a trowel under one arm.\n\"Peonies have to be thinned out in the fall,\" he said grudgingly, \"and\nI want to get rid of this lot. Where shall I put 'em?\"\n\nIt was a warm October afternoon, and Mrs. Richie, who had been sitting\non the stone bench under the big hawthorn in her garden, reading, until\nthe dusk hid her page, looked up gratefully. \"You are robbing yourself;\nI believe that is your precious white peony!\"\n\n\"It's only half of it, and I get as much good out of it here as in my\nown garden,\" he grunted (he was sitting on his heels digging a hole big\nenough for a clump of peonies with a trowel, so no wonder he grunted);\n\"besides, it improves my property to plant perennials; my next tenant\nmay appreciate flowers,\" he ended, with the reproving significance\nwhich had become a joke between them.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Mrs. Richie, sighing, \"I don't like to think of that 'next\ntenant.'\"\n\nHe looked up at her a little startled. \"What do you mean? You are not\ngoing to Philadelphia with David next April?\"\n\n\"Why, you didn't suppose I would let David go alone?\"\n\n\"What! You will leave Mercer?\" he said. In his dismayed astonishment he\ndropped his trowel and stood up. \"Will you please tell me why I should\nstay in Mercer, when David is in Philadelphia?\"\n\nRobert Ferguson was silent; then he tramped the earth in around the\nroots of the white peony, and said, sullenly, \"It never occurred to me\nthat you would go, too.\"\n\n\"You'll have to be extra nice to Elizabeth when we are not here,\" Mrs.\nRichie instructed him. David's mother was very anxious to be nice to\nElizabeth herself; which was a confession, though she did not know it,\nof her old misgivings as to David's choice.\n\n\"Be nice? _I_?\" said Mr. Ferguson, and snorted; \"did you ever know me\n'nice'?\"\n\n\"Always,\" she said, smiling.\n\nBut he would not smile; he went back to his garden for some more roots;\nwhen he returned with a wedge taken from his bed of lemon-lilies, he\nsaid crossly, \"David can manage his own affairs; he doesn't need\napron-strings! I think I've mentioned that to you before?\"\n\n\"I think I recall some such reference,\" she admitted, her voice\ntrembling with friendly amusement.\n\nBut he went on growling and barking: \"Foolish woman! to try the\nexperiment at your age, of living in a strange place!\"\n\nAt that she laughed outright: \"That is the nicest way in the world to\ntell a friend you will miss her.\"\n\nRobert Ferguson did not laugh. In fact, as the winter passed and the\ntime drew near for the move to be made, nobody laughed very much.\nCertainly not the two young people; since David had left the medical\nschool he had worked in Mercer's infirmary, and now they both felt as\nif the world would end for them when they ceased to see each other\nseveral times a day. David did his best to be cheerful about it; in\nfact, with that common sense of his which his engagement had\naccentuated, he was almost too cheerful. The hospital service would be\na great advantage, he said, So great that perhaps the three years'\nengagement to which they were looking forward,--because David's\nfinances would probably not be equal to a wife before that; the three\nyears might be shortened to two. But to be parted for two years--it was\n\"practically parting,\" for visits don't amount to anything; \"it's\ntough,\" said David. \"It's _terrific!_\" Elizabeth said.\n\n\"Oh, well,\" David reminded her, \"two years is a lot better than three.\"\n\nIt was curious to see how Love had developed these two young creatures:\nElizabeth had sprung into swift and glowing womanhood; with triumphant\ncandor her conduct confessed that she had forgotten everything but\nLove. She showed her heart to David, and to her little world, as freely\nas a flower that has opened overnight--a rose, still wet with dew, that\nbares a warm and fragrant bosom to the sun. David had matured, too; but\nhis maturity was of the mind rather than the body; manhood suddenly\nfell upon him like a cloak, and because his sense of humor had always\nbeen a little defective, it was a somewhat heavy cloak, which hid and\neven hampered the spontaneous freedom of youth. He was deeply and\npassionately in love, but his face fell into lines of responsibility\nrather than passion; lines, even, of care. He grew markedly older; he\nthought incessantly of how soon he would be able to marry, and always\nin connection with his probable income and his possible expenses.\nHelena Richie was immensely proud of this sudden, serious manhood; but\nElizabeth's uncle took it as a matter of course:--had he not, himself,\nceased to be an ass at twenty? Why shouldn't David Richie show some\nsense at twenty-five!\n\nAs for Elizabeth, she simply adored. Perhaps she was, once in a while,\na little annoyed at the rather ruthless power with which David would\ncalmly override some foolish wish of hers; and sometimes there would be\na gust of temper,--but it always yielded at his look or touch. When he\nwas not near her, when she could not see the speechless passion in his\neyes, or feel the tremor of his lips when they answered the demand of\nhers, then the anger lasted longer. Once or twice, when he was away\nfrom home, his letters, with their laconic taking of her love for\ngranted, made her sharply displeased; but when he came back, and kissed\nher, she forgot everything but his arms. Curiously enough, the very\ncompleteness of her surrender kept him so entirely reverent of her that\npeople who did not know him might have thought him cold--but Elizabeth\nknew! She knew his love, even when, as she fulminated against the\nmisery of being left alone, David merely said, briefly, \"Oh, well, two\nyears is a lot better than three.\"\n\nThe two years of absence were to begin in April. It was in February\nthat Robert Ferguson was told definitely just when his tenant would\nterminate her lease; he received the news in absolute silence. Mrs.\nRichie's note came at breakfast; he read it, then went into his library\nand shut the door. He sat down at his writing-table, his hands in his\npockets, an unlighted cigar between his teeth. He sat there nearly an\nhour. Then, throwing the cigar into his waste-basket, he knocked his\nglasses off with a bewildered gesture; \"Well, I'll be hanged,\" he said,\nsoftly. It was at that moment that he forgave Mrs. Maitland her\noutrageous joke of more than a year before. \"I've always known that\nwoman was no fool,\" he said, smiling ruefully at the remembrance of his\nanger at Sarah Maitland's advice. \"It was darned good advice!\" he said;\nbut he looked positively dazed. \"And I've always said I wouldn't give\nLife the chance to play another trick on me!\" he reflected; \"well, I\nwon't. This is no silly love-affair; it's good common sense.\" Ten\nminutes later, as he started for his office, he caught sight of his\nface in the mirror in the hall. He had lifted one hand to take his hat\nfrom the rack, but as he suddenly saw himself, he stood stock-still,\nwith upraised arm and extended fingers; Robert Ferguson had probably\nnot been really aware of his reflection in a looking-glass for\ntwenty-five years. He saw now a lean, lined, sad face, a morose droop\nof thin and bitter lips; he saw gray hair standing up stiffly above a\ncareworn forehead; he saw kind, troubled eyes. And as he looked, he\nfrowned. \"I'm an ugly cuss,\" he said to himself, sighing; \"and I look\nsixty.\" In point of fact, he was nearly fifty. \"But so is she,\" he\nadded, defiantly, and took down his hat. \"Only, _she_ looks forty.\" And\nthen he thought of Mrs. Maitland's \"fair and fifty,\" and smiled, in\nspite of himself. \"Yes, she is rather good-looking,\" he admitted.\n\nAnd indeed she was; Mrs. Richie's quiet life with her son had kept her\nforehead smooth, and her eyes--eyes the color of a brook which loiters\nin shady places over last year's leaves--softly clear. There was a\ngentle placidity about her; the curious, shy hesitation, the deep,\nhalf-frightened sadness, which had been so marked when her landlord\nknew her first, had disappeared; sometimes she even showed soft\ngaieties of manner or speech which delighted her moody neighbor to the\npoint of making him laugh. And laughing had all the charm of novelty to\npoor Robert Ferguson. \"I never dreamed of her going away,\" he said to\nhimself. Well, yes; certainly Mrs. Maitland had some sense, after all.\nWhen, a week later, blundering and abrupt, he referred to Mrs.\nMaitland's \"sense,\" Mrs. Richie could not at first understand what he\nwas talking about. \"She 'knew more than you gave her credit for'? I\nthought you gave her credit for knowing everything! Oh, you don't want\nme to leave Mercer? I don't see the connection. _I_ don't know\neverything! But you are very flattering, I'm sure. I am a 'good\ntenant,' I suppose?\"\n\n\"Please don't go.\" She laughed at what she thought was his idea of a\njoke; then said, with half a sigh, that she did not know any one in\nPhiladelphia; \"when David isn't at home I shall be pretty lonely,\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"Please don't go,\" he said again, in a low voice. They were sitting\nbefore the fire in Mrs. Richie's parlor; the glass doors of the\nplant-room were open,--that plant-room, which had been his first\nconcession to her; and the warm air of the parlor was fragrant with\nblossoming hyacinths. There was a little table between them, with a\nbowl of violets on it, and a big lamp. Robert Ferguson rose, and stood\nwith his hands behind him, looking down at her. His hair, in a stiff\nbrush above his forehead, was quite gray, but his face in its unwonted\nemotion seemed quivering with youth. He knocked off his glasses\nirritably. \"I never know how to say things,\" he said, in a low voice;\n\"but--please don't go.\"\n\nMrs. Richie stared at him in amazement.\n\n\"I think we'd better get married,\" he said.\n\n\"_Mr. Ferguson!_\"\n\n\"I think I've cared about you ever since you came here, but I am such a\nfool I didn't know it until Mrs. Maitland said that absurd thing last\nfall.\"\n\n\"I--I don't know what you mean!\" she parried, breathlessly; \"at any\nrate, please don't say anything more about it.\"\n\n\"I have to say something more.\" He sat down again with the air of one\npreparing for a siege. \"I've got several things to say. First, I want\nto find out my chances?\"\n\n\"You haven't any.\"\n\nHis face moved. He put on his glasses carefully, with both hands. \"Mrs.\nRichie, is there any one else? If so, I'll quit. I know you will answer\nstraight; you are not like other women. _Is there anybody else?_\nThat--that Old Chester doctor who comes to see you once in a while, I\nunderstand he's a widower now; wife's just died; and if--\"\n\n\"There is nobody; _never_ anybody.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" he said, triumphantly; then frowned: \"If your attachment to your\nhusband makes you say I haven't any chance--but it can't be that.\"\n\nHer eyes suddenly dilated. \"Why not? Why do you say it can't be that?\"\nshe said in a frightened voice.\n\n\"I somehow got the impression--forgive me if I am saying anything I\noughtn't to; but I had kind of an idea that you were not especially\nhappy with him.\"\n\nShe was silent.\n\n\"But even if you were,\" he went on, \"it is so many years; I don't mean\nto offend you, but a woman isn't faithful to a memory for so many\nyears!\" he looked at her incredulously; \"not even you, I think.\"\n\n\"Such a thing is possible,\" she told him coldly; she had grown very\npale. \"But it is not because of--of my husband that I say I shall never\nmarry again.\"\n\nHe interrupted her. \"If it isn't a dead man nor a live man that's ahead\nof me, then it seems to me you can't say I haven't any chance--unless I\nam personally offensive to you?\" There was an almost child-like\nconsternation in his eyes; \"am I? Of course I know I am a bear.\"\n\n\"Oh, please don't say things like that!\" she protested. \"A bear? You?\nWhy, you are just my good, kind friend and neighbor; but--\"\n\n\"Ah!\" he said, \"that scared me for a minute! Well, when I understood\nwhat was the matter with me (I didn't understand until about a week\nago), I said to myself, 'If there's nobody ahead of me, that woman\nshall be my wife.' Of course, I am not talking sentimentalities to you;\nwe are not David and Elizabeth! I'm fifty, and you are not far from it.\nBut I--I--I'm hard hit, Mrs. Richie;\" his voice trembled, and he\ntwitched off his glasses with more than usual ferocity.\n\nMrs. Richie rose; \"Mr. Ferguson,\" she said, gently, \"I do appreciate\nthe honor you do me, but--\"\n\n\"Don't say a thing like that; it's foolish,\" he interrupted, frowning;\n\"what 'honor' is it, to a woman like you, to have an ugly, bad-mannered\nfellow like me, want you for a wife? Why, how could I help it! How\ncould any man help it? I don't know what Dr. King is thinking of, that\nhe isn't sitting on your doorsteps waiting for a chance to ask you! I\nought to have asked you long ago. I can't imagine why I didn't, except\nthat I supposed we would go on always living next door to each other.\nAnd--and I thought anything like _this_, was over for me. . . . Mrs.\nRichie, please sit down, and let me finish what I have to say.\"\n\n\"There is no use, Mr. Ferguson,\" she said; but she sat down, her face\nfalling into lines of sadness that made her look curiously old.\n\n\"There isn't anybody ahead of me: so far, so good. Now as to my\nchances; of course I realize that I haven't any,--to-day. But there's\nto-morrow, Mrs. Richie; and the day after to-morrow. There's next week,\nand next year;--and I don't change. Look how slow I was in finding out\nthat I wanted you; it's taken me all these years! What a poor, dull\nfool I am! Well, I know it now; and you know it; and you don't\npersonally dislike me. So perhaps some day,\" his harsh face was\nsuddenly almost beautiful; \"some day you'll be--_my wife!_\" he said,\nunder his breath. He had no idea that he was \"talking\nsentimentalities\"; he would have said he did not know how to be\nsentimental. But his voice was the voice of youth and passion.\n\nShe shook her head. \"No,\" she said, quietly; \"I can't marry you, Mr.\nFerguson.\"\n\n\"But you are generally so reasonable,\" he protested, astonished and\nwistful; \"why, it seems to me that you _must_ be willing--after a\nwhile? Here we are, two people getting along in years, and our children\nhave made a match of it; and we are used to each other, that's a very\nimportant thing in marriage. It's just plain common sense, after David\nis on his own legs in the hospital, for us to join forces. Perhaps in\nthe early summer? I won't be unreasonably urgent. Surely\"--he was\ngaining confidence from his own words--\"surely you must see how\nsensible--\"\n\nInvoluntarily, perhaps through sheer nervousness, she laughed. \"Mrs.\nMaitland's 'sensible arrangement'? No, Mr. Ferguson; please let us\nforget all about this--\"\n\nHe gave his snort of a laugh. \"Forget? Now _that_ isn't sensible. No,\nyou dear, foolish woman; whatever else we do, we shall neither of us\nforget this. This is one of the things a man and woman don't forget;\"\nin his earnestness he pushed aside the bowl of violets on the table\nbetween them, and caught her hand in both of his. \"I'm going to get you\nyet,\" he said, he was as eager as a boy.\n\nBefore she could reply, or even draw back, David opened the parlor\ndoor, and stood aghast on the threshold. It was impossible to mistake\nthe situation. The moment of sharp withdrawal between the two on either\nside of the table announced it, without the uttering of a word; David\ncaught his breath. Robert Ferguson could have wrung the intruder's\nneck, but Mrs. Richie clutched at her son's presence with a gasp of\nrelief: \"Oh--David! I thought you were next door!\"\n\n\"I was,\" David said, briefly; \"I came in to get a book for Elizabeth.\"\n\n\"We were--talking,\" Mrs. Richie said, trying to laugh. Mr. Ferguson,\nstanding with his back to the fire, was slowly putting on his glasses.\n\"But we had finished our discussion,\" she ended breathlessly.\n\n\"For the moment,\" Mr. Ferguson said, significantly; and set his jaw.\n\n\"Well, David, have you and Elizabeth decided when she is to come and\nsee us in Philadelphia?\" Mrs. Richie asked, her voice still trembling.\n\n\"She says she'll come East whenever Mr. Ferguson can bring her,\" David\nsaid, rummaging among the books on the table. \"But it's a pity to wait\nas long as that,\" he added, and the hint in his words was inescapable.\n\nRobert Ferguson did not take hints. \"I think I can manage to come\npretty soon,\" he retorted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nWhen Mr. Ferguson said good night, David, apparently unable to find the\nbook he had promised to take in to Elizabeth, made no effort to help\nhis mother in her usual small nightly tasks of blowing out the lamps,\ntidying the table, folding up a newspaper or two. This was not like\nDavid, but Mrs. Richie was too absorbed to notice her son's absorption.\nJust as she was starting up-stairs, he burst out: \"Materna--\"\n\n\"Yes? What is it?\"\n\nHe gave her a keenly searching look; then drew a breath of relief, and\nkissed her. \"Nothing,\" he said.\n\nBut later, as he lay on his back in bed, his hands clasped behind his\nhead, his pipe between his teeth, David was distinctly angry. \"Of\ncourse she doesn't care a hang for him,\" he reflected; \"I could see\nthat; but I swear I'll go to Philadelphia right off.\" Before he slept\nhe had made up his mind that was the best thing to do. That old man,\ngray and granite-faced, and silent, \"that old codger,\" said the\ndisrespectful cub of twenty-six, \"should take advantage of friendship\nto be a nuisance,--confound him!\" said David. \"The idea of his daring\nto make love to her! I wanted to show him the door.\" As for his mother,\neven if she didn't \"care a hang,\" he was half shocked, half hurt; he\nfelt, as all young creatures do, a curious repulsion at the idea of\nlove-making between people no longer young. It hurt his delicacy, it\nalmost hurt his sense of reverence for his mother, to think that she\nhad been obliged to listen to any words of love. \"It's offensive,\" he\nsaid angrily; \"yes; we'll clear out! We'll go to Philadelphia the first\nof March, instead of April.\"\n\nThe next morning he suggested his plan to his mother. \"Could you pack\nup in three weeks, Materna?\" he said; \"I think I'd like to get you\nsettled before I go to the hospital.\" Mrs. Richie's instant acceptance\nof the change of date made him more annoyed than ever. \"He has worried\nher!\" he thought angrily; \"I wonder how long this thing has been going\non?\" But he said nothing to her. Nor did he mean to explain to\nElizabeth just why he must shorten their last few weeks of being\ntogether. It would not be fair to his mother to explain, he said to\nhimself;--he did not think of any unfairness to the \"old codger.\" He\nwas, however, a little uneasy at the prospect of breaking the fact of\nthis earlier departure to Elizabeth without an explanation. Elizabeth\nmight be hurt; she might say that he didn't want to stay with her. \"She\nknows better!\" he said to himself, grinning. The honest truth was, and\nhe faced it with placidity, that if things were not explained to\nElizabeth, she might get huffy,--this was David's word; but David knew\nhow to check that \"huffiness\"!\n\nThey were to walk together that afternoon, and he manoeuvered for a few\nexquisite minutes alone before they went out. At first the moments were\nnot very exquisite.\n\n\"Well! What happened to you last night? I thought you were going to\nbring me that book!\"\n\n\"I couldn't. I had to stay at home.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Well; Materna wanted me.\"\n\nElizabeth murmured a small, cold \"Oh.\" Then she said, \"Why didn't you\nsend the book in by Uncle?\"\n\n\"I didn't think of it,\" David said candidly.\n\nElizabeth's dimple straightened. \"It would have been polite to have\nsent me a message.\"\n\n\"I took it for granted you'd know I was detained.\"\n\n\"You take too much for--\" she began, but before she could utter the\nsharp words that trembled on her lips, he caught her in his arms and\nkissed her; instantly the little flame of temper was blown out.\n\n\"That's the worst of walking,\" David said, as she let him draw her down\non the sofa beside him; \"I can't kiss you on the street.\"\n\n\"Heavens, I should hope not!\" she said. Then, forgetting what she\nthought was his forgetfulness, she relaxed within his arms, sighing\nwith bliss. \"'Oh, isn't it joyful,--joyful,--joyful--'\" she hummed\nsoftly. \"I do love to have you put your arms around me, David! Isn't it\nwonderful to love each other the way we do? I feel so sorry for other\ngirls, because they aren't engaged to you; poor things! Do you suppose\nanybody in the world was ever as happy as I am?\"\n\n\"_You?_\" said David, scornfully; \"you don't count at all, compared to\nme!\" Then they both laughed for the sheer foolishness of that\n\"joyfulness,\" which was so often on Elizabeth's lips. But David sighed.\n\"Three years is a devilish long time to wait.\"\n\n\"Maybe it will be only two!\" she whispered, her soft lips against his\near. But this was one of David's practical and responsible moments, so\nhe said grimly, \"Not much hope of that.\"\n\nElizabeth, agreeing sadly, got up to straighten her hat before the\nmirror over the mantelpiece. \"It's hideously long. Oh, if I were only a\nrich girl!\"\n\n\"Thank Heaven you are not!\" he said, with such sudden cold incisiveness\nthat she turned round and looked at him. \"Do you think I'd marry a rich\nwoman, and let her support me?\"\n\n\"I don't see why she shouldn't, if she loved you,\" Elizabeth said\ncalmly; \"I don't see that it matters which has the money, the man or\nthe girl.\"\n\n\"I see,\" David said; \"I've always felt that way--even about mother.\nMaterna has wanted to help me out lots of times, and I wouldn't let\nher. I could kick myself now when I think how often I have to put my\nhand in her pocket.\"\n\n\"I think,\" cried Elizabeth, \"a man might love a girl enough to live on\nher money!\"\n\n\"I don't,\" David said, soberly.\n\n\"Well,\" said Elizabeth, \"don't worry. I haven't a cent, so you can't\nput your hand in my pocket! Come, we must start. I want to go and see\nNannie for a minute, and Cherry-pie says I must be in before dark,\nbecause I have a cold.\"\n\n\"I like sitting here best,\" David confessed, but pulled himself up from\nthe sofa, and in another minute Miss White, peering from an upper\nwindow, saw them walking off. \"Made for each other!\" said Cherry-pie,\nnibbling with happiness.\n\nThey had almost reached Nannie's before David said that--that he was\nafraid he would have to go away a month before he had planned. When he\nwas most in earnest, his usual brevity of speech fell into a curtness\nthat might have seemed, to one who did not know him, indifference.\nElizabeth did know him, but even to her the ensuing explanation, which\ndid not explain, was, through his very anxiety not to offend her,\nprovokingly laconic.\n\n\"But you don't go on duty at the hospital until April,\" she said hotly.\n\"Why do you leave Mercer the first of March?\"\n\n\"Materna wants time to get settled.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Richie told me only yesterday that she was going to a hotel,\"\nElizabeth said; \"she said she wasn't going to look for a house until\nthe fall, because she will be at the seashore this summer. It certainly\ndoesn't take a month to find a hotel.\"\n\n\"Well, the fact is, there are reasons why it isn't pleasant for Materna\nto be in Mercer just now.\"\n\n\"Not pleasant to be in Mercer! What on earth do you mean?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I can't tell you. It's her affair.\"\n\n\"Oh, I didn't mean to intrude,\" Elizabeth said coldly.\n\n\"Now, Elizabeth,\" he protested, \"that isn't a nice thing to say.\"\n\n\"Do you think _you've_ been saying nice things? I am perfectly certain\nthat you would never hesitate to tell your mother any of my reasons for\ndoing things!\"\n\n\"Elizabeth, I wouldn't leave Mercer a minute before the first of April,\nif I wasn't sure it was best for Materna. You know that.\"\n\n\"Oh, go!\" she said; \"go, and have all the secrets you want. _I_ don't\ncare.\"\n\n\"Elizabeth, be reasonable; I--\"\n\nBut she had left him; they had reached the Maitland house, and, pushing\naside his outstretched hand, she opened the iron gate herself, slammed\nit viciously, and ran up the curving steps to the door. As she waited\nfor Harris to answer her ring, she looked back: \"I think you are\nreasonable enough for both of us; please don't let me ever interfere\nwith your plans!\" She paused a minute in the hall, listening for a\nfollowing step;--it did not come. \"Well, if he's cross he can stay\noutside!\" she told herself, and burst into the parlor. \"Nannie!\" she\nbegan,--\"Oh, I beg your pardon!\" she said. Blair was standing on the\nhearth-rug, talking vehemently to his sister; at the sound of the\nopening door he wheeled around and saw her, glowing, wounded, and\namazingly handsome. \"Elizabeth!\" he said, staring at her. And he kept\non staring while they shook hands. They were a handsome pair, the tall,\ndark, well-set-up man, and the girl almost as tall as he, with brown,\ngilt-flecked hair blowing about a vivid face which had the color, in\nthe sharp February afternoon, of a blush-rose.\n\n\"Where's David?\" Nannie said.\n\n[Illustration: 'I THINK YOU ARE REASONABLE ENOUGH FOR BOTH OF US']\n\n\"I left him at the gate. He's coming in in a minute,\" Elizabeth said;\nand turned to Blair: \"I didn't know you had come home.\"\n\nBlair explained that he was only in Mercer for a day. \"I'm in a hole,\"\nhe said drolly, \"and I've come home to have Nannie get me out.\"\n\n\"Nannie is always ready to get people out of holes;\" Elizabeth said,\nbut her voice was vague. She was listening for David's step, her cheeks\nbeginning to burn with mortification, at his delay.\n\n\"Where _is_ David?\" Nannie demanded, returning from a fruitless search\nfor him in the hall.\n\n\"He's a lucky dog,\" Blair said, looking at the charming, angry face\nwith open and friendly admiration.\n\nElizabeth shrugged her shoulders. \"I don't know about his luck. By the\nway, he is going to Philadelphia the first of March, Nannie,\" she said\ncarelessly.\n\n\"I thought he didn't have to go until April?\" Nannie sympathized.\n\n\"So did I. Perhaps he'll tell you why he has changed his mind. He\nhasn't deigned to give me his reasons yet.\"\n\nAnd Blair, watching her, said to himself, \"Same old Elizabeth!\" He\nbegan to talk to her in his gay, teasing way, but she was not\nlistening; suddenly she interrupted him, saying that she must go home.\n\"I thought David was coming in, but I suppose he's walking up and down,\nwaiting for me.\"\n\n\"If he doesn't know which side his bread is buttered, I'll walk home\nwith you,\" Blair said; \"and Nancy dear, while I'm gone, you see Mother\nand do your best, won't you?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" poor Nannie sighed, \"but I do wish--\"\n\nBlair did not wait to hear what she wished; he had eyes only for this\nself-absorbed young creature who would not listen when he spoke to her.\nAt the gate she hesitated, looked hurriedly about her, up and down the\nsqualid street; she did not answer, did not apparently hear, some\nquestion that he asked. Blair glanced up and down the street, too.\n\"David doesn't appreciate his opportunities,\" he said.\n\nElizabeth's lip tightened, and she flung up her head; the rose in her\ncheeks was drowned in scarlet. She came out of her absorption, and\nbegan to sparkle at her companion; she teased him, but not too much;\nshe flattered him, very delicately; she fell into half-sentimental\nreminiscences that made him laugh, then stabbed him gently with an\nindifferent word that showed how entirely she had forgotten him. And\nall the time her eyes were absent, and the straight line in her cheek\nheld the dimple a prisoner. Blair, who had begun with a sort of\ngood-natured, rather condescending amusement at his old playmate, found\nhimself, to his surprise, on his mettle.\n\n\"Don't go home yet,\" he said; \"let's take a walk.\"\n\n\"I'd love to!\"\n\n\"Mercer seems to be just as hideous as ever,\" Blair said; \"suppose we\ngo across the river, and get away from it?\"\n\nShe agreed lightly: \"Horrid place.\" At the corner, she flashed a glance\ndown the side street; David was not to be seen.\n\n\"Will David practise here, when he is ready to put out his shingle?\"\n\n\"I'm sure I don't know. I can't keep track of David's plans.\"\n\n\"He is just as good as ever, I suppose?\" Blair said, and watched her\ndelicate lip droop.\n\n\"Better, if anything.\" And in the dusk, as they sauntered over the old\nbridge, she flung out gibe after gibe at her lover. Her cheeks grew\nhotter and hotter; it was like tearing her own flesh. The shame of it!\nThe rapture of it! It hurt her so that the tears stood in her eyes; so\nshe did it again, and yet again. \"I don't pretend to live up to David,\"\nshe said.\n\nBlair, with a laugh, confessed that he had long ago given up any such\nambition himself. On the bridge they stopped, and Blair looked back at\nthe town lying close to the water. In the evening dusk lights were\npricking out all along the shore; the waste-lands beyond the furnaces\nwere vague with night mists, faintly amethyst in the east, bronze and\nblack over the city. Here and there in the brown distances flames would\nsuddenly burst out from unseen stacks, then sink, and the shadows close\nagain.\n\n\"I wish I could paint it,\" Blair said dreamily; \"Mercer from the\nbridge, at twilight, is really beautiful.\"\n\n\"I like the bridge,\" Elizabeth said, \"for sentimental reasons. (Now,\"\nshe added to herself, \"now, I am a bad woman; to speak of _that_ to\nanother man is vile.) David and I,\" she said, significantly,--and\nlaughed.\n\nEven Blair was startled at the crudeness of the allusion. \"I didn't\nsuppose David ever condescended to be spoony,\" he said, and at the same\ninstant, to his absolute amazement, she caught his arm and pulled his\nhand from the railing.\n\n\"Don't touch that place!\" she cried; Blair, amused and cynical, laughed\nunder his breath.\n\n\"I see; this is the hallowed spot where you made our friend a happy\nman?\"\n\n\"We'll turn back now, please,\" Elizabeth said, suddenly trembling. She\nhad reached the climax of her anger, and the reaction was like the\nshock of dropping from a dizzy height. During the walk home she\nscarcely spoke. When he left her at her uncle's door, she was almost\nrude. \"Goodnight. No; I'm busy. I'd rather you didn't come in.\" In her\nown room, without waiting to take off her things, she ran to her desk;\nshe did not even pause to sit down, but bent over, and wrote, sobbing\nunder her breath:\n\n\"DAVID: I am just as false as I can be. I ridiculed you to Blair. I\nlied and lied and lied--because I was angry. I hated you for a little\nwhile. I am low, and vulgar, and a blasphemer. _I told him about the\nbridge._ You see how vile I am? But don't--don't give me up, David.\nOnly--understand just how base I am, and then, if you possibly can,\nkeep on loving me. E.\n\n\"P. S. I am not worth loving.\"\n\n    * * * * *\n\nWhen David read that poor little letter, his face quivered for an\ninstant, then he smiled. \"Materna,\" he said--they were sitting at\nsupper; \"Materna, she certainly is perfect!\"\n\nHis mother laughed, and put out her hand. But he shook his head. \"Not\neven you!\" he said.\n\nWhen he went to see Elizabeth that evening, he found her curiously\nbroken. \"David, how could I do it? I made _fun_ of you! Do you\nunderstand? Yes; I truly did. Oh, how vile I am! And I knew I was vile\nall the time; that's the queer part of it. But I piled it on! And all\nthe time it seemed as if I was just bleeding to death inside. But I\nkept on doing it. I loved being false. I loved to blacken myself.\" She\ndrew away from him, shivering. \"No; don't touch me; don't kiss me; I am\nnot worthy. Oh, David, throw me over! Don't marry me, I am not fit--\"\nAnd as he caught her in his arms, she said, her voice smothered against\nhis breast, \"You see, you didn't come in at Nannie's. And it looked as\nif--as if you didn't care. It was humiliating, David. And last night\nyou didn't bring me the book, or even send any message; and that was\nsort of careless. Yes, I really think you were a little horrid, David.\nSo I was hurt, I suppose, to start with; and you know, when I am\nhurt--Oh, yes; it was silly; but--\"\n\nHe kissed her again, and laughed. \"It was silly, dear.\"\n\n\"Well, but listen: I am not excusing myself for this afternoon, but I\ndo want you to understand how it started. I was provoked at your not\nexplaining to me why you go away a whole month earlier than you need; I\nthink any girl would be a little provoked, David. And then, on top of\nit, you let Blair and Nannie see that you didn't care to walk home with\nme, and--\"\n\n\"But good gracious!\" said David, amused and tender, \"I thought you\ndidn't want me! And it would have been rather absurd to hang round, if\nI wasn't wanted.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" she cried, sharply, lifting her wet face from his breast, \"don't\nyou see? _I want you to be absurd!_ Can't you understand how a girl\nfeels?\" She stopped, and sighed. \"After all, why should you show Nannie\nand Blair that you care? Why should you wait? I am not worth caring\nfor, or waiting for, anywhere, any time! Oh, David, my temper--my\ndreadful temper!\"\n\nHe lifted her trembling hand and kissed the scar on her left wrist\nsilently.\n\n\"I ought not to see you to-night, just to punish myself,\" she said\nbrokenly. \"You don't know how crazy I was when I was talking to Blair.\nI was _crazy!_ Oh, why, when I was a child, didn't they make me control\nmy temper? I suppose I'm like--my mother,\" she ended in a whisper. \"And\nI can't change, now; I'm too old.\"\n\nDavid smiled. \"You are terribly old,\" he said. Like everybody else,\nsave Mrs. Richie, David accepted Elizabeth's temper as a matter of\ncourse. \"She doesn't mean anything by it,\" her little world had always\nsaid; and put up with the inconvenience of her furies, with the\npatience of people who were themselves incapable of the irrationalities\nof temper. \"Oh, you are a hardened sinner,\" David mocked.\n\n\"You do forgive me?\" she whispered.\n\nAt that he was grave. \"There is nothing I wouldn't forgive, Elizabeth.\"\n\n\"But I have stabbed you?\"\n\n\"Yes; a little; but I am yours to stab.\"\n\nHer eyes filled. \"Oh, it is so wonderful, that you go on loving me,\nDavid!\"\n\n\"You go on loving me,\" he rallied her; \"in spite of my dullness and\nslowness, and all that.\"\n\nBut Elizabeth was not listening. \"Sometimes it frightens me to get so\nangry,\" she said, with a somber look. \"It was just the same when I was\na little girl; do you remember the time I cut off my hair? I think you\nhad hurt my feelings; I forget now what you had done. I was always\nhaving my feelings hurt! Of course I was awfully silly. It was a relief\nthen to spoil my body, by cutting off my hair. This afternoon it was a\nrelief to put mud on my soul.\"\n\nHe looked at her, trying to find words tender enough to heal the wounds\nshe had torn in her own heart; not finding them, he was silent.\n\n\"Oh, we must face it,\" she said; \"_you_ must face it. I am not a good\ngirl; I am not the kind of girl you ought to marry, I'm perfectly sure\nyour mother thinks so. She thinks a person with a temper can't love\npeople.\"\n\n\"I'll not go away in March!\" David interrupted her passionately;--of\ncourse it might be pleasanter for Materna to get away from old\nFerguson; but what is a man's mother, compared with his girl!\nElizabeth's pain was intolerable to him. \"I won't leave you a day\nbefore I have to!\"\n\nFor a moment her wet eyes smiled. \"Indeed you shall; I may be\nwicked--oh, I am! but I am not really an idiot. Only, David, _don't_\ntake things so for granted, dear; and don't be so awfully sensible,\nDavid.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nWhen the door closed behind Blair and Elizabeth, Nannie set out to do\nthat \"best,\" which her brother had demanded of her. She went at once\ninto the dining-room; but before she could speak, her stepmother called\nout to her:\n\n\"Here! Nannie! You are just the person I want--Watson's late again, and\nI'm in a hurry. Just take these letters and sign them 'S. Maitland per\nN. M.' They must be posted before five. Sit down there at the table.\"\n\nNannie could not sign letters and talk at the same time. She got pen\nand ink and began to write her stepmother's name, over and over,\nslowly, like a little careful machine: \"S. Maitland,\" \"S. Maitland.\" In\nher desire to please she discarded her own neat script, and reproduced\nwith surprising exactness the rough signature which she knew so well.\nBut all the while her anxious thoughts were with her brother. She\nwished he had not rushed off with Elizabeth. If he had only come\nhimself into the detested dining-room, his mother would have bidden him\nsign the letters; he might have read them and talked them over with\nher, and that would have pleased her. Nannie herself had no ambition to\nread them; her eye caught occasional phrases: \"Shears for--,\" \"new\nconverter,\" etc., etc. The words meant nothing to Nannie, bending her\nblond head and writing like a machine, \"S. Maitland,\" \"S. Maitland,\" ...\n\n\"Mamma,\" she began, dipping her pen into the ink, \"Blair has bought a\nrather expensive--\"\n\nMrs. Maitland came over to the table and picked up the letters. \"That's\nall. Now clear out, clear out! I've got a lot to do!\" Then her eye fell\non one of the signatures, and she gave her grunt of a laugh. \"If you\nhadn't put 'Per N. M.,' I shouldn't have known that I hadn't signed 'em\nmyself ... Nannie.\"\n\n\"Yes, Mamma?\"\n\n\"Is Blair going to be at home to supper?\"\n\n\"I think not. But he said he would be in this evening. And he wanted me\nto--to ask--\"\n\n\"Well, perhaps I'll come over to your parlor to see him, if I get\nthrough with my work. I believe he goes East again to-morrow?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Nannie said. Mrs. Maitland, at her desk, had begun to write.\nNannie wavered for a minute, then, with a despairing look at the back\nof her stepmother's head, slipped away to her own part of the house.\n\"I'll tell her at supper,\" she promised herself. But in her own room,\nas she dressed for tea, panic fell upon her. She began to walk\nnervously about; once she stopped, and leaning her forehead against the\nwindow, looked absently into the dusk. At the end of the cinder path,\nthe vast pile of the foundry rose black against the fading sky; on the\nleft the open arches of the cast-house of the furnace glowed with\nmolten iron that was running into pigs on the wide stretch of sand. The\nspur track was banked with desolate wastes of slag and rubbish; beyond\nthem, like an enfolding arm, was the river, dark in the darkening\ntwilight. From under half-shut dampers flat sheets of sapphire and\norange flame roared out in rhythmical pulsations, and above them was\nthe pillar of smoke shot through with flying billions of sparks; back\nof this monstrous and ordered confusion was the solemn circling line of\nhills. It was all hideous and fierce, yet in the clear winter dusk it\nhad a beauty of its own that held Nannie Maitland, even though she was\ntoo accustomed to it to be conscious of its details. As she stared out\nat it with troubled eyes, there was a knock at her door; before she\ncould say \"Come in,\" her stepmother entered.\n\n\"Here!\" Mrs. Maitland said, \"just fix this waist, will you? I can't\nseem to--to make it look right.\" There was a dull flush on her cheek,\nand she spoke in cross confusion. \"Haven't you got a piece of lace, or\nsomething; I don't care what. This black dress seems--\" she broke off\nand glanced into the mirror; she was embarrassed, but doggedly\ndetermined. \"Make me look--somehow,\" she said.\n\nNannie, assenting, and rummaging in her bureau drawer, had a flash of\nunderstanding. \"She's dressing up for Blair!\" She took out a piece of\nlace, and laid it about the gaunt shoulders; then tucked the front of\nthe dress in, and brought the lace down on each side. The soft old\nthread seemed as inappropriate as it would have been if laid on a\nscarcely cooled steel \"bloom.\"\n\n\"Well, pin it, can't you?\" Mrs. Maitland said sharply; \"haven't you got\nsome kind of a brooch?\" Nannie silently produced a little amethyst pin.\n\n\"It doesn't just suit the dress, I'm afraid,\" she ventured.\n\nBut Mrs. Maitland looked in the glass complacently. \"Nonsense!\" she\nsaid, and tramped out of the room. In the hall she threw\nback,\"--bliged.\"\n\n\"Oh, _poor_ Mamma!\" Nannie said. Her sympathy was hardly more than a\nsense of relief; if her mother was dressing up for Blair, she must be\nmore than usually good-natured. \"I'll tell her at supper,\" Nannie\ndecided, with a lift of courage.\n\nBut at supper, in the disorderly dining-room, with the farther end of\nthe table piled with ledgers, Mrs. Maitland was more unapproachable\nthan ever. When Nannie asked a timid question about the evening, she\neither did not hear, or she affected not to. At any rate, she\nvouchsafed no answer. Her face was still red, and she seemed to hide\nbehind her evening paper. To Nannie's gentle dullness this was no\nbetrayal; it merely meant that Mrs. Maitland was cross again, and her\nheart sank within her. But somehow she gathered up her courage:\n\n\"You won't forget to come into the parlor, Mamma? Blair wants to talk\nto you about something that--that--\"\n\n\"I've got some writing to do. If I get through I'll come. Now clear\nout, clear out; I'm too busy to chatter.\"\n\nNannie cleared out. She had no choice. She went over to her vast,\nmelancholy parlor, into which it seemed as if the fog had penetrated,\nto await Blair. In her restless apprehension she sat down at the piano,\nbut after the first bar or two her hands dropped idly on the keys. Then\nshe got up and looked aimlessly about. \"I'd better finish that\nlandscape,\" she said, and went over to her drawing-board. She stood\nthere for a minute, fingering a lead pencil; her nerves were tense, and\nyet, as she reminded herself, it was foolish to be frightened. His\nmother loved Blair; she would do anything in the world for him--Nannie\nthought of the lace; yes, anything! Blair was only a little\nextravagant. And what did his extravagance matter? his mother was so\nvery rich! But oh, why did they always clash so? Then she heard the\nsound of Blair's key in the lock.\n\n\"Well, Nancy!\" he said gaily, \"she's a charmer.\"\n\n\"Who?\" said Nannie, bewildered; \"Oh, you mean Elizabeth?\"\n\n\"Yes; but there's a lot of gunpowder lying round loose, isn't there?\nShe was out with David, I suppose because he didn't show up. In fact,\nshe was so mad she was perfectly stunning. Nancy! I think I'll stick it\nout here for two or three days; Elizabeth is mighty good fun, and David\nis in town; we might renew our youth, we four; what do you say? Well!\"\nhe ended, coming back to his own affairs, \"what did mother say?\"\n\n\"Oh, Blair, I couldn't!\"\n\n\"What! you haven't told her?\"\n\n\"Blair dear, I did my best; but she simply never gave me a chance.\nIndeed, I tried, but I couldn't. She wouldn't let me open my lips in\nthe afternoon, and at supper she read the paper every minute--Harris\nwill tell you.\"\n\nBlair Maitland whistled. \"Well, I'll tell her myself. It was really to\nspare her that I wanted you to do it. I always rile her, somehow, poor\ndear mother. Nannie, this house reeks of cabbage! Does she live on it?\"\nBlair threw up his arms with a wordless gesture of disgust.\n\n\"I'm so sorry,\" Nannie said; \"but don't tell her you don't like it.\"\n\nThe door across the hall opened, and there was a heavy step. The\nbrother and sister looked at each other.\n\n\"Blair, _be nice!_\" Nannie entreated; her soft eyes under the meekly\nparted blond hair were very anxious.\n\nHe did not need the caution; whenever he was with his mother, the mere\ninstinct of self-preservation made him anxious to \"be nice.\" As Mrs.\nMaitland had her instinct of self-preservation, too, there had been, in\nthe last year, very few quarrels. Instead there was, on his part, an\nexaggerated politeness, and on her part, a pathetic effort to be\nagreeable. The result was, of course, entire absence of spontaneity in\nboth of them.\n\nMrs. Maitland, her knitting in her hands, came tramping into the\nparlor; the piece of thread lace was pushed awry, but there had been\nfurther preparation for the occasion: at first her son and daughter did\nnot know what the change was; then suddenly both recognized it, and\nexchanged an astonished glance.\n\n\"Mother!\" cried Blair incredulously, \"_earrings!_\"\n\nThe dull color on the high cheek-bones deepened; she smiled sheepishly.\n\"Yes; I saw 'em in my bureau drawer, and put 'em on. Haven't worn 'em\nfor years; but Blair, here, likes pretty things.\" (Her son, under his\nbreath, groaned: \"pretty!\") \"So you are off tomorrow, Blair?\" she said,\npolitely; she ran her hand along the yellowing bone needles, and the\nbig ball of pink worsted rolled softly down on to the floor. As she\nglanced at him over her steel-rimmed spectacles, her eyes softened as\nan eagle's might when looking at her young. \"I wish his father could\nsee him,\" she thought. \"Next time you come home,\" she said, \"it will be\nto go to work!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Blair said, smiling industriously.\n\n\"Pity you have to study this summer; I'd like to have you in the office\nnow.\"\n\n\"Yes; I'm awfully sorry,\" he said with charming courtesy, \"but I feel I\nought to brush up on one or two subjects, and I can do it better abroad\nthan here. I'm going to paint a little, too. I'll be very busy all\nsummer.\"\n\n\"Why don't you paint our new foundry?\" said Mrs. Maitland. She laughed\nwith successful cheerfulness; Blair liked jokes, and this, she thought,\ncomplacently, was a joke. \"Well, _I_ shall manage to keep busy, too!\"\nshe said.\n\n\"I suppose so,\" Blair agreed.\n\nHe was lounging on the arm of Nannie's chair, and felt his sleeve\nplucked softly. \"Now,\" said Nannie.\n\nBut Blair was not ready. \"You are always busy,\" he said; \"I wish I had\nyour habit of industry.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland's smile faded. \"I wish you had.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, you've got industry enough for this family,\" Blair declared.\nBut the flattery did not penetrate.\n\n\"Too much, maybe,\" she said grimly; then remembered, and began to\n\"entertain\" again: \"I had a compliment to-day.\"\n\nBlair, with ardent interest, said, \"Really?\"\n\n\"That man Dolliver in our office--you remember Dolliver?\" Blair nodded.\n\"He happened to say he never knew such an honest man as old Henry B.\nKnight. Remember old Mr. Knight?\" She paused, her eyes narrowed into a\nlaugh. \"He married Molly Wharton. I always called her 'goose Molly.'\nShe used to make eyes at your father; but she couldn't get him--though\nshe tried to hard enough, by telling him, so I heard, that the 'only\nfeminine thing about me was my petticoats.' A very coarse remark, in my\njudgment; and as for being feminine,--when you were born, I thought of\ninviting her to come and look at you so she could see what a baby was\nlike! She never had any children. Well, old Knight was elder of the\nSecond Church. Remember?\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" Blair said vaguely.\n\n\"Dolliver said Knight once lost a trade by telling the truth, 'when he\nmight have kept his mouth shut'--that was Dolliver's way of putting it.\n'Well,' I said, 'I hope you think that our Works are just as honestly\nconducted as the Knight Mills'; fact was, I knew a thing or two about\nHenry B. And what do you suppose Dolliver said? 'Oh, yes,' he said,\n'you are honest, Mrs. Maitland, but you ain't damn-fool honest.'\" She\nlaughed loudly, and her son laughed too, this time in genuine\namusement; but Nannie looked prim, at which Mrs. Maitland glanced at\nBlair, and there was a sympathetic twinkle between them which for the\nmoment put them both really at ease. \"I got on to a good thing last\nweek,\" she said, still trying to amuse him, but now there was reality\nin her voice.\n\n\"Do tell me about it,\" Blair said, politely.\n\n\"You know Kraas? He is the man that's had a bee in his bonnet for the\nlast ten years about a newfangled idea for making castings of steel. He\nbrought me his plans once, but I told him they were no good. But last\nmonth he asked me to make some castings for him to go on his\ncontrivance. Of course I did; we cast anything for anybody--provided\nthey can pay for it. Well, Kraas tried it in our foundry; no good, just\nas I said; the metal was full of flaws. But it occurred to me to\nexperiment with his idea on my own hook. I melted my pig, and poured it\ninto his converter thing; but I added some silvery pig I had on the\nYard, made when No. 1 blew in, and the castings were as sound as a nut!\nKraas never thought of that.\" She twitched her pink worsted and gave\nher grunt of a laugh. \"Master Kraas hasn't any caveat, and he can't get\none on that idea, so of course I can go ahead.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mamma, how clever you are!\" Nannie murmured, admiringly.\n\n\"Clever?\" said Blair; Nannie shook his arm gently, and he recollected\nhimself. \"Well, I suppose business is like love and war. All's fair in\nbusiness.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland was silent. Then she said: \"Business is war. But--fair?\nIt is a perfectly legal thing to do.\"\n\n\"Oh, legal, yes,\" her son agreed significantly; the thin ice of\npoliteness was beginning to crack. It was the old situation over again;\nhe was repelled by unloveliness; this time it was the unloveliness of\nshrewdness. For a moment his disgust made him quite natural. \"It is\n_legal_ enough, I suppose,\" he said coldly.\n\nMrs. Maitland did not lift her head, but with her eyes fixed on her\nneedles, she suddenly stopped knitting. Nannie quivered.\n\n\"Mamma,\" she burst in, \"Blair wanted to tell you about something very\nbeautiful that he has found, and--\" Her brother pinched her, and her\nvoice trailed into silence.\n\n\"Found something beautiful? I'd like to hear of his finding something\nuseful!\" The ice cracked a little more. \"As for your mother's honesty,\nBlair, if you had waited a minute, I'd have told you that as soon as I\nfound the idea was practical I handed it over to Kraas. _I'm_ damn-fool\nhonest, I suppose.\" But this time she did not laugh at her joke. Blair\nwas instant with apologies; he had not meant--he had not intended--\"Of\ncourse you would do the square thing,\" he declared.\n\n\"But you thought I wouldn't,\" she said. And while he was making polite\nexclamations, she changed the subject for something safer. She still\ntried to entertain him, but now she spoke wearily. \"What do you suppose\nI read in the paper to-night? Some man in New York--named Maitland,\ncuriously enough; 'picked up' an old master--that's how the paper put\nit; for $5,000. It appears it was considered 'cheap'! It was 14x18\ninches. _Inches_, mind you, not feet! Well, Mr. Doestick's friends are\nnot all dead yet. Sorry anybody of our name should do such a thing.\"\n\nNannie turned white enough to faint.\n\n\"Allow me to say,\" said Blair, tensely, \"that an 'old master' might be\ncheap at five times that price!\"\n\n\"I wouldn't give five thousand dollars for the greatest picture that\nwas ever painted,\" his mother announced. Then, without an instant's\nwarning, her face puckered into a furious sneeze. \"God bless us!\" she\nsaid, and blew her nose loudly. Blair jumped.\n\n\"_I_ would give all I have in the world!\" he said.\n\n\"Well,\" his mother said, ramming her grimy handkerchief into her\npocket, \"if it cost all _you_ have in the world, it would certainly be\ncheap; for, so far as I know, you haven't anything.\" Alas! the ice had\ngiven way entirely.\n\nBlair pushed Nannie's hand from his arm, and getting up, walked over to\nthe marble-topped centre-table; he stood there slowly turning over the\npages of _The Poetesses of America_, in rigid determination to hold his\ntongue. Mrs. Maitland's eyebrow began to rise; her fingers tightened on\nher hurrying needles until the nails were white. Nannie, looking from\none to the other, trembled with apprehension. Then she made an excuse\nto take Blair to the other end of the room.\n\n\"Come and look at my drawing,\" she said; and added under her breath:\n\"Don't tell her!\"\n\nBlair shook his head. \"I've got to, somehow.\" But when he came back and\nstood in front of his mother, his hands in his pockets, his shoulder\nlounging against the mantelpiece, he was apparently his careless self\nagain. \"Well,\" he said, gaily, \"if I haven't anything of my own, it's\nyour fault; you've been too generous to me!\"\n\nThe knitting-needles flagged; Nannie drew a long breath.\n\n\"Yes, you are too good to me,\" he said; \"and you work so hard! Why do\nyou work like a--a man?\" There was an uncontrollable quiver of disgust\nin his voice.\n\nHis mother smiled, with a quick bridling of her head--he was\ncomplimenting her! The soreness from his thrust about legality\nvanished. \"Yes; I do work hard. I reckon there's no man in the iron\nbusiness who can get more pork for his shilling than I can!\"\n\nBlair cast an agonized look at Nannie; then set himself to his task\nagain--in rather a roundabout way: \"Why don't you spend some of your\nmoney on yourself, Mother, instead of on me?\"\n\n\"There's nothing I want.\"\n\n\"But there are so many things you could have!\"\n\n\"I have everything I need,\" said Mrs. Maitland; \"a roof, a bed, a\nchair, and food to eat. As for all this truck that people spend their\nmoney on, what use is it? that's what I want to know! What's it worth?\"\n\nBlair put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small beautifully\ncarved jade box; he took off the lid delicately, and shook a scarab\ninto the palm of his hand. \"I'll tell you what _that_ is worth,\" he\nsaid, holding the dull-blue oval between his thumb and finger; then he\nmentioned a sum that made Nannie exclaim. His mother put down her\nknitting, and taking the bit of eternity in her fingers, looked at it\nsilently. \"Do you wonder I got that box, which is a treasure in itself,\nto hold such a treasure?\" Blair exulted.\n\nMrs. Maitland, handing the scarab back, began to knit furiously.\n\"That's what it's worth,\" he said; he was holding the scarab in his\npalm with a sort of tenderness; his eyes caressed it. \"But it isn't\nwhat I paid. The collector was hard up, and I made him knock off\ntwenty-five per cent, of the price.\"\n\n\"Hah!\" said Mrs. Maitland; \"well; I suppose 'all's fair in love and\ncollections'?\"\n\n\"What's unfair in that?\" Blair said, sharply; \"I buy in the cheapest\nmarket. You do _that_ yourself, my dear mother.\" When Blair said \"my\ndear mother,\" he was farthest from filial affection. \"Besides,\" he\nsaid, with strained self-control, \"besides, I'm like you, I'm not\n'damn-fool honest'!\"\n\n\"Oh, I didn't say you weren't honest. Only, if I was going to take\nadvantage of anybody, I'd do it for something more important than a\nblue china beetle.\" \"The trouble with you, Mother, is that you don't\nsee anything but those hideous Works of yours!\" her son burst out.\n\n\"If I did, you couldn't pay for your china beetles. Beetles? You\ncouldn't pay for the breeches you're sitting in!\"\n\n\"Oh, Mamma! oh, Blair!\" sighed poor Nannie.\n\nThere was a violent silence. Suddenly Mrs. Maitland brought the flat of\nher hand furiously down on the table; then, without a word, got on her\nfeet, pulled at the ball of pink worsted which had run behind a chair\nand caught under the caster; her jerk broke the thread. The next moment\nthe parlor door banged behind her.\n\nNannie burst out crying. Blair opened and closed his lips, speechless\nwith rage.\n\n\"What--what made her so angry?\" Nannie said, catching her breath. \"Was\nit the beetle?\"\n\n\"Don't call it that ridiculous name! I'll have to borrow the $5,000.\nAnd where the devil I'll get it I don't know. Nannie, 'goose Molly'\nwasn't an entire fool, after all!\"\n\n\"Blair!\" his sister protested, horrified. But Blair was too angry to be\nashamed of himself. He could not see that his mother's anger was only\nthe other side of her love. In Sarah Maitland, not only maternity, but\npride, the peculiar pride engendered in her by her immense\nbusiness--pride and maternity together, demanded such high things of\nher son! Not finding them, the pain of disappointment broke into\nviolent expression. Indeed, had this charming fellow, handsome,\nselfish, sweet-hearted, been some other woman's son, she would have\nbeen far more patient with him. Her very love made her abominable to\nhim. She was furiously angry when she left him there in Nannie's\nparlor; all the same he did not have to borrow the $5,000.\n\nThe next morning Sarah Maitland sent for her superintendent. \"Mr.\nFerguson,\" she said--they were in her private office, and the door was\nshut; \"Mr. Ferguson, I think--but I don't know--I think Blair has been\nmaking an idiot of himself again. I saw in the paper that somebody\ncalled Maitland had been throwing money away on a picture. I don't know\nwhat it was, and I don't want to know. It was 14x18 inches; not feet.\nThat was enough for me. Why, Ferguson, those big pictures in my parlor\n(I bought them when I was going to be married; a woman is sort of\nfoolish then; I wouldn't do such a thing now), those four pictures are\n4x6 feet each; and they cost me $400; $100 apiece. But this New York\nman has paid $5,000 for one picture 14x18 inches! If it was Blair--and\nit came over me last night, all of a sudden, that it was; he hasn't got\nany $5,000 to pay for it. I don't want to go into the matter with him;\nwe don't get along on such subjects. But I want you to ask him about\nit; maybe he'll speak out to you, man fashion. If this 'Maitland' is\njust a fool of our name so much the better; but if it is Blair, I've\ngot to help him out, I suppose. I want you to settle the thing for me.\nI--can't.\" Her voice broke on the last word; she coughed and cleared\nher throat before she could speak distinctly. \"I haven't the time,\" she\nsaid.\n\nRobert Ferguson listened, frowning. \"You'll give him money to spend in\nways you don't approve of?\"\n\nShe nodded sullenly. \"I have to.\"\n\n\"You don't have to!\" he broke out; \"for God's sake, Mrs. Maitland,\n_stop!_\"\n\n\"What do you mean, sir?\"\n\n\"I mean . . . this isn't my business, but I can't see you--Mrs.\nMaitland, if I get to talking on this subject, we'll quarrel.\"\n\nThe glare of anger in her face died out. She leaned back in her chair\nand looked at him. \"I won't quarrel with you. Go on. Say what you\nthink. I won't say I'll take your advice, but I'll listen to it.\"\n\n\"It's what I have always told you. You are squeezing the life out of\nBlair by giving him money. You've always done it, because it was the\neasy thing to do. Let up on him! Give him a chance. Let him earn his\nmoney, or go without. Talk about making him independent--you've made\nhim as dependent as a baby! I don't know my Bible as well as you do,\nbut there is a verse somewhere--something about 'fullness of bread and\nabundance of idleness.' That's what's the trouble with Blair. 'Fullness\nof bread and abundance of idleness.'\"\n\n\"But he's been at college; he couldn't work while he was at college,\"\nshe said, with honest bewilderment.\n\n\"Of course he couldn't. But why did you let him dawdle round at\ncollege, pretending to special, for a year after he graduated? Of\ncourse he _won't_ work so long as he doesn't have to. The boy wouldn't\nbe human if he did! You never made him feel he had to get through and\nto go to work. You've given him everything he wanted, and you've\nexacted nothing in return; not scholarship, nor even decent behavior.\nHe's gambled, and gone after women, and bought everything on earth he\nwanted--the only thing he knows how to do is to spend money! He has\nnever done a hand's turn of work in his life. He is just as much a dead\nbeat as any beggar who gets his living out of other people's pockets.\nThat he gets it out of your pocket doesn't alter that; that he doesn't\nwear rags and knock at back doors doesn't alter it. He's a dead beat!\nAny man is, who takes and doesn't give anything in return. It's queer\nyou can't see that, Mrs. Maitland.\"\n\nShe was silent.\n\n\"Why, look here: I've heard you say, many a time, that the best part of\nyour life was when you had to work hardest. Isn't that so?\" She nodded.\n\"Then why in thunder won't you let Blair work? Let him work, or go\nwithout!\"\n\nAgain she did not speak.\n\n\"For Heaven's sake, give him a chance, before it's too late!\"\n\nMrs. Maitland got up, and stood with her back to him, looking out of\nthe smoke-grimed window. Presently she turned round. \"Well, what would\nyou do now--supposing he did buy the picture?\"\n\n\"Tell him that he has overdrawn his allowance, and that if he wants the\npicture he must earn the money to pay for it. Say you'll advance it, if\ninstead of going to Europe this summer he'll stay at home and go to\nwork. Of course he can't earn five thousand dollars. I doubt if he can\nearn five thousand cents! But make up a job--just for this once; and\nhelp him out. I don't believe in made-up jobs, on principle; but\nthey're better than nothing. If he won't work, darn the picture! It can\nbe resold.\"\n\nShe blew her lips out in a bubbling sigh, and began to bite her\nforefinger. Robert Ferguson had said his say. He gathered his papers\ntogether and got on his feet.\n\n\"Mr. Ferguson ...\" He waited, his hand on the knob.\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"'Bliged to you. But for the present--\"\n\n\"Very well,\" Robert Ferguson said shortly.\n\n\"Just put through the business of the picture. Hereafter--\"\n\nFerguson shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nAfter his first spasm of angry disgust, when he declared he would go\nEast the next morning, Blair's fancy for \"hanging round Mercer\"\nhardened into purpose; but he did not \"hang round\" his mother's house.\n\"The hotel is pretty bad,\" he told Nannie, \"but it's better than\n_this_.\" So he took the most expensive suite in the big, dark old River\nHouse that in those days was Mercer's best hotel. Its blackened facade\nand the Doric columns of its entrance gave it a certain exterior\ndignity; and its interior comfort, combined with the reviving\nassociations of youth, lengthened Blair's two or three days to a week,\nthen to a fortnight.\n\nThe day after that distressing interview with his mother, he went gaily\nround to Mrs. Richie's to pound David on the back, and say\n\"Congratulations, old fellow! Why in thunder,\" he complained, \"didn't I\ncome back before? You've cut me out, you villain!\"\n\nDavid grinned.\n\n   \"'Before the devil could come back,\n   The angel had the inside track,'\"\n\nhe admitted.\n\n\"Well, if you'll take my advice, you won't be too angelic,\" Blair said\na little dryly. \"She always had a touch of the other thing in her, you\nknow.\"\n\n\"You think I'd better cultivate a few vices?\" David inquired amiably;\n\"I'm obliged for an example, anyhow!\"\n\nBut Blair did not keep up the chaffing. The atmosphere of Mrs. Richie's\nhouse dominated him as completely as when he was a boy. He looked at\nher serene face, her simple, feminine parlor, the books and flowers and\npictures,--and thought of his mother and his mother's house. Then,\nsomehow, he was ashamed of his thoughts, because this dear lady said in\nher gentle way:\n\n\"How happy your mother must be to have you at home again, Blair. You\nwon't rush right off and leave us, will you?\"\n\n\"Well,\" he hesitated, \"of course I don't want to\"--he was surprised at\nthe ring of truth in his voice; \"but I am going to paint this summer. I\nam going to be in one of the studios in Paris.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm sorry,\" she said simply. And Blair had an instant of\nuncertainty, although a moment before his \"painting\" had seemed to him\nnecessary, because it facilitated another summer away from home; and\nafter the interview with his mother's general manager, a summer away\nfrom home was more than ever desirable.\n\nMr. Ferguson had handed over the five thousand dollars, and then freed\nhis mind. Blair listened. He heard that he was a sucker, that he was a\npoor stick, that he wasn't fit to black his mother's boots. \"They need\nit,\" he said, chuckling; and Robert Ferguson nearly burst with anger!\n\nYet when the check was on its way to New York, and the picture had been\nshipped to Mercer, Blair still lingered at the River House. The idea of\n\"renewing their youth\" had appealed to all four friends. In the next\ntwo or three weeks they were constantly together at either one house or\nthe other, or at some outside rendezvous arranged by Blair--a drive\ndown to Willis's, a theater party and supper, a moonlight walk. Once\nDavid suggested \"ice-cream at Mrs. Todd's.\" But this fell through;\nBlair said that even his sentimentality could not face the blue paper\nroses, and when David urged that the blue paper roses were part of the\nfun, Blair said, \"Well, _I'll_ match you for it. All important\ndecisions ought to be left to chance, to avoid the burden of\nresponsibility!\" A pitched penny favored Blair, and Mrs. Todd did not\nsee the 'handsome couples.' It was at the end of the first week, when\nthey were all dining with Mrs. Richie--the evening meal was beginning\nto be called dinner nowadays in Mercer; that Mrs. Richie's soft eyes,\nwhich took duty and energy and ability so sweetly and trustingly for\ngranted,--Mrs. Richie's believing eyes did for Blair what Robert\nFerguson's vociferating truthfulness had not been able to accomplish.\nIt was after dinner, and she and Blair had gone into the little\nplant-room, where the air was sweet with hyacinths and the moist\ngreenness of ferns.\n\n\"Blair,\" she said, putting her soft hand on his arm; \"I want to say\nsomething. You won't mind?\"\n\n\"Mind anything _you_ say? I should think not!\"\n\n\"It is only that I want you to know that, when the time comes, I shall\nthink it very fine in you, with your tastes and temperament, to buckle\ndown at the Works. I shall admire you very much then, Blair.\"\n\nHe gave her a droll look. \"Alas, dear Mrs. Richie,\" he began; but she\ninterrupted him.\n\n\"Your mother will be so proud and happy when you get to work; and I\nwanted you to know that I, too--\"\n\nHe took her hand from his arm and lifted it to his lips; there was a\ncourtliness about Blair, and a certain gravity, which at moments gave\nhim positive distinction. \"If there is any good in me,\" he said, \"you\nwould bring it out.\" Then he smiled. \"But probably there isn't any.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" she cried, and hesitated; he saw that her leaf-brown eyes\nwere wet. \"You must make your life worth while, Blair. You must! It\nwould be such a dreadful failure if you didn't do anything but enjoy\nyourself.\" He was keenly touched. He did not kiss her hand again; he\njust put his arm around her, as David might have done, and gave her a\nhug. \"Mrs. Richie! I--I _will_ brace up!\"\n\n\"You are a dear fellow,\" she said, and kissed him. Then they went back\nto the other three, to find Elizabeth in a gale of teasing merriment\nbecause, she said, David was so \"terribly talkative\"!\n\n\"He has sat there like a bump on a log for fifteen minutes,\" she\ncomplained. \"Say something, dummy!\" she commanded.\n\nDavid only chuckled, and pulled Blair into a corner to talk. \"You girls\nkeep on your own side; don't interrupt serious conversation,\" he said.\n\"Blair, I want to ask you--\" And in a minute the two young men were\ndeep in their own affairs. It was amusing to see how quickly all four\nof them fell back into the comfortable commonplace of old friendship,\nthe men roaring over some college reminiscences, and the two girls\ngrumbling at being left out. \"Really,\" said Mrs. Richie, \"I should\nthink none of you were more than fifteen!\"\n\nThat night, when he took his sister home, Blair was very silent. Her\nlittle trickle of talk about David and Elizabeth was apparently\nunheard. As they turned into their own street, the full moon, just\nrising out of the river mists, suddenly flooded the waste-lands beyond\nthe Works; the gaunt outlines of the Foundry were touched with ethereal\nsilver, and the Maitland house, looming up in a great black mass, made\na gulf of shadow that drowned the dooryard and spread half-way across\nthe squalid street. Beyond the shadow, Shantytown, in the quiet\nsplendor of the moon, seemed as intangible as a dream.\n\n\"Beautiful!\" Blair said, involuntarily. He stood for a silent moment,\ndrinking the beauty like wine, perhaps it was the exhilaration of it\nthat made him say abruptly: \"Perhaps I'll not go abroad. Perhaps I'll\npitch in.\"\n\nNannie fairly jumped with astonishment. \"Blair! You mean to go into the\nWorks? This summer? Oh, how pleased Mamma would be! It would be\nperfectly splendid. _Oh_!\" Nannie gave his arm a speechless squeeze.\n\n\"If I do, it will be because Mrs. Richie bolstered me up. Of course I\nwould hate it like the devil; but perhaps it's the decent thing to do?\nOh, well; don't say anything about it. I haven't made up my mind--this\nis an awful place!\" he said, with a shiver, looking across at\nShantytown and remembering what was hidden under the glamor of the\nmoon. \"The smell of it! Democracy is well enough, Nancy--until you\nsmell it.\"\n\n\"But you could live at the hotel,\" Nannie reminded him, as he pulled\nout his latch-key.\n\n\"You bet I would,\" her brother said, laughing. \"My dear, not even your\nsociety could reconcile me to the slums. But I don't know whether I can\nscrew myself up to the Works, anyhow. David won't be in town, and that\nwould be a nuisance. Well, I'll think it over; but if I do stay, I tell\nyou what it is!--you two girls will have to make things mighty\nagreeable, or I'll clear out.\"\n\nHe did think it over; but Blair had never been taught the one regal\nword of life, he had never learned to say \"I _ought_.\" Therefore it\nneeded more talks with Mrs. Richie, more days with Elizabeth--David,\nconfound him! wouldn't come, because he had to pack, but Nannie tagged\non behind; it needed the \"bolstering up\" of much approval on the part\nof the onlookers, and much self-approval, too, before the screwing-up\nprocess reached a point where he went into his mother's office in the\nWorks and told her that if she was ready to take him on, he was ready\nto go to work.\n\nMrs. Maitland was absolutely dumb with happiness. He wanted to go to\nwork! He asked to be taken on! \"What do you say _now_, friend\nFerguson?\" she jeered; \"you thought he was going to play at his\npainting for another year, and you wanted me to put his nose to the\ngrindstone, and make him earn the money to pay for that fool picture.\nIsn't it better to have him come to it of his own accord? I'd pay for\nten pictures, if they made him want to go to work. As for his painting,\nit will be his father over again. My husband had his fancies about it,\ntoo, but he gave it all up when he married me; marriage always gives a\nman common sense,--marriage and business. That's how it's going to be\nwith Blair,\" she ended complacently. \"Blair has brains; I've always\nsaid so.\"\n\nRobert Ferguson did not deny the brains, but he was as astonished as\nshe.\n\n\"I believe,\" he challenged Mrs. Richie, \"_you_ put him up to it? You\nalways could wind that boy round your finger.\"\n\n\"I did talk to him,\" she confessed; it was their last interview, for\nshe and David were starting East that night, and Mr. Ferguson had come\nin to say good-by. \"I talked to him--a little. Mrs. Maitland's\ndisappointment about him went to my heart. Besides, I am very fond of\nBlair; there is a great deal of good in him. You are prejudiced.\"\n\n\"No I'm not. I admit that as his mother says, 'he's no fool'; but that\nonly makes his dilly-dallying so much the worse. Still, I believe that\nif she were to lose all her money, and he were to fall very much in\nlove and be refused, he might amount to something. But it would need\nboth things to make a man of him.\"\n\nRobert Ferguson sighed, and Mrs. Richie left the subject of the\ncurative effect of unsuccessful love, with nervous haste. \"I am going\nto charge Elizabeth and Nannie to do all they can to make it pleasant\nfor him, so that he won't find the Works too terrible,\" she said. At\nwhich reflection upon the Works, Mr. Ferguson barked so fiercely that\nshe felt quite at ease with him. But his barking did not prevent her\nfrom telling the girls that business would be very hard for Blair, and\nthey must cheer him up: \"Do try to amuse him! You know it is going to\nbe very stupid for him in Mercer.\"\n\nNannie, of course, needed no urging; as for Elizabeth, she was a little\ncontemptuous. Oh yes; she would do what she could, she said. \"Of\ncourse, I'm awfully fond of Blair, but--\"\n\nThe fact was, she was contrasting in her own mind the man who had to be\n\"amused\" to keep him at his work, with David--\"working himself to\ndeath!\" she told Nannie, proudly. And Nannie, quick to feel the slur in\nher words, said:\n\n\"Yes, but it is quite different with Blair. Blair doesn't _have_ to do\nanything, you know.\"\n\nStill, thanks to Mrs. Richie, he was at least going to pretend to do\nsomething. And so, at a ridiculously high salary, he entered, as he\ntold Elizabeth humorously, \"upon his career.\" The only thing he did to\nmake life more tolerable for himself was to live in the hotel instead\nof in his mother's house. But it was characteristic of him that he left\nthe wonderful old canvas--the \"fourteen by eighteen inch\" picture,\nhanging on the wall in Nannie's parlor. \"You ought to have something\nfit for a civilized eye to rest upon,\" he told her, \"and I can see it\nwhen I come to see you.\" If his permanent departure for the River House\nwounded his mother, she made no protest; she only lifted a pleased\neyebrow when he dropped in to supper, which, she noticed, he was apt to\ndo whenever Elizabeth happened to take tea with Nannie. When he did\ncome, Sarah Maitland used to look about the dining-room table, with its\nthick earthenware dishes--the last of the old Canton service had found\nits way to the ash-barrel; she used to glance at the three young people\nwith warm satisfaction. \"Like old times!\" she would say kindly; \"only\nneeds David to make it complete.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland was sixty-two that spring, but there was no stoop of the\nbig shoulders, no sign of that settling and shrinking that age brings.\nShe was at the full tide of her vigor, and her happiness in having her\nson beside her in the passion of her life, which was second only to her\npassion for him, showed itself in clumsy efforts to flaunt her\ncontentment before her world. Every morning, with varying\nunpunctuality, Blair came into her office at the Works where she had\nhad a desk placed for him. He was present, because she insisted that he\nshould be, at the regular conferences which she held with the heads of\ndepartments. She made a pretense of asking his advice, which was as\namusing to Mr. Ferguson and the under-superintendents as it was\ntiresome to Blair. For after his first exhilaration in responding to\nMrs. Richie's high belief in him, the mere doing of duty began\ngradually to pall. Her belief helped him through the first four or five\nmonths, then the whole thing became a bore. His work was ludicrously\nperfunctory, and his listlessness when in the office was apparent to\neverybody. At the bottom of her heart, Sarah Maitland must have known\nthat it was all a farce. Blair was worth nothing to the business; his\nonly relation to it was the weekly drawing of an unearned \"salary.\"\nPerhaps if Mrs. Richie had been in Mercer, to make again and again the\nappeal of confident expectation, that little feeble sense of duty which\nhad started him upon his \"career,\" might have struck a root down\nthrough feeling, into the rock-bed of character. But as it was, not\neven the girls' obedience to her order, \"to amuse Blair,\" made up for\nthe withdrawal of her own sustaining inspiration.\n\nBut at least Nannie and Elizabeth kept him fairly contented out of\nbusiness hours; and so long as he was contented, things were smooth\nbetween him and his mother. There was, as Blair expressed it, \"only one\nrumpus\" that whole summer, and it was a very mild one, caused by the\nfact that he did not go to church. On those hot July Sunday mornings,\nhis mother in black silk, and Nannie in thin lawn, sat in the family\npew, fanning themselves, and waiting; Nannie, constantly turning to\nlook down the aisle; Sarah Maitland intent for a familiar step and a\nhand upon the little baize-lined door of the pew. The \"rumpus\" came\nwhen, on the third Sunday, Blair was called to account.\n\nIt was after supper, in the hot dusk in Nannie's parlor; Elizabeth was\nthere, and the two girls, in white dresses, were fanning themselves\nlanguidly; Blair, at the piano, was playing the Largo, with much\nfeeling. The windows were open. It was too warm for lamps, and the room\nwas lighted only by the occasional roar of flames, breaking fan-like\nfrom the tops of the stacks in the Yards. Suddenly, in the midst of\ntheir idle talk, Mrs. Maitland came in; she paused for a moment before\nthe dark oblong of canvas on the wall beside the door. Of course, in\nthe half-light, the little dim Mother of God--immortal\nmaternity!--could scarcely be seen.\n\n\"Umph,\" she said, \"a dirty piece of canvas, at about twenty dollars a\nsquare inch!\" No one spoke. \"Let's see;\" she calculated;--\"ore is $10 a\nton; 20 tons to a car; say one locomotive hauls 25 cars. Well, there\nyou have it: a trainload of iron ore, to pay for _this_!\" she snapped a\nthumb and finger against the canvas. Blair jumped--then ran his right\nhand up the keyboard in a furious arpeggio. But he said nothing. Mrs.\nMaitland, moving away from the picture, blew out her lips in a loud\nsigh. \"Well,\" she said; \"tastes differ, as the old woman said when she\nkissed her cow.\"\n\nStill no one spoke, but Elizabeth rose to offer her a chair. \"No,\" she\nsaid, coming over and resting an elbow on the mantelpiece, \"I won't sit\ndown. I'm going in a minute.\"\n\nAs she stood there, unrest spread about her as rings from a falling\nstone spread on the surface of a pool. Blair yawned, and got up from\nthe piano; Elizabeth fidgeted; Nannie began to talk nervously.\n\n\"Blair,\" said his mother, her strident voice over-riding the girls'\nchatter, \"why don't you come to church?\"\n\nHis answer was perfectly unevasive and entirely good-natured. \"Well,\nfor one thing, I don't believe the things the church teaches.\"\n\n\"What do you believe?\" she demanded. And he answered carelessly, that\nreally, he hardly knew.\n\nIt was, of course, the old difference of the generations; but it was\nmore marked because these two generations had never spoken the same\nlanguage, therefore quiet, sympathetic disagreement was impossible. It\nwas impossible, too, because the actual fact was that neither her\nbelief nor his disbelief were integral to their lives. Her creed was a\nbarbarous anthropomorphism, which had created an offended and puerile\ngod--a god of foreign missions and arid church-going and eternal\ndamnation. The fear of her god (such as he was) would, no doubt, have\nprotected her against certain physical temptations, to which, as it\nhappened, her temperament never inclined; but he had never safeguarded\nher from the temptation of cutthroat competition, or even of business\nshrewdness which her lawyer showed her how to make legal. Blair, on the\ncontrary, had long ago discarded the naive brutalities of\nPresbyterianism; church-going bored him, and he was not interested in\nsaving souls in Africa. But, like most of us--like his mother, in fact,\nhe had a god of his own, a god who might have safeguarded him against\ncertain intellectual temptations; cheating at cards, or telling the\ntruth, if the truth would compromise a woman. But as he had no desire\nto cheat at cards, and the women whom he might have compromised did not\nneed to be lied about, his god was of as little practical value to him\nas his mother's was to her. So they were neither of them speaking of\nrealities when Mrs. Maitland said: \"What do you believe? What have you\ngot instead of God?\"\n\n\"Honor,\" Blair said promptly. \"What do you mean by honor?\" she said,\nimpatiently.\n\n\"Well,\" her son reflected, \"there are things a man simply can't do;\nthat's all. And that's honor, don't you know. Of course, religion is\nsupposed to keep you from doing things, too. But there's this\ndifference: religion, if you pick pockets--I speak metaphorically;\nthreatens you with hell. Honor threatens you with yourself.\" As he\nspoke he frowned, as if a disagreeable idea had occurred to him.\n\nHis mother frowned, too. That hell and a man's self might be the same\nthing had never struck Sarah Maitland. She did not understand what he\nmeant, and feeling herself at a disadvantage, retaliated with the\nreproof she might have administered to a boy of fifteen: \"You don't\nknow what you are talking about!\"\n\nThe man of twenty-five laughed lazily. \"Your religion is very amusing,\nmy dear mother.\"\n\nHer face darkened. She took her elbow from the mantelpiece, and seemed\nuncertain what to do. Blair sprang to open the door, but she made an\nirritated gesture. \"I know how to open doors,\" she said. She threw a\nbrief \"good-night\" to Elizabeth, and turned a cheek to Nannie for the\nkiss that had fallen there, soft as a little feather, in all the nights\nof all the years they had lived together. \"'Night, Blair,\" she said\nshortly; then hesitated, her hand on the door-knob. There was an\ninstant when the command _\"Go to church!\"_ trembled upon her lips, but\nit was not spoken. \"I advise you,\" she said roughly, \"to get over your\nconceit, and try to get some religion into you. Your father and your\ngrandfather didn't think they could get along without it; they went to\nchurch! But you evidently think you are so much better than they were\nthat you can stay away.\"\n\nThe door slammed behind her. Blair whistled. \"Poor dear mother!\" he\nsighed; and turned round to listen to the two girls. \"Can you be ready\nto start on the first?\" Elizabeth was asking Nannie, evidently trying\nto cover up the awkwardness of that angry exit.\n\n\"Start where?\" Blair asked.\n\n\"Why, East! You know. I told you ages ago,\" Nannie explained.\n\"Elizabeth and I are going to stay with Mrs. Richie at the seashore.\"\n\n\"You never said a word about it,\" Blair said disgustedly. His annoyance\nknew no disguise. \"I call it pretty shabby for you two to go off!\nWhat's going to happen to me?\"\n\n\"Business, Blair, business!\" Elizabeth mocked. But Nannie was plainly\nconscience-stricken. \"I'll not go, if you'd rather I didn't, Blair.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" her brother said shortly, \"of course you must go, but--\" He\ndid not finish his thought, whatever it was; he went back to the piano\nand began to drum idly. His face was sharply annoyed. That definition\nof his god which he had made to his mother, had aroused a nameless\nuneasiness. It occurred to him that perhaps he was \"picking a pocket,\"\nin finding such emphatic satisfaction in Elizabeth's society. Now,\nabruptly, at the news of her approaching absence, the uneasiness\nsharpened into faintly recognizable outlines.\n\nHe struck a jarring chord on the piano, and told himself not to be a\nfool. \"She's mighty good fun. Of course I shall miss her or any other\ngirl, in this Godforsaken hole! That's all it amounts to. Anyhow, she's\ndead in love with David.\" Sitting there in the hot dusk, listening to\nthe voices of the girls, Blair felt suddenly irritated with David.\n\"Darn him, why does he go off and leave her in this way? Not but what\nit is all right so far as I am concerned; only--\" Then, wordlessly, his\ngod must have accused him, for he winced. \"I am _not_, not in the\nleast!\" he said. The denial confessed him to himself, and there was an\nangry bang of discordant octaves. The two girls called out in dismay.\n\n\"Oh, _do_ stop!\" Elizabeth said. Blair got up from the piano-stool and\ncame over to them silently. His thoughts were in clamoring confusion.\n\"I am _not_,\" he said again to himself. \"I like her, but that's all.\"\nThere was a look of actual panic on his lazily charming face. He\nglanced at Elizabeth, who, her head on Nannie's shoulder, was humming\nsoftly: \"'Oh, won't it be joyful--joyful-joyful--'\" and clenched his\nhands.\n\nHe was very silent as he walked home with her that night. When they\nreached her door, Elizabeth looked up at the closed shutters of Mrs.\nRichie's house, and sighed. \"How dreary a closed house looks!\" she\nsaid. \"I almost wish Uncle would rent it, but he won't. _I_ think he is\nkeeping it for Mrs. Richie to live in when David and I settle down in\nPhiladelphia.\"\n\nBlair was apparently not interested in Mrs. Richie's future. \"I wish,\"\nhe said, \"that I'd gone to Europe this summer.\"\n\n\"Well, that's polite, considering that Nannie and I have spent our time\nmaking it agreeable for you.\"\n\n\"I stayed in Mercer because I thought I'd like a summer with Nannie,\"\nhe defended himself; he was just turning away at the foot of the steps,\nbut he stopped and called back: \"with Nannie-_and you.\"_\n\nElizabeth, from the open door, looked after him with frank\nastonishment. \"How long since Nannie and I have been so much\nappreciated?\"\n\n\"I think I began to appreciate you a good while ago, Elizabeth,\" he\nsaid, significantly; but she did not hear him. \"Perhaps it's just as\nwell she's going,\" he told himself, as he went slowly back to the\nhotel. \"Not that I'm smitten; but I might be. I can see that I might\nbe, if I should let myself go.\" But he was confident that allegiance to\nhis god would keep him from ever letting himself go.\n\nThe girls went East that week, and when they did, Blair took no more\nmeals in the office-dining-room.\n\nIt was a very happy time that the inland girls spent with Mrs. Richie,\nin her small house on the Jersey shore. It happened that neither of\nthem had ever seen the ocean, and their first glimpse of it was a great\nexperience. Added to that was the experience, new to both of them, of\ndaily companionship with a serene nature. Mrs. Richie was always a\nlittle remote, a little inclined to keep people at arm's-length; there\nwere undercurrents of sadness in her talk, and she was perhaps rather\nabsorbed in her own supreme affair, maternal love. Also, her calm\noutlook upon heavenly horizons made the affairs of the girls seem\nsometimes disconcertingly small, and to realize the smallness of one's\naffairs is in itself an experience to youth. But in spite of the\nultimate reserves they felt in her, Mrs. Richie was sympathetic, and\nfull of soft gaieties, with endless patience for people and events.\nElizabeth's old uneasy dislike of her had long since yielded to the\nfact that she was David's mother, and so must be, and in theory was,\nloved. But the love was really only a faint awe at what she still\ncalled \"perfection\"; and during the two months of living under the same\nroof with her, Elizabeth felt at times a resentful consciousness that\nMrs. Richie was afraid of that ungovernable temper, which, the girl\nused to say, impatiently, \"never hurts anybody but myself!\" Like most\nhigh-tempered people, Elizabeth, though penitent and more or less\nmortified by her outbursts of fury, was always a little astonished when\nany one took them seriously; and Mrs. Richie took them very seriously.\n\nNannie, being far simpler than Elizabeth, was less impressed by Mrs.\nRichie than by her surroundings;--the ocean, the whole gamut of marine\nsights and happenings; Mrs. Richie's housekeeping; the delicate food\nand serving (what would Harris have thought of that table!)-all these\nthings, as well as David's fortnightly visits, and Elizabeth's ardors\nand gay coldnesses, were delights to Nannie. Both girls had an\nabsorbingly good time, and when the last day of the last week finally\narrived, and Mr. Robert Ferguson appeared to escort them home, they\nwere both of them distinctly doleful.\n\n\"Every perfect thing stops!\" Elizabeth sighed to David. They had left\nthe porch, and gone down on to the sands flooded with moonlight and\nsilence. The evening was very still and warm, and the full blue pour of\nthe moon made everything softly unreal, except the glittering path of\nlight crossing the breathing, black expanse of water. David had\nhesitated when she had suggested leaving the others and coming down\nhere by themselves,--then he had looked at Nannie, sitting between\nRobert Ferguson and his mother, and seemed to reassure himself; but he\nwas careful to choose a place on the beach where he could keep an eye\non the porch. He was talking to Elizabeth in his anxious way, about his\nwork, and how soon his income would be large enough for them to marry.\n\"The minus sign expresses it now,\" he said; \"I could kick myself when I\nthink that, at twenty-six, my mother has to pay my washwoman!\" Their\nengagement had continued to accentuate the difference in the\ndevelopment of these two; David's manhood was more and more of the\nmind; Elizabeth's womanhood was most exquisitely of the body. When he\nspoke of his shame in being supported by his mother, she leaned her\ncheek on his shoulder, careless of the three spectators on the porch,\nand said softly, \"David, I love you so that I would like to scrub\nfloors for you.\" He laughed; \"I wouldn't like to have you scrub floors,\nthank you! Why in thunder don't I get ahead faster,\" he sighed. Then he\ntold her that the older men in the profession were \"so darned mean,\neven the big fellows, 'way up,\" that they kept on practising when they\ncould just as well sit back on their hind legs and do nothing, and give\nthe younger men a chance.\n\n\"They are nothing but money-grabbers,\" Elizabeth agreed, burning with\nindignation at all successful physicians. \"But David, we can live on\nvery little. Corn-beef is very cheap, Cherry-pie says. So's liver.\"\n\nUp on the porch the conversation was quite as practical as it was down\nby the moonlit water:\n\n\"Elizabeth is to have a little bit of money handed over to her on her\nnext birthday,\" Mr. Ferguson was saying; then he twitched the black\nribbon of his glasses and brought them tumbling from his nose; \"it's an\ninheritance from her father.\"\n\n\"Oh, how exciting!\" said Nannie. \"Will it make it possible for them to\nbe married any sooner?\"\n\n\"They can't marry on the interest on it,\" he said, with his meager\nlaugh; \"it's only a nest-egg.\"\n\nMrs. Richie sighed. \"Well, of course they must be prudent, but I am\nsorry to have them wait. It will be some time before David's practice\nis enough for them to marry on. He is so funny in planning their\nhousekeeping expenses,\" she said, with that mother-laugh of mockery and\nlove. \"You should hear the economies they propose!\" And she told him\nsome of them. \"They make endless calculations as to how little they can\npossibly live on. You would never suppose they _could_ be so ignorant\nas to the cost of things! Of course I enlighten them when they deign to\nconsult me. I do wish David would let me give him enough to get married\non,\" she ended, a little impatiently.\n\n\"I think he's right not to,\" Robert Ferguson said.\n\n\"David is so queer about money,\" Nannie commented; and rose, saying she\nwanted to go indoors to the lamplight and her book.\n\n\"Pity Blair hasn't some of David's 'queerness,'\" Mr. Ferguson barked,\nwhen she had vanished into the house.\n\nMrs. Richie looked after her uneasily, missing her protecting presence.\nBut in Mr. Ferguson's matter-of-fact talk he seemed just the same\nharsh, kind, unsentimental neighbor of the last seventeen years; \"he's\nforgotten his foolishness,\" she thought, and resigned herself,\ncomfortably, to Nannie's absence. \"Does Elizabeth know about the\nlegacy?\" she asked.\n\n\"No, she hasn't an idea of it. I was bound that the expectation of\nmoney shouldn't spoil her.\"\n\n\"Well,\" she jeered at him, \"I do hope you are satisfied _now_, that she\nis not spoiled by money or anything else! How afraid you were to let\nyourself really love the child--poor little Elizabeth!\"\n\n\"I had reason,\" he insisted doggedly. \"Life had played a trick on me\nonce, and I made up my mind not to build on anybody again, until I was\nsure of them.\" Then, without looking at her, he said, as if following\nout some line of thought, \"I hope you have come to feel that you will\nmarry me, Mrs. Richie?\"\n\n\"_Oh!_\" she said, in dismay.\n\n\"I don't see why you can't make up your mind to it,\" he continued,\nfrowning; \"I know\"--he stopped, and put on his glasses carefully with\nboth hands--\"I know I am a bear, but--\"\n\n\"You are not!\"\n\n\"Don't interrupt. I am. But not at heart. Listen to me, at my age,\ntalking about 'hearts'!\" They both laughed, and then Mr. Ferguson gave\na snort of impatience. \"Look at those two youngsters down there,\nengaged to be married, and swearing by the moon that nobody ever loved\nas they do. How absurd it is! A man has to be fifty before he knows\nenough about love to get married.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\"\n\n\"I cannot take youth seriously,\" he ruminated; \"its behavior, yes; that\nmay be serious enough! Youth is always firing the Ephesian dome; but\nyouth itself, and its opinions, always seem to me a little ridiculous.\nYet those two infants seem to think that they have discovered love!\nWell,\" he interrupted himself, in sudden somber memory, \"I felt that\nway once myself. And yet _now_, I know--\"\n\nMrs. Richie said hurriedly something about its being too damp for\nElizabeth on the sand. \"Do call them in!\"\n\nHe laughed. \"No; you don't need 'em. I won't say any more--to-night.\"\n\n\"Here they come!\" Mrs. Richie said in a relieved voice.\n\nA minute before, David, looking up at the porch, and discovering\nNannie's absence, had said, \"Let's go in.\" \"Oh, must we?\" Elizabeth\nsaid, reluctantly. \"I'd so much rather sit down here and have you kiss\nme.\" But she came, perforce, for David, in his anxiety not to leave his\nmother alone with Mr. Ferguson, was already halfway up the beach.\n\n\"Do tell Elizabeth about the money now,\" Mrs. Richie said.\n\n\"I will,\" said Robert Ferguson; but added, under his breath, \"I sha'n't\ngive up, you know.\" Mrs. Richie was careful not to hear him.\n\n\"Elizabeth!\" she said, eagerly. \"Your uncle has some news for you.\" And\nMr. Ferguson told his niece briefly, that on her birthday in December\nshe would come into possession of some money left her by her father.\n\n\"Don't get up your expectations, it's not much,\" he said, charily, \"but\nit's something to start on.\"\n\n\"Oh, Uncle! how splendid!\" she said, and caught David's hand in both of\nhers. \"David!\"--her face was radiantly unconscious of the presence of\nthe others: \"perhaps we needn't wait two years?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid it won't make much difference.\" David spoke rather grimly;\n\"I must be able to buy your shoestrings myself, you know, before we can\nbe married.\"\n\nElizabeth dropped his hand, and the dimple straightened in her cheek.\n\nMrs. Richie smiled at her. \"Young people have to be prudent, dear\nchild.\"\n\n\"How much money shall I have, Uncle?\" Elizabeth asked coldly.\n\nHe told her. \"Not a fortune; but David needn't worry about your\nshoestrings.\"\n\n\"Yes, I will,\" he broke in, with a laugh. \"She'll have to go barefoot,\nif I can't get 'em for her!\"\n\nElizabeth exclaimed, with angry impatience, and Robert Ferguson,\nchuckling, struck him lightly on the shoulder. \"Look out you don't fall\nover backward trying to stand up straight!\" he said.\n\nThe possibility of an earlier wedding-day was not referred to again.\nThe next morning they all went up to town together in the train, and\nElizabeth, who had recovered from her momentary displeasure, did no\nmore than cast glowing looks at David--lovely, melting looks of\ndelicate passion, as virginal as an opening lily--looks that said, \"I\nwish we did not have to wait!\" For her part, she would have been glad\n\"to go barefoot,\" if only they might the sooner tread the path of life\ntogether.\n\nWhen they got into Mercer, late in the evening, who should meet them at\nthe station but Blair. Robert Ferguson, with obvious relief,\nimmediately handed his charges over to the young man with a hurried\nexplanation that he must see some one on business before going to his\nown house. \"Take the girls home, will you, Blair?\" Blair said that that\nwas what he was there for. His method of taking them home was to put\nNannie into one carriage, and get into another with Elizabeth, who, a\nlittle surprised, asked where Nannie was.\n\n\"It would delay you to go round to our house first,\" Blair explained.\n\"You forget we live in the slums. And Nannie's in a hurry, so I sent\nher directly home. She doesn't mind going by herself, you know. Look\nhere, you two girls have been away an abominably long time! I've been\nterribly lonely--without Nannie.\"\n\nHe had indeed been lonely \"without Nannie.\" In these empty, meaningless\nweeks at the Works, Blair Maitland had suddenly stumbled against the\nnegations of life. Hitherto, he had known only the easy and delightful\nassents of Fate; this was his first experience with the inexorable\n_No_. A week after the girls went East, he admitted to himself that,\nhad David been out of the way, he would undoubtedly have fallen in love\nwith Elizabeth. \"As it is, of course I haven't,\" he declared. Night\nafter night in those next weeks, as he idled moodily about Mercer's\nstreets, or, lounging across the bridge, leaned on the handrail and\nwatched the ashes from his cigar flicker down into the unseen current\nbelow, he said the same thing: \"I am not in love with her, and I\nsha'n't allow myself to be. I won't let it go any farther. But David is\nno man for a girl like Elizabeth to marry.\" Then he would fall to\nthinking just what kind of man Elizabeth ought to marry. Such\nreflections proved, so he assured himself, how entirely he knew that\nshe belonged to David. Sometimes he wondered sullenly whether he had\nnot better leave Mercer before she came back? Perhaps it was his god\nwho made this suggestion; if so, he did not recognize a divine voice.\nHe always decided against such a course. It would be cowardly, he told\nhimself, to keep away from Elizabeth. \"I will see her when she gets\nhome, just as usual. To stay away might make her think that I\nwas--afraid. And I am not in the least, because I am not in love with\nher, and I shall not allow myself to be.\" He was perfectly sure of\nhimself, and perfectly sincere, too; what lover has ever understood\nthat love has nothing to do with volition!\n\nNow, alone with her in the old depot carriage, his sureness permitted\nhim to say, significantly,\n\n``I have been terribly lonely--without Nannie.''\n\n``I thought you were absorbed in business cares,'' she told him drolly.\n``How do you like business, Blair, really?''\n\n``Loathe it,'' he said succinctly. ``Elizabeth, come and take dinner\nwith us to-morrow evening?''\n\n``Oh, Nannie's had enough of me. She's been with me for nearly two\nmonths.''\n\n``I haven't been with you for two months. Be a good girl, and do some\nmissionary work. Slumming is the fashion, you know. Come and cheer me\nup. It's been fiendishly stupid without you.''\n\nShe laughed at his sincerely gloomy voice.\n\n``Come,'' he urged; ``we'll have dinner in the back parlor. Do you\nremember that awful dinner-party?'' He laughed as he spoke, but--being\n'sure';--in the darkness of the shabby hack he looked at her intently.\n. . . Oh, if David were only out of the way!\n\n``Remember it? I should think I did!'' There was no telltale flicker on\nher smooth cheek; even in the gloom of the carriage he could see that\nthe dark amber of her eyes brimmed over with amusement, and the dimple\ndeepened entrancingly. ``How could I forget it? Didn't I wear my first\nlong dress to that dinner-party--oh, and my six-button gloves?''\n\n``I--'' said Blair, and paused. ``I remember other things than the\ngloves and long dress, Elizabeth.'' (Why shouldn't he say as much as\nthat? He was certain of himself, and David was certain of her, so why\nnot speak of what it gave him a rapturous pang to remember?)\n\nBut at his words the color whipped into her cheek; her clear brows drew\ntogether into a slight frown. ``How is your mother, Blair?'' she said\ncoldly. \"Oh, very well. Can you imagine Mother anything but well? The\nheat has nearly killed me, but Mother is iron.\"\n\n\"She's perfectly wonderful!\"\n\n\"Yes; wonderful woman,\" he agreed carelessly. \"Elizabeth, promise\nyou'll come to-morrow evening?\"\n\n\"Cherry-pie would think it was horrid in me not to stay with her, when\nI've been away so long.\"\n\n\"I think it's horrid in you not to stay with me.\"\n\nShe laughed; then sighed. \"David is working awfully hard, Blair.\"\n\n\"Darn David!\" he retorted, laughing. \"So am I, if that's any reason for\nyour giving a man your society.\"\n\n\"You! You couldn't work hard to save your life.\"\n\n\"I could, if I had somebody to work for, as David has.\"\n\n\"You'd better get somebody,\" she said gaily.\n\n\"I don't want any second-bests,\" he declared.\n\n\"Donkey!\" Elizabeth said good-naturedly. But she was a little\nsurprised, for whatever else Blair was, he was not stupid--and such\ntalk is always stupid. That it had its root in anything deeper than\nchaffing never occurred to her. They were at her own door by this time,\nand Blair, helping her out of the carriage, looked into her face, and\nhis veins ran hot.\n\nThe next morning, when he went to see Nannie, he was absorbed and\nirritable. \"Girls are queer,\" he told her; \"they marry all kinds of\nmen. But I'll tell you one thing: David is the last man for a girl like\nElizabeth. He is perfectly incapable of understanding her.\"\n\nThat was the first day that he did not assure himself that he \"was not\nin love.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nThat autumn, with its heats and brown fogs and sharp frosts, was the\nhappiest time in Sarah Maitland's life--the happiest time, at least,\nsince those brief months of marriage;--_Blair was in the Business!_ \"If\nonly his father could see him!\" she used to say to herself. Of course,\nshe had moments of disappointment; once or twice moments of anger,\neven; and once, at any rate, she had a moment of fright. She had\nsummoned her son peremptorily to go with her to watch a certain\nexperiment. Blair appeared, shrinking, bored, absent-minded, nearly an\nhour later than the time she had set. That put her in a bad humor to\nstart with; but as they were crossing the Yards, her irritation\nsuddenly deepened into dismay: Blair, his lip drooping with disgust at\nthe sights and sounds about him, his hands in his pockets, was lounging\nalong behind her, and she, realizing that he was not at her side,\nstopped and looked back. He was standing still, looking up, his eyes\nradiant, his lips parted with delight.\n\n\"What is it?\" she called. He did not hear her; he stood there, gazing\nat three white butterflies that were zigzagging into a patch of pale\nblue sky. How they had come into this black and clamorous spot, why\nthey had left their fields of goldenrod and asters farther down the\nriver, who can say? But here they were, darting up and up, crossing,\ndipping, dancing in the smoky sunshine that flooded thinly the noisy\nsqualor of the Yards. Blair, looking at them, said, under his breath,\nin pure delight, \"Yes, just like the high notes. A flight of violin\nnotes!\"\n\n\"Blair!\" came the impatient voice; \"what's the matter with you?\"\n\n\"Nothing, nothing.\"\n\n\"I was just going to tell you that a high silicon pig--\"\n\n\"My dear mother,\" he interrupted wearily, \"there is something else in\nthe world than pig. I saw three butterflies--\"\n\n\"Butterflies!\"\n\nShe stood in the cinder pathway in absolute consternation. Was her son\na fool? For a moment she was so startled that she was not even angry.\n\"Come on,\" she said soberly; and they went into the Works in silence.\n\nThat evening, when he dropped into supper, she watched him closely, and\nby and by her face lightened a little. Of course, to stop and gape up\ninto the air was silly; but certainly he was talking intelligently\nenough now,--though it was only to Elizabeth Ferguson, who happened to\nbe taking supper with them. Yes, he did not look like a fool. \"He _has_\nbrains,\" she said to herself, frowning, \"but why doesn't he use 'em?\"\nShe sighed, and called out loudly, \"Harris! Corn-beef!\" But as she\nhacked off a slab of boiled meat, she wondered why on earth Nannie\nasked Elizabeth to tea so often, and especially why she asked her on\nthose evenings when Blair happened to be at home. \"Elizabeth is such a\nlittle blatherskite,\" she reflected, good-naturedly, \"the boy doesn't\nget a chance to talk to me!\" Then it occurred to her that perhaps he\ncame because Elizabeth came? for it was evident that she amused him.\nWell, Sarah Maitland had no objection. To secure her son for her dingy\nsupper table she was willing to put up with Elizabeth or any other\ngirl. But certainly Nannie invited her very often. \"I'll come in\nto-night, if you'll invite Elizabeth,\" Blair would bribe her. And\nNannie, like Mrs. Maitland herself, would have invited anybody to gain\nan hour of her brother's company.\n\nThose four weeks had committed Blair Maitland to his first real\npassion. He was violently in love, and now he acknowledged it. The\nmoment had come when his denials became absurd, even to himself, so he\nno longer said he did not love her; he merely said he would never let\nher know he loved her. \"If she doesn't know it, I am square with\nDavid,\" he argued. Curiously enough, when he said \"David,\" he always\nthought of David's mother. He was profoundly unhappy, and yet\nexhilarated--there is always exhilaration in the aching melancholy of\nhopeless love; but somewhere, back in his mind, there was probably the\nhabit of hope. He had always had everything he wanted, so why should\nnot fate be kind now?--of course without any questionable step on his\npart. \"I will never tell her,\" he assured himself; the words stabbed\nhim, but he meant them. He only wished, irrationally enough, that Mrs.\nRichie might know how agonizingly honorable he was.\n\nElizabeth herself did not know it; she had not the slightest idea that\nhe was in love with her. There were probably two reasons for an\nunconsciousness which was certainly rather unusual, for a woman almost\nalways knows. Some tentacles of the soul seem brushed by the\nbrutalities of the material fact, and she knows and retreats--or\nadvances. Elizabeth did not know, and so did not retreat. Perhaps one\nreason for her naive stupidity was the commonplaceness of her relations\nwith Blair. She had known him all her life, and except for that one\nchildish playing at love, which, if she ever remembered it, seemed to\nher entirely funny, she had never thought of him in any other way than\nas \"Nannie's brother\"; and Nannie was, for all practical purposes, her\nsister. Another reason was her entire absorption in her own\nlove-affair. Ever since she had learned of the little legacy, the\nardent thought had lurked in her mind that it might, somehow, in spite\nof David's absurd theories about shoestrings, hasten her marriage.\n\"With all this money, why on earth should we wait?\" she fretted to\nNannie.\n\n\"My dear! you couldn't live on the interest of it!\"\n\n\"I don't know why not,\" Elizabeth said, wilfully.\n\n\"Goose!\" Nannie said, much amused. \"No; the only thing you could do\nwould be to live on your principal. Why don't you do that?\"\n\nElizabeth looked suddenly thoughtful. When she went home she repeated\nNannie's careless words to Miss White, who nibbled doubtfully, and said\nshe never heard of such a thing. But after that, for days, they talked\nof household economies, and with Cherry-pie's help Elizabeth managed to\npare down those estimates which had so diverted her uncle and Mrs.\nRichie. With such practical preoccupations no wonder she was\nunconscious of the change in Blair. Suddenly, like a stone flung\nthrough the darkness at a comfortably lighted domestic window, she saw,\nwith a crash of fright, a new and unknown Blair, a man who was a\ncomplete and dreadful stranger.\n\nIt was dusk; she had come in to see Nannie and talk over that\nilluminating suggestion: _why not live on the principal?_ But Nannie\nwas not at home, so Elizabeth sat down in the firelight in the parlor\nto wait for her. She sat there, smiling to herself, eager to tell\nNannie that she had argued Cherry-pie into admitting that the plan of\n\"living on the principal\" was at least feasible; and also that she had\nsounded her uncle, and believed that if she and David and Cherry-pie\nattacked him, all together, they could make him consent!--\"But of\ncourse David will simply have to insist,\" she thought, a little\napprehensively, \"for Uncle Robert is so awfully sensible.\" Then she\nbegan to plan just how she must tell David of this brilliant idea, and\nmake him understand that they need not wait; \"as soon as he really\nunderstands it, he won't listen to any 'prudence' from Uncle!\" she\nsaid, her eyes crinkling into a laugh. But how should she make him\nunderstand? She must admit at once (because he was so silly and\npractical) that, of course, the interest on her money would not support\nthem. Then she must show him her figures--David was always crazy about\nfigures! Well, she had them; she had brought them with her to show\nNannie; they proved conclusively that she and David could live on her\ncapital for at least two years. It would certainly last as long as\nthat, perhaps even for two years and a half! When they had exhausted\nit, why, then, David's income from his profession would be large\nenough; large enough even if--she blushed nobly, sitting there alone\nlooking into the fire; \"even if!\" Thinking this all out, absorbed and\njoyous, a little jealous because this practical idea had come to Nannie\nand not to her, she did not hear Blair enter. He stood beside her a\nmoment in silence before she was aware of his presence. Then she looked\nup with a start, and leaning back in her chair, the firelight in her\nface, smiled at him: \"Where's Nannie?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Church, I think. But I am glad of it. I would\nrather--see you alone.\" His voice trembled.\n\nHe had come in, in all the unrest of misery; he had said to himself\nthat he was going to \"tell Nannie, anyhow.\" The impulse to \"tell\" had\nbecome almost a physical necessity, and when he came into the room, the\nwhole unhappy, hopeless business was hot on his lips. The mere\nunexpectedness of finding her here, alone, was like a touch against\nthat precariously balanced sense of honor, which was his god, and had\nso far kept him, as he expressed it to himself, \"square with David.\"\n\nTo Elizabeth, sitting there in friendly idleness by the fire, the\nthrill in his voice was like some palpable touch against her breast.\nWithout knowing why, she put her hand up, as if warding something off.\nShe was bewildered; her heart began to beat violently. Instantly, at\nthe sight of the lovely, startled face, the rein broke. He forgot\nDavid, he forgot his god, with whom he had been juggling words for the\nlast two months, he forgot everything, except the single, eternal,\nprimitive purpose: _there was the woman he wanted_. And all his life,\nif he had wanted anything, he had had it. With a stifled cry, he caught\nher hand: \"Elizabeth--I love you!\"\n\n\"Stop!\" she said, outraged and astounded; \"stop this instant!\"\n\n\"I _must_ speak to you.\"\n\n\"You shall not speak to me!\" She was on her feet, trying with trembling\nfingers to put on her hat.\n\n\"Elizabeth, wait!\" he panted, \"wait; listen--I must speak--\" And before\nshe knew it, he had caught her in his arms, and she felt his breath on\nher mouth. She pushed him from her, gasping almost, and looking at him\nin anger and horror.\n\n\"How dare you?\"\n\n\"Listen; only one minute!\"\n\n\"I will not listen one second. Let me out of this room--out of this\nhouse!\"\n\n\"Elizabeth, forgive me! I am mad!\"\n\n\"You _are_ mad. I will never forgive you. Stand aside. Open the door.\"\n\n\"Elizabeth, I love you! I love you! Won't you listen--?\"\n\nBut she had gone, flaming with anger and humiliation.\n\nWhen Nannie came in an hour later, her brother was sitting with his\nhead bowed in his hands. The room was quite dark; the fire had died\ndown. The fire of passion had died down, too, leaving only shame and\nmisery and despair. His eyes, hidden in his bent arms, were wet; he was\nshaken to the depths of his being. For the first time in his life he\nhad come against a thwarted desire. The education that should have been\nspread over his whole twenty-five years, an education that would have\ntaught him how to meet the negations of life, of duty, of pity even,\nburst upon him now in one shattering moment. He had broken his law, his\nown law; and, mercifully, his law was breaking him. When he rose to his\nfeet as his sister came into the room, he staggered under the shock of\nsuch concentrated education.\n\n\"Blair! What _is_ it?\" she said, catching his arm.\n\n\"Nothing. Nothing. I've been a fool. Let me go.\"\n\n\"But tell me! I'm frightened. Blair!\"\n\n\"It's nothing, I tell you. Nannie! Will she ever look at me again? Oh\nno, no; she will never forgive me! Why was I such a fool?\"\n\n\"What _are_ you talking about?\" poor Nannie said. It came into her head\nthat he had suddenly gone out of his senses.\n\nBlair sank down again in a heap on his chair.\n\n\"I've been a damned fool. I'm in love with Elizabeth, and--and I told\nher so.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nOf course, with that scene in the parlor, all the intimacies of youth\nwere broken short off; although between the two girls some sort of\nrelationship was patched up. Nannie, thrown suddenly into the whirlpool\nof her brother's emotions, was almost beside herself with distress; she\nwas nearly twenty-eight years old, but this was her first contact with\nthe primitive realities of life. With that contact,--which made her\nturn away her horrified, virginal eyes; was the misery of knowing that\nBlair was suffering. She was ready to annihilate David, had such a\nthing been possible, to give her brother what he wanted. As David could\nnot be made non-existent, she did her best to comfort Blair by trying\nto make Elizabeth forgive him. The very next day she came to plead that\nBlair might come himself to ask for pardon. Elizabeth would not listen:\n\n\"Please don't speak of it.\"\n\n\"But Elizabeth--\"\n\n\"I am perfectly furious, and I am very disgusted. I never want to see\nBlair again!\"\n\nAt which Blair's sister lifted her head.\n\n\"Of course, he ought not to have spoken to you, but I think you forget\nthat he loved you long before David did.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" Elizabeth cried out impatiently.\n\nBut Nannie's tears touched her. \"Nannie, I can't see him, and I won't;\nbut I'll come and see you when he is not there.\" At which Nannie flared\nagain.\n\n\"If you are angry at my brother, and can't forgive just a momentary, a\npassing feeling,--which, after all, Elizabeth, _is_ a compliment; at\nleast everybody says it's a compliment to have a man say he loves you--\"\n\n\"Not if you're engaged to another man!\" Elizabeth burst in, scarlet to\nher temples.\n\n\"Blair loved you before David thought of you.\"\n\n\"Now, Nannie, don't be silly.\"\n\n\"If you can't overlook it, because of our old friendship, you will have\nto drop me, too, Elizabeth.\"\n\nNannie was so pitiful and trembling that Elizabeth put her arms around\nher. \"I'll never drop you, dear old Nannie!\"\n\nSo, as far as the two girls were concerned, the habit of affection\npersisted; but Mrs. Maitland was not annoyed by having Elizabeth\npresent when Blair came to supper.\n\nBlair did not come to supper very often now; he did not come to the\nWorks. \"Is your brother sick?\" Sarah Maitland asked her stepdaughter\nthree or four days later. \"He hasn't been at his desk since Monday.\nWhat's the matter with him?\"\n\n\"He is worried about something, Mamma.\"\n\n\"Worried? What on earth has _he_ got to worry him?\" she grunted. In her\nown worry she had come across the hall to speak to Nannie, and find\nout, if she could, something about Blair. As she turned to go back to\nthe dining-room, a little more uneasy than when she came in, her eye\nfell on that picture which Blair had left, a small oasis in the desert\nof Nannie's parlor, and with her hand on the door-knob she paused to\nlook at it. The sun was lying on the dark oblong, and in those\nilluminated depths maternity was glowing like a jewel. Sarah Maitland\nsaw no art, but she saw divine things. She bent forward and looked deep\ninto the picture; suddenly her eyes smiled until her whole face\nsoftened. \"Why, look at his little foot,\" she said, under her breath;\n\"she's holding it in her hand!\" She was silent for a moment; then she\nspoke as if to herself: \"When Blair was as big as that, I bought him a\npair of green morocco slippers. I don't suppose you remember them,\nNannie? They buttoned round the ankle; they had white china buttons. He\nused to try to pick the buttons off.\" She smiled again vaguely; then\nblinked as if awakening from a dream, and blew a long bubbling sigh\nthrough her closed lips; \"I can't imagine why he doesn't come to the\noffice!\"\n\nIn the dining-room, as she took up her pen, she frowned. \"Debt again?\"\nshe asked herself. But when, absorbed and irritable, Blair came into\nher office at the Works, and sat down at his desk to write endless\nletters that he tore up as soon as they were written, she did not ask\nfor any explanation. She merely told Robert Ferguson to tell the\nbookkeeper to make a change in the pay-roll. \"I'm going to raise\nBlair's salary,\" she said. Money was the only panacea Mrs. Maitland\nknew anything about.\n\nThat next fortnight left its marks on Blair Maitland. People who have\nalways had what they want, have a sort of irrational certainty of\ncontinuing to have what they want. It makes them a little unhumanly\nyoung. Blair's face, which had been as irresponsible as a young faun's,\nsuddenly showed those scars of thwarted desire which mean age. There\nwas actual agony in his sweet, shallow eyes, and with it the\nhalf-resentful astonishment of one who, being unaccustomed to\nsuffering, does not know how to bear it. He grew very silent; he was\nvery pale; in his pain he turned to his sister with an openness of\nemotion which frightened and shamed her; he had no self-control and no\ndignity.\n\n\"I must see her. I must, I must! Go and ask her to see me for a moment.\nI've disgusted her\"--Nannie blushed; \"but I'll make her forgive me.\"\nSometimes he burst out in rages at David: \"What does _he_ know about\nlove? What kind of a man is he for Elizabeth? She's a girl now, but if\nhe gets her, God help him when she wakes up, a woman! Not that _I_ mean\nto try to get her. Understand that. Nothing is farther from my mind\nthan that. She belongs to him; I play fair. I don't pretend to be a\nsaint, but I play fair. I don't cut in, when the man's my friend. No; I\njust want to see her and ask her to forgive me. That's all. Nannie, for\nGod's sake ask her if she won't see me, just for five minutes!\"\n\nHe quivered with despair. Twice he went himself to Mr. Ferguson's\nhouse. The first time Miss White welcomed him warmly, and scuttled\nup-stairs saying she would \"tell Elizabeth.\" She came down again, very\nsoberly. \"Elizabeth is busy, Blair, and she says she can't see you.\"\nThe next time he called he was told at the door that \"Miss Elizabeth\nasks to be excused.\" Then he wrote to her: \"All I ask is that you shall\nsee me, so that I can implore you to pardon me.\"\n\nElizabeth tore the letter up and threw it into the fire. But she\nsoftened a little. \"Poor Blair,\" she said to herself, \"but of course I\nshall never forgive him.\"\n\nShe had not told David what Blair had done. \"He would be furious,\" she\nthought. \"I'll tell him later--when we are married\"; at the word, the\nwarm, beautiful wave of young love rose in her heart; \"later, when I\nbelong to him, I will tell him everything!\" She would tell him\neverything just as she would give him everything; not that she had much\nto give him--only herself and her little money. That blessed money, on\nwhich he and she could live for two years,--she was going to give him\nthat! For she and Nannie and Cherry-pie had decided that if the money\nwere _his_, by a gift, then David, who was perfectly crazy and noble\nabout independence, would feel that he and Elizabeth were living on his\nmoney, not hers. It was an artless and very feminine distinction, but\nserious enough to the three women who were all so young--Elizabeth, in\nfact, being the oldest, and Cherry-pie, at sixty-three, the youngest.\nAnd not only had they discovered this way of overcoming David's\nscruples about a shorter engagement, but Elizabeth had had another\ninspiration: why not be married on the very day that the money came\ninto her possession? \"Oh, splendid!\" said Nannie; but she spoke with an\neffort, remembering Blair. A little timidly, Elizabeth had told her\nuncle of this wonderful plan about the money. He snorted with amusement\nat her way of whipping the devil round the stump by a \"gift\" to David;\nbut after a rather startled moment, although he would not commit\nhimself to a date, he was inclined to think an earlier marriage\npracticable. We are selfish creatures at best, all of us: Elizabeth's\nway of being happy herself opened a possibility of happiness for her\nuncle. \"Mrs. Richie can't make David an excuse for saying 'no,' if the\nboy gets a home of his own,\" he thought; and added to himself, \"of\ncourse, when the child's money is used up, I'll help them out.\" But to\nhis niece he only barked warningly: \"Well, let's hear what David has to\nsay; _he_ has some sense.\"\n\n\"Do you think there's much doubt as to what he'll say?\" Elizabeth said;\nand the dimple deepened so entrancingly that Robert Ferguson gave her a\nmeager kiss. After securing this somewhat tentative consent, Elizabeth\nand Cherry-pie decided that the next thing to do was to \"make David\nwrite to uncle, and simply _insist_ that the wedding shall be next\nmonth!\" Her plan was very simple: when David came to Mercer to spend\nher birthday, he should receive, at the same moment, her money and\nherself.\n\nThat future time of sacramental giving and of complete taking was in\nher thoughts with tenderness and shame and glory, as it is in the\nthought of every woman who loves and forgets herself. Yes, he could\nhave her now; but he must take her money! That was the price he had to\npay--the taking of her money. That it would be a high price to a man\nwith his peculiarly intense feeling about independence, Elizabeth knew;\nbut he would be willing to pay it! Elizabeth could not doubt that. No\nprice could be too high, he loved her so! She shivered with happiness\nat the thought of how he loved her; some soft impulse of passion made\nher lift her round wrist,--that bitten wrist! to her mouth, and kiss\nit, hard. David had kissed it, many times! Yes; she was his if he would\npay the price! She was going to tell him so, and then wait, glowing,\nand shrinking, and eager, for him to come and \"take her.\"\n\nIt was so true, so limpid, this noble flame that burned in her, that\nshe almost forgot Blair's behavior; the only thing she thought of was\nher plan, and the difficulty of putting it into the cold limits of pen\nand ink! But with much joyous underlining of important words she did\nsucceed in stating it to him. She told him, not only the practical\ndetails, but with a lovely, untrammelled outpouring of her soul which\nwas sacrificial, she told him that she wanted to be his wife. She had\nno reserves; it was an elemental moment, and the matter of what is\ncalled modesty had no place in her ardent purity. It rarely has a place\nin organic impulses. In connection with death, or birth, or love,\nmodesty is only a rather puerile self-consciousness. So Elizabeth, who\nhad never been self-conscious in her life, told David, with perfect\nsimplicity, that she \"wanted to be married.\" She said she had \"worked\nthe money part of it out,\" and according to her latest estimate of how\nmuch, or rather how little, they could live on, it was possible. \"You\nwill say, we haven't even as much as this,\" she wrote, after she had\nstated what seemed to be the minimum income; then, triumphantly: \"_we\nhave!_ the money Uncle is going to give me on my birthday! If we live\non it, instead of hoarding it up, it will last _at least_ two years!\nI've talked to Uncle about it, and I'm pretty sure he will consent; but\nyou'd better write and urge him,--_just insist!_\" Then she approached\nthe really difficult matter of making David agree to live on money that\nwas not his. She admitted that she knew how he felt on such matters.\n\"And you are all wrong,\" she declared candidly, \"wrong, and a goose.\nBut, so long as you do feel so, why, you needn't any longer. For I am\ngoing to give the money to you. It is to be yours, _not mine_. You\ncan't refuse to use the money that is _yours_, that comes to you as a\n'gift'? It will be as much _yours_ as if somebody left it to you in\ntheir will, and you can burn it up, if you want to!\" And when\n\"business\" had been written out, her heart spoke:\n\n\"Dear\" (she stopped to kiss the paper), \"dear, I hope you won't burn it\nup, because I am tired of waiting, and I hope you are too;\"--when she\nwrote those last words, she was suddenly shy; \"Uncle is to give me the\nmoney on my birthday--let us be married that day. I _want_ to be\nmarried. I am all yours, David, all my soul, and all my mind, and all\nmy body. I have nothing that is not yours to take; so the money is\nyours. No, I will not even give it to you! it belongs to you\nalready--as I do. Dear, come and take it--and me. I love you--love\nyou--love you. _I want you to take me_. I want to be your wife. Do you\nunderstand? I _want_ to belong to you. I _am_ yours.\"\n\nSo she tried, this untutored creature, to put her soul and body into\nwords, to write the thing that cannot even be spoken, whose utterance\nis silence. The mailing of the letter was a rite in itself; in the\ndusk, as she held the green lip of the post-box open, she kissed the\nenvelope, as she had kissed the glowing sheet an hour before. She said\nto herself that she was \"too happy to live!\" As she said it, a wave of\npity blotted out her usual shamed resentment at that poor mother of\nhers who had not been happy;--and whose lack of self-control was,\nElizabeth believed, her legacy to her child. But her gravity was only\nfor a moment; forgetting Blair, and the possible chance of meeting him,\nshe flew down to Nannie's to tell her that the die had been cast--the\nletter had been written! Nannie, sitting by herself in the parlor,\nbrooding over her brother's troubles, was trying to draw; but Elizabeth\nbrushed aside pencils and crusts of bread and india-rubbers, and flung\nher arms about her, pressing her face against hers and pouring the\nhappy secret into her ear:\n\n\"Oh, Nannie--I've told him! We'll be married on my birthday. Go ahead\nand get your dress!\" she said, breathlessly, and Nannie tried her best\nto be happy, too.\n\nFor the next three days Elizabeth moved about in a half-dream,\nsometimes reddening suddenly; sometimes breathing a little quickly,\nwith a faint fright in her eyes,--had she said too much? would he\nunderstand? Then a gush of confident love filled her like music. \"I\ncouldn't say too much! I want him to know that I feel--that way.\"\n\nWhen David read that throbbing letter, he grew scarlet to his temples.\nThere had been many moments during their engagement when Elizabeth, in\nslighter ways, had bared her soul to him, and always he had had the\nimpulse to cover his eyes, as in a holy of holies. He had never, in\nthose moments, dared to take advantage of such divine nakedness, even\nby a kiss. But she had never before trusted her passion to the coldness\nof pen and ink; it had had the accompaniment of eyes and lips, and\neager, breaking voice. Perhaps if the letter had come at a different\nmoment, he could more easily have called up that voice, and those humid\neyes; he might have felt again the rose-pressure of the soft mouth. As\nit was, he read it in troubled preoccupation; then reddened sharply: he\nwas a worthless cuss; he couldn't stand on his own legs and get married\nlike a man; his girl had to urge her uncle to let her support her\nlover! \"Damn,\" said David softly.\n\nA letter is a risky thing; the writer gambles on the reader's frame of\nmind. David's frame of mind when he read those words about urging\nRobert Ferguson, was not hospitable to other people's generosity, for\nElizabeth's hot letter came on what had been, figuratively speaking, a\nvery cold day. In the morning he had been reprimanded by the House\nofficer for some slight forgetfulness--a forgetfulness caused by his\nabsorption in planning an experiment in the laboratory. At noon he made\nthe experiment, which, instead of crowning a series of deductions with\ntriumphant proof, utterly failed. Then he had had pressing reminders of\nbills, still unpaid, for a pair of trousers and a case of instruments,\nand he had admitted to himself that he would have to ask his mother for\nthe money to meet them. \"I am a fizzle, all round,\" he had told himself\ngrimly. \"Can't remember anything overnight. Can't count on a doggone\nreaction. Can't pay for my own pants! I won't be able to marry for ten\nyears. If Elizabeth is wise, she will throw me over. She'll be tired of\nwaiting for me, before I can earn enough to buy my instruments--let\nalone the shoe-strings Mr. Ferguson talked about!\"\n\nThen her letter came. It was a spur on rowelled flesh. Elizabeth _was_\ntired of waiting! She said so. But she would help him; she had induced\nher uncle to consent that she should \"give\" him money; that she should,\nin fact, support him!--just as his mother had been doing all his life.\nHe was sore with disappointment at himself, yet, when he answered her\nletter his eyes stung at the thought of the loveliness of her love! He\nheld her letter in his hand as he wrote, and once he put it to his\nlips. All the same he wrote, as he had to write, laconically:\n\n\"DEAR ELIZABETH,--I'm sure Mr. Ferguson will agree with me that your\nmoney cannot be mine, by any gift. Calling it so won't make it so.\nAnyhow, it would not support us two years. By that time, as things look\nnow, I shall probably not be earning any kind of an income. I am sorry\nyou are tired of waiting, but I can't let you be imprudent. And apart\nfrom prudence, I could not respect myself if you supported me. It has\nbeen misery to me to have Materna saddled with a big, lazy brute of a\nfellow like me, who ought by this time to be taking care of you both. I\nam sure, if you think it over, you would be ashamed of me if I asked\nyour uncle to help me out by letting you marry me now. Anyhow, I should\nbe ashamed of myself. Well, the Lord only knows when I will come up to\ntime! You might as well make up your mind to it that I'm a fizzle. I am\ndiscouraged with myself and everything else, and I see you are too;\nHeaven knows I don't blame you. I know you think it is an awfully long\ntime to wait, but it isn't as long to you as it is to me. Dear, I love\nyou; I can't tell you how I love you. I haven't words, as you have, but\nyou know I do--and yet sometimes I feel as if I oughtn't to marry you.\"\n\nElizabeth, running down the steps to meet the postman, saw a familiar\nimprint on the corner of an envelope, and drew it from the pack before\nthe good-natured man could hand it to her.\n\n\"Guess you don't want no Philadelphia letter?\" he said slyly.\n\n\"Of course I don't!\" she retorted; and the trudging postman smiled for\na whole block because of the light in her face. In the house, the\nletter in her hand, she stopped to hug Miss White. \"Cherry-pie! the\nletter has come. I'm to be married on my birthday!\"\n\n\"Oh, my lamb,\" said Cherry-pie, \"however shall I get things ready in\ntime!\" Elizabeth did not wait to help her in her housekeeping\nanxieties. She fled singing up to her room.\n\n  \"Oh, that will be joyful, joyful, joyful,\n  Oh, that will be joyful,\n  To meet to part no more!\"\n\nThen she opened the letter.... She read the last lines with unseeing\neyes; the first lines were branding themselves into her soul. She\nfolded the brief sheet with deliberation, and slowly put it back into\nthe envelope. Then the color began to fall out of her face. Her eyes\nsmoldered, glowed, then suddenly blazed: \"He is sorry I am tired\nwaiting.\"\n\nSomething warm, like a lifting tide of heat, was rising just below her\nbreast-bone; it rose, and rose, and surged, until she gasped, and cried\nout hoarsely: \"If 'I think it over,' I'll be 'ashamed,' will I?\n'Couldn't respect himself? What about me respecting myself?\" And the\nintolerable wave of heat still rose, swelling and bursting until it\nchoked her; she was strangling! She clutched at her throat, then flung\nout clenched hands. \"He 'can't let' me marry him? It's 'a long time for\n_me_ to wait'! I must 'make up my mind to it'! I hate him--I want to\nkill him--I want to tear him! What did I tell him? 'to come and take\nme'? And he doesn't want me! And Nannie knows I told him to come, and\nMiss White and Uncle know it. And they will know he didn't want me. Oh,\nhow could I have told him I wanted him? I must kill him. I must kill\nmyself--\" Her wild outpouring of words was without sense or meaning to\nher. She shuddered violently, something crimson seemed to spread before\nher eyes, but the pallor of her face was ghastly. She began to pace up\nand down the room. Once she unfolded the letter, and glancing again at\nthose moderate words, laughed loudly. \"'His,'\" she said, \"I told him I\nwas 'his'? I must have been out of my head. Well, I'll 'think it over!'\nI'll 'think it over!'--he needn't worry about that. Oh, I could kill\nmyself! And I told Cherry-pie I was going to be--\" she could not speak\nthe word. She stood still and gasped for breath.\n\nThe paroxysm was so violent, and so long in coming to its height before\nthere could be any ebb, that suddenly she reeled slightly. A gray mist\nseemed to roll up out of the corners of the room. She sank down on the\nfloor, crumpling up against her bed. When she opened her eyes, the mist\nhad gone, and she felt very stiff and a little sick. \"Why, where am I?\"\nshe said aloud, \"what's the matter with me?\" Then, dully, she\nremembered David's letter. \"I was so angry I fainted,\" she thought, in\nlistless astonishment. For the moment she was entirely without feeling,\nneither angry, nor wounded, nor ashamed. Then, little by little, the\ndreadful wave, which had ebbed, began to rise again. But now it was\ncold, not hot. She said to herself, quietly, that she would write to\nDavid Richie, and tell him she _had_ 'thought it over'; and that\nneither she nor her money was his, or any further concern of his. \"He\nneedn't trouble himself; there would be no more 'imprudence.' Oh, fool!\nfool! immodest fool! to have told him he 'could have her for the\ntaking,' and he said it was 'long' for _her_ to wait!\" It was an\nunbearable recollection. \"His,\" she had said; \"soul and body.\" She saw\nagain the written words that she had kissed, and she had an impulse to\ntear the flesh of the lovely young body she had offered this man, and\nhe had--declined. \"_His?_\" She blushed until she had to put her cold\nhands on her cheeks and forehead to ease the scorch. The modesty which\na great and simple moment had obliterated came back with intolerable\nsharpness.\n\nBy and by she got on her feet and dragged herself to a chair; she\nlooked very wan and languid. For the moment the fire was out. It had\nburned up precious things.\n\n\"I'll write to him to-morrow,\" she thought. And through the cold rage\nshe felt a hot stab of satisfaction; her letter--\"a rather different\nletter, this time!\" would make him suffer! But not enough. Not enough.\nShe wished she could make him die, as she was dying. But she could not\nwrite at that moment; the idea of taking up a pen turned her sick with\nthe remembrance of what her pen had written three days before. Instead\nof writing, she would go out and walk, and walk, and walk, and think\nhow she could punish him--how she could _kill_ him! Where should she\ngo? Never mind! anywhere; anywhere. Just let her get out, let her be\nalone, where nobody could speak to her. How could she ever speak to\npeople again?--to Miss White, who was down in the dining-room, now,\nplanning for the--wedding! To Nannie, who knew that David had been\nsummoned, and who must be told that he refused to come; to Blair, who\nwould guess--she paused, remembering that she was angry with Blair.\nThere was a perceptible instant before she could recollect why; when\nshe did, she felt a pang of relief in her agony of humiliation. Blair,\nwhatever else he was, was a _man_, a man who could love a woman! It\noccurred to her that the girl Blair loved would not be thought immodest\nif she showed him how much she loved him.\n\nShe began to put on her things to go out, and as she fastened her hat\nshe looked at herself in the glass. \"I have a wicked sort of face,\" she\nthought, with a curious detachment from the situation which was almost\nthat of an outside observer. She packed a small hand-bag, and then\nopened her purse to see if she had money enough to carry out a vague\nplan of going somewhere to spend the night, \"to get away from people.\"\nIt was noon when she went down-stairs; in the hall she called to Miss\nWhite that she was going out.\n\n\"But it's just dinner-time, my lamb,\" Miss White called back from the\ndining-room; \"and I must talk to you about--\"\n\n\"I--I want to see Nannie,\" Elizabeth said, in a smothered voice. It\noccurred to her that, later, she would go and tell Nannie that she had\nbroken her engagement; it would be a satisfaction to do that, at any\nrate!\n\n\"Oh, you're going to take dinner with her?\" Miss White said, peering\nout into the hall; \"well, tell her to come in this afternoon and let us\ntalk things over. There is so much to be done between now and the\nwedding,\" Cherry-pie fretted happily.\n\n\"_Wedding!\"_ Elizabeth said to herself; then slipped back the latch of\nthe front door: \"I sha'n't come back until to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Oh, my lamb!\" Miss White remonstrated, \"I _must_ ask you some\nquestions about the wedding!\" Then she remembered more immediate\nquestions: \"Is your satchel packed? Have you plenty of clean\npocket-handkerchiefs? Elizabeth! be careful not to take cold, and ask\nNannie how many teaspoons she can lend us--\" The door slammed. It\nseemed to Elizabeth that she could never look Cherry-pie in the face\nagain. She had a frantic feeling that if she could not escape from that\nintolerable insistence on the--the wedding, she would die. In the\nstreet, the mere cessation of Miss White's joyous twittering was a\nrelief. Well, she must go where she could be alone. She walked several\nblocks before she thought of Willis's; it would take at least two hours\nto get there, and she could think things over without interruption. She\nwould think how she could save her self-respect before Miss White and\nher uncle and Nannie; and she would also think of some dreadful way,\nsome terrible way to punish David Richie! Yes; she would walk out to\nWillis's. . . .\n\n\"Elizabeth!\" some one said, at her elbow, and with a start she turned\nto see Blair. As they looked at each other, these two unhappy beings,\neach felt a faint pity for the other. Blair's face was haggard;\nElizabeth's was white to the point of ghastliness, but there was a\nsmudge of crimson just below the glittering amber of her eyes.\n\"Elizabeth!\" he said, shocked, \"what is it? You are ill! What has\nhappened?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I--am tired.\" She was so unconscious of everything but the\nmaelstrom realization that she hated David that she did not remember\nthat the hesitating man beside her was under the ban of her\ndispleasure. Her only thought was that she wished he would leave her to\nherself.\n\n\"Dark day, isn't it?\" Blair said; but his voice broke in his throat.\n\n\"I think we are going to have rain,\" Elizabeth answered, mechanically.\nShe was perfectly unaware of what she said, for at that moment she saw,\non the other side of the street, the friendly postman who two hours ago\nhad brought her David Richie's insult; now, his empty pouch over his\nshoulder, he was trudging back to the post-office. Against the\nclamoring fury of her thoughts and the instant vision of David's\nletter, Blair's presence was no more to her than the brush of a wing\nacross the surface of a torrent.\n\nAs for Blair, he was dazed, and then ecstatic. She had not sent him\naway! She was perfectly matter-of-fact! \"'_I think we are going to have\nrain_.'\" She must have forgiven him! \"May I walk home with you,\nElizabeth?\" he said breathlessly.\n\n\"I'm not going home. I am--just walking.\"\n\n\"So am I,\" he said. He had got himself in hand by this time; every\nfaculty was alert; he had his chance to ask for pardon! \"Come out to\nMrs. Todd's, and have some pink ice-cream. Elizabeth, do you remember\nthe paper roses on those dreadful marble-topped tables that were sort\nof semi-transparent?\"\n\nElizabeth half smiled. \"I had forgotten them; how horrid they were!\"\nWith the surface of her mind she was conscious that his presence was a\nrelief; it was like a veil between her and the flames.\n\nBlair, watching her furtively, said: \"I'll treat. Come along, let's\nhave a spree!\"\n\n\"You always did do the treating,\" she said absently. Blair laughed. The\nprimitive emotions are always naked; but how inevitably most of us try\nto cover them with the fig-leaf of trivial speech--a laugh, perhaps, or\na question about the weather; somehow, in some way, the nakedness must\nbe covered! So now, Love and Hate, walking side by side in Mercer's\nmurky noon, were for the moment hidden from each other. Blair laughed,\nand said he would make her \"treat\" for a change, and she replied that\nshe couldn't afford it.\n\nAt the toll-house he urged again, with gay obstinacy. \"Oh, come in! You\nneedn't eat the stuff, but just for the fun of the thing; Mrs. Todd\nwill be charmed to see us, I'm sure.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Elizabeth agreed; for a moment the vapid talk was like balm\nlaid upon burnt flesh. Then suddenly she remembered how David had\nsprung up that snowy path to the toll-house, to knock on the window and\ncry, \"I've got her!\" Ah, he was a little too sure; a _little_ too sure!\nShe was not so easy to get as all that, not so cheap as he seemed to\nthink--though she had offered herself; had even told him she was \"tired\nof waiting\"! (And at home Cherry-pie was counting the teaspoons for the\nwedding breakfast.)\n\nBlair heard that fierce intake of her breath, and quivered without\nknowing why. \"Yes, let us go!\" Elizabeth said fiercely. At least this\nchuckling old woman should see that David had not \"got her\"; she should\nsee her with Blair, and know that there were men in the world who cared\nfor her, if David Richie did not.\n\nMrs. Todd was not at home; perhaps, if she had been. . . .\n\nBut instead of the big, motherly old figure, beaming at them from the\ntoll-house door, a slatternly maid-servant said her mistress was out.\n\"We ain't doin' much cream now,\" she said, wrapping her arms in her\napron and shivering; \"it's too cold. I ain't got anything but vanilla.\"\n\n\"We'll have vanilla, then,\" Blair said, in his rather courtly way, and\nthe girl, opening the door of the \"_saloon_,\" scurried off. \"By Jove!\"\nsaid Blair, \"I believe these are the identical blue paper roses--look\nat them!\"\n\nShe sat down wearily. \"I believe they are,\" she said, and began to pull\noff her gloves. Outside in the tollhouse garden the frosted stems of\nlast summer's flowers stood upright in the snow. She remembered that\nMrs. Todd's geraniums had been glowing in the window that winter day\nwhen David had shouted his triumphant news. Probably they were dead\nnow. Everything else was dead.\n\n\"Still the tissue-paper star on the ceiling!\" Blair cried, gaily, \"yes,\neverything is just the same!\" And indeed, when the maid, glancing with\nadmiring eyes at the handsome gentleman and the cross-looking lady, put\ndown on the semi-translucent marble top of the table two tall glasses\nof ice-cream, each capped with its dull and dented spoon, the past was\ncompletely reproduced. As the frowsy little waitress left them, they\nlooked at the pallid, milky stuff, and then at each other, and their\nindividual preoccupations thinned for a moment. Blair laughed;\nElizabeth smiled faintly:\n\n\"You don't expect me to eat it, I hope?\"\n\n\"I won't make you eat it. Let's talk.\"\n\nBut Elizabeth took up her gloves. \"I must go, Blair.\"\n\nHe pushed the tumblers aside and leaned toward her; one hand gripped\nthe edge of the table until the knuckles were white: the other was\nclenched on his knee. \"Elizabeth,\" he said, in a low voice, \"have you\nforgiven me?\"\n\n\"Forgiven you? What for?\" she said absently; then remembered and looked\nat him indifferently. \"Oh, I suppose so. I had forgotten.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't loved you. You know that.\"\n\nShe was silent.\n\n\"Do you hate me for loving you?\" On Elizabeth's cheeks the smudge of\ncrimson began to flame into scarlet. \"I don't hate you. I think you\nwere a fool to love me. I think anybody is a fool to love anybody.\"\n\nIn a flash Blair understood. _She had quarrelled with David!_\n\nIt seemed as if all the blood in his body surged into his throat; he\nfelt as if he were suffocating; but he spoke quietly. \"Don't say I was\na fool; say I am a fool, if you want to. Because I love you still. I\nlove you now. I shall never stop loving you.\"\n\nElizabeth glanced at him with a sort of impersonal interest. So _that_\nwas the way a man might love? \"Well, I am sorry for you, Blair. I'm\nsorry, because it hurts to love people who don't love you. At least, I\nshould think it did. I don't love anybody, so I don't know much about\nit.\"\n\n\"You have broken with David,\" he said slowly.\n\n\"How did you know?\" she said, with a surprised look; then added\nlistlessly, \"Yes; I've done with David. I hate him.\" She looked blankly\ndown at her muff, and began to stroke the fur. It occurred to her that\nbefore going to Willis's she must see Nannie, or else she would have\ntold Miss White a lie; again the double working of her mind interested\nher; rage, and a desire to be truthful, were like layers of thought.\nShe noted this, even while she was saying again, between set teeth, \"I\nhate him.\"\n\n\"He has treated you badly,\" Blair said.\n\n\"How did you know?\" she said, startled.\n\n\"I know David. What does a man like David know about loving a woman? He\nwould talk his theories and standards to her, when he could be\nsilent--in her arms!\" He flung out his hand and caught her roughly by\nthe wrist. \"Elizabeth, for God's sake, _marry me._\"\n\n[Illustration: \"ELIZABETH, MARRY ME!\"]\n\nHe had risen and was leaning toward her, his fingers gripped her wrist\nlike a trap, his breath was hot against her neck, his eyes glowed into\nhers. \"Marry--me, Elizabeth.\"\n\nThe moment was primal; the intensity of it was like a rapier-thrust,\ndown through her fury to the quick of womanly consciousness; she shrank\nback. \"Don't,\" she said, faintly; \"don't--\" For one instant she forgot\nthat she hated David. Instantly he was tender.\n\n\"Dearest, dearest, I love you. Be my wife. Elizabeth, I have always\nloved you, always; don't you remember?\" He was kneeling beside her,\nlifting the hem of her skirt and kissing it, murmuring crazy words; but\nhe did not touch her, which showed that the excuse of passion was not\nyet complete. And indeed it was not, for somewhere in the tumult of his\nmind he was defending himself--perhaps to his god: \"_I have the right._\nIt's all over between them. Any man has the right now.\" Then, aloud:\n\"Elizabeth, I love you. I shall love you forever. Marry me. Now.\nTo-night.\" When he said that, it was as if he had struck his god upon\nthe mouth--for the accusing Voice ceased. And when it ceased, he no\nlonger defended himself. Elizabeth looked at him, dazed. \"No, I know\nyou don't care for me, now,\" he said. \"Never mind that! I will teach\nyou to care; I will teach you--\" he whispered: \"the meaning of love!\n_He_ couldn't teach you; he doesn't know it himself; he doesn't\"--he\nwas at a loss for a word; some instinct gave him the right one--\"want\nyou.\"\n\nIt was the crack of the whip! She answered it with a look of hate. But\nstill she was silent.\n\n\"You love him,\" he flung at her.\n\n\"I do not. I hate him! hate him! hate him! I wish he were dead in this\nroom, so I could trample on him!\" Even in the scorch of that insane\nmoment, Blair Maitland flinched at such a declaration of hate. Hate\nlike that is the left hand of Love. He had sense enough left in his\nmadness to know that, and he could have killed David because he was\njealous of such precious hate.\n\n\"You'll get over that,\" he assured her; neither of them saw in such an\nassurance the confession that he knew she loved David still. And still\nhis smitten god was silent! \"You--you hate him because he slighted\nyou,\" Blair said, stammering with passion. \"But for God's sake,\nElizabeth, _show_ him that you hate him. Since he despises you, despise\nhim! Will you let him slap you in the face, and still love him?\"\n\n\"I do not love him.\"\n\nThey were both standing; Elizabeth, staring at him with unseeing eyes,\nseemed to be answering some fierce interrogation in her own thought:\nWhat? was _this_ the way to kill David Richie? That it would kill her,\ntoo, never occurred to her. If it had occurred to her, it would have\nseemed worth while--well worth while!\n\n\"Then why do you let him think you love him?\" Blair was insisting, in a\nviolent whisper, \"why do you let him think you are under his heel\nstill? Show him you hate him--if you do hate him? Marry me, _that will\nshow him._\"\n\nThey were standing, now, facing each other--Love and Hate. Love,\nradiant, with glorious eyes, with beautiful parted lips, with\noutstretched hands that prayed, and threatened, and entreated: \"Come! I\nmust have you,--God, I _must!_\" And Hate, black-browed, shaking from\nhead to foot, with dreadful set stare, and hands clenched and\ntrembling; hands that reached for a dagger to thrust, and thrust again!\nHands reaching out and finding the dagger in that one, hot, whispered\nword: \"Come.\" Yes; that would \"show him\"!\n\n\"When?\" she said, trembling.\n\nAnd he said, \"Now.\"\n\nElizabeth flung up her head with a look of burning satisfaction.\n\n\"_Come!_\" she said; and laughing wildly, she struck her hand into his.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nWhen Robert Ferguson came in to luncheon the next day, he asked for\nElizabeth. \"She hasn't come home yet from Nannie's,\" Miss White told\nhim; \"I thought she would be here immejetly after breakfast. I can't\nimagine what keeps her, though I suppose they have a great deal to talk\nover!\"\n\n\"Well, she'll have to wait for her good news,\" Mr. Ferguson said; and\nhanded a telegram to Miss White. \"Despatch from David. He's bringing a\npatient across the mountains to-night; says he'll turn up here for\nbreakfast. He'll have to go back on the ten-o'clock train, though.\"\n\nCherry-pie nibbled with excitement; \"I guess he just had to come and\ntalk the arrangements over with her!\"\n\n\"What arrangements?\" Mr. Ferguson asked, vaguely; when reminded by Miss\nWhite, he looked a little startled. \"Oh, to be sure; I had forgotten.\"\nThen he smiled:\n\n\"Well, I suppose I shall have to say 'yes.' I think I'll go East myself\nnext week!\" he added, fatuously; but the connection was not obvious to\nMiss White.\n\n\"Elizabeth got a letter from him yesterday,\" she said, beaming;\n\"they've decided on her birthday--if you are willing.\"\n\n\"Willing? I guess it's a case of 'he had to be resigned!'\" said Robert\nFerguson--thinking of that trip East, he was positively gay. But\nCherry-pie's romance lapsed into household concerns: \"We must have\nsomething the boy likes for breakfast.\"\n\n\"Looking at Elizabeth will be all the breakfast he wants,\" Elizabeth's\nuncle said, with his meager chuckle. \"David's as big a donkey as any of\n'em, though he hasn't the gift of gab on the subject.\"\n\nWhen he had gone to his office, Miss White propped the telegram up on\nthe table, so that Elizabeth's eyes might brighten the moment she\nopened the front door But to her dismay, Elizabeth did not open the\ndoor all that afternoon. Instead came a note, plainly in her hand,\naddressed to Mr. Ferguson. \"Why! she is sending word that she's going\nto stay all night _again_ with Nannie,\" Miss White thought, really\ndisturbed. If such a thing had been possible, Cherry-pie would have\nbeen vexed with her beloved \"lamb,\" for after all, Elizabeth really\nought to be at home attending to things! Miss White herself had spent\nevery minute since the wonderful news had been flung at her, in\nattending to things. She had made a list of the people who must be\ninvited to the wedding, she had inspected the china-closet, she had\ncalculated how many teaspoons would be needed,--\"Better borrow some\nforks from Nannie, too,\" she said, beginning, like every good\nhousekeeper, to look careworn. \"There's so much to be done!\" said\nCherry-pie, excitedly. Yet this scatter-brain girl evidently meant to\nstay away from home still another night. \"Well, she can't, that's all\nthere is to it!\" Miss White said, decidedly; \"she must come home, so as\nto be here in the morning when David arrives. Perhaps I'd better go\ndown to Mrs. Maitland's and take her the despatch.\"\n\nShe was getting ready to go, when the first rumble of the hurricane\nmade itself heard. Nannie dropped in, and--\n\n\"'Where's Elizabeth?' I'm sure I don't know. Isn't she at home? 'Stayed\nwith me last night?' Why, no, she didn't. I haven't seen Elizabeth for\ntwo days, and--\"\n\nNannie sprang to catch poor old Miss White, who reeled, and then tried,\nas she sank into a chair, to speak: \"What? _What_? Not with you last\nnight? Nannie! She must have been. She told me she was going--\" Miss\nWhite grew so ghastly that Nannie, in a panic, called a servant.\n\n\"Send for her uncle!\" the poor lady stammered. \"Send--send. Oh, what\nhas happened to my child?\" Then she remembered the letter addressed to\nMr. Ferguson, lying on the table beside David's telegram. \"Perhaps that\nwill say where she is. Oh, tell him to _hurry!_\"\n\nWhen Robert Ferguson reached home he found the two pallid, shaking\nwomen waiting for him in the hall. Miss White, clutching that unopened\nletter, tried to tell him: Elizabeth had not been at Nannie's; she had\nnot come home; she had--\n\n\"Give me the letter,\" he said. They watched him tear it open and run\nhis eye over it; the next instant he had gone into his library and\nslammed the door in their faces.\n\nOutside in the hall the trembling women looked at each other in\nsilence. Then Nannie said with a gasp, \"She must have gone to--to some\nfriend's.\"\n\n\"She has no friend she would stay all night with but you.\"\n\n\"Well, you see she has written to Mr. Ferguson, so there can't be\nanything much the matter; he'll tell us where she is, in a minute! If\nhe can't, I'll make Blair go and look for her. Dear, _dear_ Miss White,\ndon't cry!\"\n\n\"There has been an accident. Oh, how shall we tell David? He's coming\nto-morrow to talk over the wedding, and--\"\n\nThe library door opened: \"Miss White.\"\n\n\"Mr. Ferguson! Where--? What--?\"\n\n\"Miss White, that--creature, is never to cross my threshold again. Do\nyou understand me? Never again. Nannie, your brother is a scoundrel.\nRead that.\" He flung the letter on the floor between them, and went\nback to his library. They heard the key turn in the lock. Miss White\nstared at the shut door blankly; Nannie picked up the letter. It was\nheaded \"The Mayor's Office,\" and was dated the day before; no address\nwas given.\n\n\"Dear Uncle Robert: I married Blair Maitland this afternoon. David did\nnot want me. E.F.\"\n\nThey read it, looked at each other with astounded eyes, then read it\nagain. Nannie was the first to find words:\n\n\"I--don't understand.\" Miss White was dumb; her poor upper lip quivered\nwildly.\n\n\"She and David are to be married,\" Nannie stammered. \"How can she\nmarry--anybody else? I don't understand.\"\n\nThen Miss White broke out, \"_I_ understand. Oh, wicked boy! My child,\nmy lamb! He has killed my child Elizabeth!\"\n\n\"Who has? What do you mean? What _are_ you talking about!\"\n\n\"He has lured her away from David,\" the old woman wailed shrilly.\n\"Nannie, Nannie, your brother is an evil, cruel man--a false man, a\nfalse friend. Oh, my lamb! my girl!\"\n\nNannie, staring at her with horrified eyes, was silent. Miss White sank\ndown on the floor, her head on the lowest step of the staircase; she\nwas moaning to herself: \"They quarrelled about something, and this is\nwhat she has done! Oh, she was mad, my lamb, my poor lamb! She was\ncrazy; David made her angry; I don't know how. And she did this\nfrightful thing. Oh, I always knew she would do some terrible thing\nwhen she was angry!\"\n\nNannie looked at the closed door of the library, then at Miss White,\nlying there, crying and moaning to herself with her poor old head on\nthe stairs; once she tried to speak, but Miss White did not hear her;\nit was intolerable to see such pain. Blair's sister, ashamed with his\nshame, stammered something, she did not know what, then opening the\nfront door, slipped out into the dusk. The situation was so incredible\nshe could not take it in. Blair and Elizabeth--_married?_ She kept\nsaying it over and over. But it was impossible! Elizabeth was to marry\nDavid on her birthday. \"I feel as if I were going out of my mind!\"\nNannie told herself, hurrying down into Mercer's black, noisy heart.\nWhen she reached the squalor of Maitland's shantytown and saw the great\nold house on the farther side of the street, looming up on its graded\nembankment, black against a smoldering red sunset, she was almost\nsobbing aloud, and when Harris answered her ring, she was in such\ntension that she burst out at him: \"Harris! where is Mr. Blair? Do you\nknow? Have you heard--anything?\" She seized the old man's arm and held\non to it. \"Where is Mr. Blair, Harris?\"\n\n\"My laws, Miss Nannie! how do I know? Ain't he at the hotel? There's a\nletter come for you; it come just after you went out. Looks like it was\nfrom him. There, now, child! Don't you take on like that! I guess if\nMr. Blair can write letters, there ain't much wrong with him.\"\n\nWhen he brought her the letter, she made him wait there in the dimly\nlighted hall until she opened it, she had a feeling that she could not\nread it by herself, \"Oh, Harris!\" she said, and began to tremble; \"it's\ntrue! He did.... They are--oh, Harris!\" And while the old man drew her\ninto the parlor, and scuffled about to light the gas and bring her a\nglass of water, she told him, brokenly--she had to tell somebody--what\nhad happened. Harris's ejaculations were of sheer amazement, untouched\nby disapproval: \"Mr. Blair? Married to Miss Elizabeth? My land! There!\nHe always did git in ahead!\" His astounded chuckle was as confusing as\nall the rest of it. Nannie, standing under the single flaring jet of\ngas, read the letter again. It was, at any rate, more enlightening than\nElizabeth's to her uncle:\n\n\"Dear Nannie: Don't have a fit when I tell you Elizabeth and I are\nmarried. She had a row with David, and broke her engagement with him.\nWe were married this afternoon. I'm afraid mother won't like it,\nbecause, I admit, it's rather sudden. But really it is the easiest way\nall round, especially for--other people. It's on the principle of\nhaving your tooth pulled _quick_!--if you have to have it pulled,\ninstead of by degrees. I'll amount to something, now, and that will\nplease mother. You tell her that I will amount to something now! I want\nyou to tell her about it before I write to her myself--which, of\ncourse, I shall do to-morrow--because it will be easier for her to have\nit come from you. Tell her marrying Elizabeth will make a business man\nof me. You must tell her as soon as you get this, because probably it\nwill be in the newspapers. I feel like a cur, asking you to break it to\nher, because, of course, it's sort of difficult. She won't like it,\njust at first; she never likes anything I do. But it will be easier for\nher to hear it first from you. Oh, you dear old Nancy!--I am nearly out\nof my head, I'm so happy. . . .\n\n\"P.S. We are going off for a month or so. I'll let you know where to\naddress us when I know myself.\"\n\nNannie dropped down into a chair, and tried to get her wits together.\nIf Elizabeth had broken with David, why, then, of course, she could\nmarry Blair; but why should she marry him right away? \"It\nisn't--decent!\" said Nannie. And when did she break with David? Only\nday before yesterday she was expecting to marry him. \"It is horrible!\"\nsaid Nannie; and her recoil of disgust for a moment included Blair. But\nthe habit of love made her instant with excuses: \"It's worse in\nElizabeth than in him. Mamma will say so, too.\" Then she felt a shock\nof terror: \"Mamma!\" She smoothed out the letter, crumpled in her\nshaking hand, and read it again: \"'I want you to tell her--' Oh, I\n_can't!_\" Nannie said; \"'it will be easier for her to have it come from\nyou--' And what about me?\" she thought, with sudden, unwonted\nbitterness; \"it won't be 'easy' for me.\"\n\nShe began to take off her things; then realized that she was shivering.\nThe few minutes of stirring the fire which was smoldering under a great\nlump of coal between the brass jambs of the grate, gave her the\nmomentary relief of occupation; but when she sat down in the shifting\nfirelight, and held her trembling hands toward the blaze, the shame and\nfright came back again. \"Poor David!\" she said; but even as she said it\nshe defended her brother; \"if Elizabeth had broken with him, of course\nBlair had a right to marry her. But how _could_ Elizabeth! I can never\nforgive her!\" Nannie thought, wincing with disgust. \"To be engaged to\nDavid one day, and marry Blair the next!--Oh, Blair ought not to have\ndone it,\" she said, involuntarily; and hid her face in her hands. But\nit was so intolerable to her to blame him, that she drove her mind back\nto Elizabeth's vulgarity; she could bear what had happened if she\nthought of Blair as a victim and not as an offender.\n\n\"I can never feel the same to Elizabeth again,\" she said. Then she\nremembered what her brother had bidden her do, and quailed. For a\nmoment she was actually sick with panic. Then she, too, knew the\nimpulse to get the tooth pulled \"quick.\" She got up and went swiftly\nacross the hall to the dining-room. It was empty, except for Harris,\nwho was moving some papers from the table to set it for supper.\n\n\"Oh, Harris,\" she said, with a gasp of relief, \"she isn't here! Harris,\nI have got to tell her. You don't think she'll mind much, do you?\"\n\nBut by this time Harris's chuckling appreciation of Mr. Blair's\ncleverness in getting in ahead had evaporated. \"My, my, my, Miss\nNannie!\" he said, his weak blue eyes blinking with fright, \"_I_\nwouldn't tell her, not if you'd gimme the Works!\"\n\n\"Harris, if you were in my place, would you try to, at supper?\"\n\n\"Now, Miss, how can I tell? She'll be wild; my, my; wild!\"\n\n\"I don't see why. Mr. Blair had a right to get married.\"\n\n\"He'd ought to have let on to her about it,\" Harris said.\n\nFor a few minutes Nannie was stricken dumb. Then she sought\nencouragement again: \"Perhaps if you had something nice for supper,\nshe'd be--pleased, you know, and take it better?\"\n\n\"There's to be cabbage. Maybe that will soften her up. She likes it;\ngor, how she likes cabbage!\" said Harris, almost weeping.\n\n\"Harris, how do you think she'll take it?\"\n\n\"She won't take it well,\" the old man said. \"Miss Elizabeth was Mr.\nDavid's girl. When I come to think it over, I don't take it well\nmyself, Miss Nannie. Nor you don't, neither. No, she won't take it\nwell.\"\n\n\"But Miss Elizabeth had broken with Mr. David,\" Nannie defended her\nbrother; \"Mr. Blair had a right--\" then she shivered. \"But _I've_ got\nto tell her! Oh, Harris, I think she wouldn't mind so much, if he told\nher himself?\"\n\nHarris considered. \"Yes, Miss, she would. Mr. Blair don't put things\nright to his ma. He'd say something she wouldn't like. He'd say\nsomething about some of his pretty truck. Them things always make her\nmad. That picture he bought--the lady nursin' the baby, in your parlor;\nshe ain't got over that yet. Oh, no, she'll take it better from you.\nYou be pretty with her, Miss Nannie. She likes it when you're pretty\nwith her. I once seen a chippy sittin' on a cowcatcher; well, it made\nme think o' you and her. You be pretty to her, and then tell her, kind\nof--of easy,\" Harris ended weakly.\n\nEasy! It was all very well to say \"_easy_\"; Harris might as well say\nknock her down \"easy.\" At that moment the back door banged.\n\nMrs. Maitland burst into the room in intense preoccupation; the day had\nbeen one of absorbing interest, culminating in success, and she was\nalert with satisfaction. \"Harris, supper! Nannie, take my bonnet! Is\nyour brother to be here to-night? I've something to tell him! Where's\nthe evening paper?\"\n\nNannie, breathless, took the forlorn old bonnet, and said, \"I--I think\nhe isn't coming, Mamma.\" Harris came running with the newspaper; they\nexchanged a frightened glance, although the mistress of the house, with\none hand on the carving-knife, was already saying, \"Bless, O Lord--\"\n\nAt supper Mrs. Maitland, eating--as the grocer said so long ago, \"like\na day-laborer\"--read her paper. Nannie watching her, ate nothing at all\nand said nothing at all.\n\nWhen the coarse, hurried meal was at an end, and Harris, blinking with\nhorrified sympathy, had shut himself into his pantry, Nannie said,\nfaintly, \"Mamma, I have something to tell you.\"\n\n\"I guess it will keep, my dear, I guess it will keep! I'm too busy just\nnow to talk to you.\" She crumpled up her newspaper, flung it on the\nfloor, and plunged over to her desk.\n\nNannie looked helplessly at the back of her head, then went off to her\nparlor. She sat there in the firelit darkness, too distracted and\nfrightened to light the gas, planning how the news must be told. At\neight o'clock there was a fluttering, uncertain ring at the front door,\nand Cherry-pie came quivering in: had Nannie heard anything more? Did\nshe know where _they_ were? \"I asked her uncle to come down here and\nsee if Mrs. Maitland had heard anything, but--he was dreadful, Nannie,\ndreadful! He said he would see the whole family in--I can't repeat\nwhere he said he would see them!\" She broke down and cried; then,\ncrouching at Nannie's side, she read Blair's letter by the uncertain\nlight of the fire. After that, except for occasional whispered\nejaculations of terror and pain, they were silent, sitting close\ntogether like two frightened birds; sometimes a lump of coal split\napart, or a hissing jet of gas bubbled and flamed between the bars of\nthe grate, and then their two shadows flickered gigantic on the wall\nbehind them; but except for that the room was very still. When the\nolder woman rose to go, Nannie clung to her:\n\n\"Oh, won't you tell her? Please--please!\" Poor old Miss White could\nonly shake her head:\n\n\"I can't, my dear, I _can't!_ It would not be fitting. Do it now, my\ndear; do it immejetly, and get it over.\"\n\nWhen Cherry-pie had wavered back into the night, Nannie gathered up her\ncourage to \"get it over.\" She went stealthily across the hall; but at\nthe dining-room door she stood still, her hand on the knob, not daring\nto enter. Strangely enough, in the midst of the absorbing distress of\nthe moment, some trick of memory made her think of the little\n'fraid-cat, standing outside that door, trying to find the courage to\nopen it and get for Blair--for whose sake she stood there now--the\nmoney for his journey all around the world! In spite of her terror, she\nsmiled faintly; then she opened the door and looked in. Mrs. Maitland\nwas still at work, and she retreated noiselessly. At eleven she tried\nagain.\n\nExcept for the single gas-jet under a green shade that hung above the\nbig desk, the room was dark. Mrs. Maitland was in her chair, writing\nrapidly; she did not hear Nannie's hesitating footstep, or know that\nshe was in the room, until the girl put her hand on the arm of her\nchair.\n\n\"Mamma.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Mamma, I have something to--to tell you.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland signed her name, put her pen behind her ear, flung a\nblotter down on the heavily written page, and rubbed her fist over it.\n\"Well?\" she said cheerfully; and glanced up at her stepdaughter over\nher steel-rimmed spectacles, with kind eyes; \"what are you awake for,\nat this hour?\" Then she drew out a fresh sheet of paper, and began to\nwrite: \"My dear Sir:--Yours received, and con--\"\n\n\"Mamma . . . Blair is married.\"\n\nThe pen made a quick, very slight upward movement; there was a spatter\nof ink; then the powerful, beautiful hand went on evenly \"--tents\nnoted.\" She rubbed the blotter over this line, put the pen in a cup of\nshot, and turned around. \"What did you say?\"\n\n\"I said . . . Blair is married.\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"He asked me to tell you.\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"He hopes you will not be angry. He says he is going to be a--a\ntremendous business man, now, because he is so happy.\"\n\nSilence. Then, in a loud voice: \"How long has this been going on?\"\n\n\"Oh, Mamma, not any time at all, truly! I am perfectly sure it--it was\non the spur of the moment.\"\n\n\"Married, 'on the spur of the moment'? Good God!\"\n\n\"I only mean he hasn't been planning it. He--\"\n\n\"And what kind of woman has married him, 'on the spur of the moment'?\"\n\n\"Oh,--Mamma . . .\"\n\nHer voice was so terrified that Mrs. Maitland suddenly looked at her.\n\"Don't be frightened, Nannie,\" she said kindly. \"What is it? You have\nsomething more to tell me, I can see that. Come, out with it! Is she\nbad?\"\n\n\"Oh, _Mamma!_ don't! don't! It is--she is--Elizabeth--\"\n\nThen she fled.\n\nThat night, at about two o'clock, Mrs. Maitland entered her\nstepdaughter's room. Nannie was dozing, but started up in her bed, her\nheart in her throat at the sight of the gaunt figure standing beside\nher. Blair's mother had a candle in one hand, and the other was curved\nabout it to protect the bending flame from the draught of the open\ndoor; the light flickered up on her face, and Nannie was conscious of\nhow deep the wrinkles were on her forehead and about her mouth.\n\n\"Nannie, tell me everything.\"\n\nShe put the candle on the table at the head of the bed, and sat down,\nleaning forward a little, as if a weight were resting on her shoulders.\nHer clasped hands, hanging loosely between her knees, seemed, in the\nfaint light of the small, pointed flame, curiously shrunken and\nwithered. \"Tell me,\" she said heavily.\n\nNannie told her all she knew. It was little enough.\n\n\"How do you know that Elizabeth had broken with David Richie?\" her\nstepmother said. Nannie silently handed her Blair's letter. Mrs.\nMaitland took up her candle, and holding it close to the flimsy sheet,\nread her son's statement. Then she handed it back. \"I see; some sort of\na squabble; and Blair--\" She stopped, almost with a groan. \"His\n_friend,_\" she said, and her chin shook; \"your father's son!\" she said\nbrokenly.\n\n\"Mamma!\" Nannie protested--she was sitting up in bed, her hair in its\ntwo braids falling over her white night-dress, her eyes, so girlish, so\nfrightened, fixed on that quivering iron face; \"Mamma! remember, he was\nin love with Elizabeth long ago, before David ever thought--\"\n\n\"In love with Elizabeth? He was never in love with anybody but himself.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mamma, please forgive him! It's done now, and it can't be undone.\"\n\n\"What has my forgiveness got to do with it? It's done, as you say. It\ncan't be undone. Nothing can be undone. Nothing; nothing. All the years\nthat remain cannot undo the years that I have been building this up.\"\n\nNannie stared at her blankly. And suddenly the hard face softened. \"Lie\ndown. Go to sleep.\" She put her big roughened hand gently on the girl's\nhead. \"Go to sleep, my child.\" She took up her candle, and a moment\nlater Nannie heard the stairs creak under her heavy tread.\n\nSarah Maitland did not sleep that night; but after the first outburst,\nwhen Nannie had panted out, \"It is--Elizabeth,\" and then fled, there\nhad been no anger. When the door closed behind her stepdaughter,\nBlair's mother put her hand over her eyes and sat perfectly still at\nher desk. _Blair was married._ And he had not told her,--that was the\nfirst thought. Then, into the pitiful, personal dismay of mortification\nand wounded love, came the sword-thrust of a second thought: he had\nstolen his friend's wife.\n\nIt was not a moment for nice discriminations; the fact that Elizabeth\nhad not been married to David seemed immaterial. This was because, to\nSarah Maitland's generation, the word, in this matter of getting\nmarried, was so nearly as good as the bond, that a broken engagement\nwas always a solemn, and generally a disgraceful thing. So, when she\nsaid that Blair had \"stolen David's wife,\" she cringed with shame. What\nwould his father say to such conduct! In what had she been wanting that\nHerbert's son could disgrace his father's name--and hate his mother?\nFor of course he must hate her to shut her out of his life, and not\ntell her he was going to get married! Her mind seemed to oscillate\nbetween the abstraction of his dishonor and a more intimate and\nprimitive pain,--the sense of personal slight. \"Oh, my son, my son, my\nson,\" she said. She was bending over, her elbows on her knees, her\nfurrowed forehead resting on her clenched hands; her whole big body\nquivered. He had shut her out.... He hated her.... He had never loved\nher.... \"My son! my son!\" Then a sharp return of memory to the shame of\nhis conduct whipped her to her feet and set her walking about the room.\nIt was long after midnight before she said to herself that the first\nthing to do was to learn exactly what had happened. Nannie must tell\nher. It was then that she went up to her stepdaughter's room.\n\nWhen Nannie had told her, or rather when Blair's letter had made the\nthing shamefully clear, she went down-stairs and faced the situation.\nWho was responsible for it? Who was to blame--before she could add, in\nher mind, \"Elizabeth or Blair?\" some trick of memory finished her\nquestion: who was to blame--\"_this man or his parents?_\" The suggestion\nof personal responsibility was like a blow in the face. She flinched\nunder it, and sat down abruptly, breathing hard. How could it be\npossible that she was to blame? What had she left undone that other\nmothers did? She had loved him; no mother could have loved him more\nthan she did!--and he had never cared for her love. In what had she\nbeen lacking? He had had a religious bringing up; she had begun to take\nhim to church when he was four years old. He had had every educational\nopportunity. All that he wanted he had had. She had never stinted him\nin anything. Could any mother have done more? Could Herbert himself\nhave done more? No; she could not reproach herself for lack of love.\nShe had loved him, so that she had spared him everything--even desire!\nAll that he could want was his before he could ask for it.\n\nIn the midst of this angry justifying of herself, tramping up and down\nthe long room, she stopped suddenly and looked about her; where was her\nknitting? Her thoughts were in such a distracted tangle that the\naccustomed automatic movement of her fingers was imperative. She tucked\nthe grimy pink ball of zephyr under her arm, and tightening her fingers\non the bent and yellowing old needles, began again her fierce pacing up\nand down, up and down. But the room seemed to cramp her, and by and by\nshe went across the hall into Nannie's parlor, where the fire had\nsprung into cheerful flames; here she paused for a while, standing with\none foot on the fender, knitting rapidly, her unseeing eyes fixed on\nthe needles. Yes; Blair had had no cares, no responsibilities,--and as\nfor money! With a wave of resentment, she thought that she would find\nout in the morning from her bookkeeper just how much money she had\ngiven him since he was twenty-one. It was then that a bleak\nconsciousness, like the dull light of a winter dawn, slowly began to\ntake possession of her: _money_. She had given him money; but what else\nhad she given him? Not companionship; she had never had the time for\nthat; besides, he would not have wanted it; she knew, inarticulately,\nthat he and she had never spoken the same language. Not sympathy in his\nendless futilities; what intelligent person could sympathize with a man\nwho found serious occupation in buying--well, china beetles? Or\npictures! She glanced angrily over at that piece of blackened canvas by\nthe door, its gold frame glimmering faintly in the firelight. He had\nspent five thousand dollars on a picture that you could cover with your\ntwo hands! Yes; she had given him money; but that was all she had given\nhim. Money was apparently the only thing they had in common.\n\nThen came another surge of resentment,--that pitiful resentment of the\nwounded heart; Blair had never cared how hard she worked to make money\nfor him! It occurred to her, perhaps for the first time in her life,\nthat she worked very hard; she said to herself that sometimes she was\ntired. Yes, she had never thought of it before, but she was sometimes\nvery tired. But what did Blair care for that? What did he care how hard\nshe worked? Even as she said it, with that anger which is a confession\nof something deeper than anger, her mind retorted that if he had never\ncared how hard she worked for their money, she had never cared how\neasily he spent it. She had been irritated by his way of spending it,\nand she had been contemptuous; but she had never really cared. So it\nappeared that they did not have even money in common. The earning had\nbeen all hers; the spending had been all his. If she had liked to buy\ngimcracks, they would have had that in common, and perhaps he would\nhave been fond of her? \"But I never knew how to be a fool,\" she\nthought, simply. Yes; she didn't know how to spend, she only knew how\nto earn. Of course, if he had had to earn what he spent, they would\nhave had work as a bond of sympathy. Work! Blair had never understood\nthat work was the finest thing in the world. She wondered why he had\nnot understood it, when she herself had worked so hard--worked, in\nfact, so that he might be beyond the need of working. As she said that,\nher fingers were suddenly rigid on her needles; it seemed as if her\nsoul had felt a jolt of dismay; why didn't her son understand the joy\nof work? Because she had spared him all necessity for it!--for the work\nshe had given him to do was not real, and they both knew it. Spared\nhim? Robbed him! \"_Who hath sinned, this man or his parents?_\" \"This\nman,\" her selfish, indolent, dishonorable son, or she herself, whose\nhurry to possess the one thing she wanted, that finest thing in the\nworld, Work!--had pushed him into the road of pleasant, shameful\nidleness, the road that always leads to dishonor? Good God! what a fool\nshe had been not to make him work.\n\nSarah Maitland, tramping back and forth, the ball of pink worsted\ndragging behind her in a grimy tangle, thought these things with a\nsledge-hammer directness that spared herself nothing. She wanted the\ntruth, no matter how it made her cringe to find it! She would hammer\nout her very heart to find the truth. And the truth she found was that\nshe had never allowed Blair to meet the negations of life--to meet\nthose _No's_, which teach the eternal affirmations of character. He had\nhad everything; he had done nothing. The result was as inevitable as\nthe action of a law of nature! In the illuminating misery of this\nterrible night, she saw that she had given her son, as Robert Ferguson\nhad said to her once, \"fullness of bread and abundance of idleness.\"\nAnd now she was learning what bread and idleness together must always\nmake of a man.\n\nWalking up and down the dimly lighted room, she had a vision of her sin\nthat made her groan. _She_ had made Blair what he was: because it had\nbeen easy for her to make things easy for him, she had given him his\nheart's desire, and brought leanness withal to his soul. In satisfying\nher own hunger for work, she had forgotten to give it to him, and he\nhad starved for it! She had left, by this time, far behind her the\npersonal affront to her of his reserves; she took meekly the knowledge\nthat he did not love her: she even thought of his marriage as\nunimportant, or as important only because it was a symptom of a\ncondition for which she was responsible. And having once realized and\naccepted this fact, there was only one solemn question in her mind:\n\n\"What am I going to do about it?\"\n\nFor she believed, as other parents have believed before her--and\nprobably will go on believing as long as there are parents and\nsons--she believed that she could, in some way or other, by the very\nstrength of her agonizing love, force into her son's soul from the\noutside that Kingdom of God which must be within. \"Oh, what am I going\nto do?\" she said to herself.\n\nShe stood still and covered her face with her hands. \"God,\" she said,\n\"don't punish him! It's my fault; punish me.\"\n\nPerhaps she had never really prayed before.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nRobert Ferguson, in his library, and poor Miss White in the hall,\nlistened with tense nerves for the wheels of the carriage that was to\nbring David Richie \"to breakfast.\"\n\n\"Send him in to me,\" Mr. Ferguson had said; and then had shut himself\ninto his library.\n\nMiss White was quivering with terror when at last she heard the\ncarriage door bang. David came leaping up the steps, his face rosy as a\ngirl's in the raw morning air--it was a lowering Mercer morning, with\nthe street lamps burning at eight o'clock in a murk of smoke and fog.\nHe raked the windows with a smiling glance, and then stood, laughing\nfor sheer happiness, waiting for _her_ to open the door to him.\n\nDavid had had a change of spirit, if not of mind, since he wrote his\neminently sensible letter to Elizabeth. He had been able to scrape up\nenough money of his own to pay at least one of his bills, and things\nhad gone better with him at the hospital, so he no longer felt the\nunreasonable humiliation which Elizabeth's proposal had accentuated in\nhim. The reproach which his mood had read into her letter had vanished\nafter a good night's sleep and a good day's work; now, it seemed to him\nonly an exquisite expression of most lovely love, which brought the\ncolor into his face, and made his lips burn at the thought of her lips!\nOf course her idea of marrying on her little money was not to be\nthought of--he and Mr. Ferguson would laugh over it together; but what\nan angel she was to think of it! All that night, in the journey over\nthe mountains, he had lain in his berth and looked out at the stars,\ncursing himself joyously for a dumb fool who had had no words to tell\nher how he loved her for that sweet, divinely foolish proposal, which\nwas \"not to be thought of\"! \"But when I see her, I'll make her\nunderstand; when I hold her in my arms--\" he told himself, with all the\npassion of twenty-six years which had no easy outlet of speech.\n\nWhen Robert Ferguson's door opened, his heart was on his lips. \"Eliz--\"\nhe began, and stopped short. \"Oh, Miss White. Good morning, Miss\nWhite!\" And before poor Cherry-pie knew it, he had given her a great\nhug; \"Where is Elizabeth? Not out of bed yet? Oh, the lazybones!\" He\nwas so eager that, until he was fairly in the hall, with the front door\nshut, and his overcoat almost off, he did not notice her silence. Then\nhe gave her a startled look. \"Miss White! is anything the matter? Is\nElizabeth ill?\"\n\n\"No; oh, no,\" she said breathlessly; \"but--Mr. Ferguson will tell you.\nNo, she is not sick. Go, he will tell you. In the library.\"\n\nThe color dropped out of his face as a flag drops to half-mast. \"She is\ndead,\" he said, with absolute finality in his voice. \"When did she\ndie?\" He stood staring straight ahead of him at the wall, ghastly with\nfright.\n\n\"No! no! She is not dead; she is well. Quite well; oh, very well. Go,\nDavid, my dear boy--oh, my _dear_ boy! Go to Mr. Ferguson. He will tell\nyou. But it is--terrible, David.\"\n\nHe went, dazed, and saying, \"Why, but what is it? If she is not--not--\"\n\nRobert Ferguson met him on the threshold of the library, drew him in,\nclosed the door, and looked him full in the face. \"No, she isn't dead,\"\nhe said; \"I wish to God she were.\" Then he struck him hard on the\nshoulder. \"David,\" he said harshly, \"be a man; they've played a damned\ndirty trick on you. Yesterday she married Blair Maitland.... Take it\nlike a man, and be thankful you are rid of her.\" He wheeled about and\nstood with his back to his niece's lover. He had guided the inevitable\nsword, but he could not witness the agony of the wound. There was\ncomplete stillness in the room; the ticking of the clock suddenly\nhammered in Robert Ferguson's ears; a cinder fell softly from the\ngrate. Then he heard a long-drawn breath:\n\n\"Tell me, if you please, exactly what has happened.\"\n\nElizabeth's uncle, still with his back turned, told him what little he\nknew. \"I don't know where they are,\" he ended; \"I don't want to know.\nThe scoundrel wrote to Nannie, but he gave no address. Elizabeth's\nletter to me is on my table; read it.\"\n\nHe heard David move over to the library table; he heard the rustle of\nthe sheet of paper as it was drawn out of the envelope. Then silence\nagain, and the clamor of the clock. He turned round, in time to see\nDavid stagger slightly and drop into a chair; perspiration had burst\nout on his forehead. He was so white around his lips that Robert\nFerguson knew that for a moment his body shared the awful astonishment\nof his soul. \"There's some whiskey over there,\" he said, nodding toward\na side table. David shook his head. Then, still shuddering with that\ndreadful sickness, he spoke.\n\n\"She ... has married--Blair? _Blair_?\" he repeated, uncomprehendingly.\nHe put his hand up to his head with that strange, cosmic gesture which\nhorrified humanity has made ever since it was capable of feeling horror.\n\n\"Yes,\" Mr. Ferguson said grimly; \"yes, Blair--your friend! Well, you\nare not the first man who has had a sweetheart--and a 'friend.' A wife,\neven--and a 'friend.' And then discovered that he had neither wife nor\nfriend. Damn him.\"\n\n\"Damn him?\" said David, and burst into a scream of laughter. He was on\nhis feet now, but he rocked a little on his shaking legs. \"Damnation is\ntoo good for him; may God--\" In the outburst of fury that followed,\neven Robert Ferguson quailed and put up a protesting hand.\n\n\"David--David,\" he stammered, actually recoiling before that storm of\nwords. \"David, he will get what he deserves. She was worthless!\" David\nstopped short. At the mention of Elizabeth, his hurricane of rage\ndropped suddenly into the flat calm of absolute bewilderment. \"Do not\nspeak of Elizabeth in that way, in my presence,\" he said, panting.\n\n\"She is her mother's daughter! She is bad, through and through. She--\"\n\n\"Stop!\" David cried, violently; \"what in hell do you keep on saying\nthat for? I will not listen--I will not hear.\" . . . He was beside\nhimself; he did not know what he said.\n\nBut Robert Ferguson was silenced. When David spoke again, it was in\ngasps, and his words came thickly as if his tongue were numb:\n\"What--what are we to do?\"\n\n\"Do? There is nothing to do, that I can see.\"\n\n\"She must be taken away from him!\"\n\n\"Nobody knows where they are. But if I did know, I wouldn't lift my\nhand to get her away. She has made her bed--she can lie in it, so far\nas I am concerned.\"\n\n\"But she didn't!\" David groaned; \"you don't understand. I am the one to\ncurse, not Elizabeth.\"\n\n\"What are you talking about?\"\n\n\"I did it.\"\n\nThe older man looked at him with almost contemptuous incredulity. \"My\ndear fellow, what is the use of denying facts? You can't make black\nwhite, can you? Day before yesterday you loved this--this,\" he seemed\nto search for some epithet; glanced at David, and said, almost meekly:\n\"girl. Day before yesterday she expected to marry you. To-day she is\nthe wife of another man. Have you committed any crime in the last three\ndays which justifies that?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" David said, in a smothered voice, \"I have.\" Then he handed back\nto the shamed and angry man the poor, pitiful little letter. \"Don't you\nsee? She says, 'David didn't want'\"--he broke off, unable to speak. A\nmoment later he added, \"'E. _F_.' She isn't used to the--the other,\nyet,\" he said, again with that bewildered look.\n\nBut Elizabeth's uncle was too absorbed in his own humiliation to see\nconfession in that tragic initial. \"What is that nonsense about your\nnot wanting her?\"\n\n\"She thought so. She had reason to think so.\"\n\n\"You had better explain yourself, David.\"\n\n\"She wrote to me,\" David said, after a pause; \"she told me she would\nhave that money of hers on her birthday. She said we could be married\nthen.\" He reddened to his temples. \"She asked me to marry her that day;\n_asked_ me, you understand.\" He turned on his heel and went over to the\nwindow; he stood there for some minutes with his back to Robert\nFerguson. The green door in the wall between the two gardens was\nswinging back and forth on sagging hinges; David watched it with\nunseeing eyes; suddenly a sooty pigeon came circling down and lit just\ninside the old arbor, which was choked with snow shovelled from the\nflagstones of the path. Who can say why, watching the pigeon's\nteetering walk on the soot-specked snow, David should smell the\nfragrance of heliotrope hot in the sunshine, and see Elizabeth drawing\nBlair's ring from her soft young bosom? He turned back to her uncle,\nwith a rigid face: \"Well, _I--I_ said--'no' to her letter. Do you\nunderstand? I told her 'no.' '_No_,' to a girl like Elizabeth! Because,\nin my--my filthy pride--\" he paused, picked up a book, turned it over\nand over, and then put it straight edge to edge with the table. His\nhand was trembling violently. When he could speak again it was in a\nwhisper. \"My cursed pride. I didn't want to marry until I could do\neverything. I wasn't willing to be under obligations; I told her so. I\nsaid--'no.' It made her angry. It would make any girl angry,--but\nElizabeth! Why, she used to bite herself when she was angry. When she\nis angry, she will do--anything. _She has done it._ My God!\"\n\nRobert Ferguson could not look at him. He made a pretense of taking up\nsome papers from his desk, and somehow or other got himself out of the\nroom. He found Miss White in the hall, clasping and unclasping her\nlittle thin old hands.\n\n\"How did he--?\" she tried to say, but her poor nibbling lip could not\nfinish the question.\n\n\"How does a man usually take a stab in the back?\" he flung at her.\n\"Don't be a--\" He stopped short. \"I beg your pardon, Miss White.\" But\nshe was too heartbroken to resent the rudeness of his suffering.\n\nAfter that they stood there waiting, without speaking to each other.\nOnce Mr. Ferguson made as if he would go back to the library, but\nstopped with his hand on the door-knob; once Miss White said brokenly,\n\"The boy _must_ have some breakfast\"; but still they left him to\nhimself.\n\nAfter a while, Cherry-pie sat down on the stairs and cried softly.\nRobert Ferguson walked about; now out to the front door, with a feint\nof looking at the thermometer in the vestibule; now the length of the\nhall, into which the fog had crept until the gas burned in a hazy ring;\nnow into the parlor--from which he instantly fled as if a serpent had\nstung him: her little basket of embroidery, overflowing with its pretty\nfoolishness, stood on the table.\n\nWhen David Richie opened the library door and came into the hall he was\noutwardly far steadier than they. \"I think I'll go to the depot now,\nsir. No, thank you, Miss White; I'll get something to eat there.\"\n\n\"Oh, but my dear boy,\" she said, trying to swallow her tears, \"now\ndo--now don't--I can have your breakfast ready immejetly, and--\"\n\n\"Let him alone,\" Mr. Ferguson said; \"he'll eat when he feels like it.\nDavid, must you go back this morning? I wish you'd stay.\"\n\n\"I have to go back, thank you, sir.\"\n\n\"You may find a letter from her at home; she didn't know you were to be\nhere to-day.\"\n\n\"I may,\" David said; and some dull note in his voice told Robert\nFerguson that the young man's youth was over.\n\n\"My boy,\" he said, \"forget her! You are well rid of--\" he stopped\nshort, with an apprehensive glance; but David made no protest;\napparently he was not listening.\n\n\"I shall take the express,\" he said; \"I must see my mother, before I go\nto the hospital to-night. She must be told. She will be--sorry.\"\n\n\"Your mother!\" said Robert Ferguson. \"Well, David, thank God you have\nloved one woman who is good!\"\n\n\"I have loved _two_ women who are good,\" David said. He turned and took\nMiss White's poor old, shaking hands in his. \"When she comes back--\"\n\n\"Comes back?\" the older man cried out, furiously; \"she shall never come\nback to this house!\"\n\nDavid did not notice him: \"Miss White, listen. When you see her, tell\nher I understand. Just tell her, 'David says, \"I understand.\"' And Miss\nWhite, say: 'He says, try to forgive him.'\"\n\nShe sobbed so, that instinctively, but without tenderness, he put his\narm about her; his face was dull to the point of indifference. \"Don't\ncry, Miss White. And be good to her; but I know you will be good to\nher!\" He picked up his hat, put his coat over his arm, and stretched\nout his hand to Robert Ferguson with a steady smile. \"Good-by, sir.\"\nThen the smile dropped and left the amazed and naked face quivering\nbefore their eyes. Through the wave of merciful numbness which had\ngiven him his hard composure, agony stabbed him. \"For God's sake, don't\nbe hard on her. She has enough to bear! And blame me--_me_. I did it--\"\n\nHe turned and fled out of the house, and the two unhappy people who\nloved Elizabeth looked at each other speechlessly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nExcept in his gust of primitive fury when he first knew that he had\nbeen robbed, and in that last breaking down in the hall, David knew\nwhat had happened to him only, if one may say so, with the outside of\nhis mind. Even while he was talking with comparative calmness to Mr.\nFerguson, his thoughts were whirling, and veering, in dizzying\ncircles--bewildered rage, pity, fright, revolt,--and then back again to\nhalf-dazed fury. But each time he tried to realize exactly what had\nhappened, something in him seemed to swerve, like a shying horse; he\ncould not get near enough to the fact, to understand it. In a numb way\nhe must have recognized this, because in those moments by himself in\nthe library he deliberately shut a door upon the blasting truth. Later,\nof course, he would have to open it and look in upon the ruin of his\nlife. Somewhere back in his thoughts he was aware that this moment of\nopening the Door would come, and come soon. But while he talked to\nRobert Ferguson, and tried, dully, to comfort Miss White, and even as\nhe went down the steps up which he had bounded not an hour before, he\nwas holding that moment off. His one clear feeling was a desire to be\nby himself. Then, he promised himself, when he was alone, he would open\nthe Door, and face the Thing that lay behind it. But as he walked along\nthe street, the Door was closed, bolted, locked, and his back was\nagainst it. \"Elizabeth has married Blair,\" he said to himself, softly.\nThe words seemed to have no meaning. \"Elizabeth has married Blair,\" he\ninsisted again; but was only cognizant that the blur of fog around a\nstreet-lamp showed rainbow lines in a wonderful pattern. \"They are all\nat right angles,\" he said; \"that's interesting,\" and looked ahead to\nsee if the next light repeated the phenomenon. Then automatically he\ntook out his watch: \"Nine-thirty. Elizabeth has married Blair. The\ntrain leaves at ten. I had better be going to the depot. _Elizabeth has\nmarried Blair_.\" And he walked on, looking at the lamps burning in the\nfog. Then suddenly, as if the closed Door showed a crack of light, he\ndecided that he would not go back on the express; an inarticulate\nimpulse pierced him to the quick,--the impulse to resist, to fight, to\nsave himself and her! But almost with the rending pang, the Door\nslammed to again and the impulse blurred--like the street-lamps. Still,\nthe impetus of it was sufficient to keep him from turning toward the\nrailroad station.\n\n\"Hello!\" some one said; Harry Knight was standing, grinning, directly\nin front of him; \"you needn't run down a friend of your youth, even if\nyou don't condescend to live in Mercer any more!\"\n\n\"Oh, hello,\" David heard himself say.\n\n\"When did you come to town? I'd ask you to lunch with me, but I suppose\nyour lady-love would object. Wait till you get to be an old married man\nlike me; then she'll be glad to get rid of you!\" David knew that he\ngave the expected laugh, and that he said it was a foggy day, and\nPhiladelphia had a better climate than Mercer; (\"he hasn't heard it\nyet,\" he was saying to himself) \"yes, dark old hole; I'm going back\nto-night. Yes; awfully sorry I can't--good-by--good-by. (He'll know by\nto-night.\") He did not notice when Knight seemed to melt into the mist;\nnor was he conscious that he had begun to walk again--on, and on, and\non. Suddenly he paused before the entrance of a saloon, which bore,\nabove \"XXX Pale Ale,\" in gilt letters on the window, the sign \"Landis'\nHotel.\"\n\nHe was aware of overpowering fatigue. Why not go in here and sit down?\nHe would not meet any one he knew in such a place. \"Better take a room\nfor an hour or two,\" he thought. He knew that he must be alone to open\nthat Door, but he did not say so; instead his mind, repeating,\nparrot-like, \"Elizabeth has married Blair,\" made its arrangements for\nprivacy, as steadily as a surgeon might make arrangements for a mortal\noperation.\n\nAs he entered the hotel, a woman on her hands and knees, slopping a wet\ncloth over the black and white marble floor of the office, looked up at\nhim, and moved her bucket of dirty water to let him pass. \"Huh! He's\ngot a head on him this morning,\" she thought knowingly. But the clerk\nat the desk gave him an uneasy glance. Men with tragic faces and\nbewildered eyes are not welcomed by hotel clerks.\n\n\"Say,\" he said, pleasantly enough, as he handed out a key, \"don't you\nwant a pick-me-up? You're kind o' white round the gills.\"\n\nDavid nodded. \"Where's the bar?\" he said thickly. He found his way to\nit, and while he waited for his whisky he lifted a corkscrew from the\ncounter and looked at it closely. \"That's something new, isn't it?\" he\nsaid to the man who was rinsing out a glass for him; \"I never saw a\ncorkscrew (Elizabeth has married Blair) with that hook thing on the\nside.\" He took his two fingers of whisky, and followed the bell-boy to\na room.\n\n\"I don't like that young feller's looks,\" the clerk told the\nscrub-woman; \"we don't want any more free reading notices in the papers\nof this hotel being a roadhouse on the way to heaven.\" And when the\nbell-boy who had shown the unwelcome guest to his room came back to his\nbench in the office, he interrogated him, with a grin that was not\naltogether facetious: \"Any revolvers lyin' round up in No. 20, or any\nof those knobby blue bottles?\"\n\n\"Naw,\" said the bell-boy, disgustedly, \"ner no dimes, neither.\"\n\nDavid, in the small, unfriendly hotel bedroom that looked out upon\nsqualid back yards and smelled as if its one window had not been opened\nfor a year, was at last alone. Down in the alley, a hand-organ was\nshrilling monotonously: Kafoozleum--Kafoozleum.\n\nHe looked about him for a minute, then tried to open the window, but\nthe sash stuck; he shook it violently, then shoved it up with such\nforce that a cracked pane of glass clattered out; a gust of raw air\ncame into the stagnant mustiness of the narrow room. After that he sat\ndown and drew a long breath. Then he opened the Door....\n\nDown-stairs the clerk was sharing his uneasiness with the barkeeper.\n\"He came in looking like death. Wild-eyed he was. Mrs. Maloney there\nwill tell you. She came up to me and remarked on it. No, sir, men, like\nthat ain't healthy for this hotel.\"\n\n\"That's so,\" the barkeeper agreed. \"Why didn't you tell him you were\nfull up?\"\n\n\"Well, he seemed the gentleman,\" the clerk said. \"I didn't just see my\nway--\"\n\n\"Huh!\" the other flung back at him resentfully. \"'Tain't only a poor\nman that puts his hand in the till, and then hires a room in a\nhotel\"--he made a significant gesture and rolled up his eyes.\n\n\"He didn't register,\" the clerk said. \"Only wanted the room for a\ncouple of hours.\"\n\n\"A couple of hours is long enough to--\" said the barkeeper.\n\n\"Good idea to send a boy up to ask if he rung?\"\n\n\"_I'd_ have sent him ten minutes ago,\" the barkeeper said scornfully.\n\nSo it was that David, staring in at his ruin, was interrupted more than\nonce that morning: \"No, I didn't ring. Clear out.\" And again: \"No; I'm\nnot waiting for anybody. Shut that door.\" But the third time he was\nfrantic: \"Damn it, if you knock on my door again I'll kick you\ndown-stairs! Do you understand?\" And at that the office subsided.\n\n\"They don't do it when they're swearing mad,\" the barkeeper said. \"I\nguess his girl has given him the mitten. You ladies are always making\ntrouble for us, Mrs. Maloney. You drive us to suicide for love of you!\"\nMrs. Maloney simperingly admitted her baleful influence. \"As for you,\"\nhe jeered at the clerk, \"you're fresh, I guess. That little affair in\n18 got on your nerves.\"\n\n\"Well, if you'd found him as I did, I guess it would 'a' got on your\nnerves,\" the clerk said, affrontedly; he added under his breath that\nthey could kill themselves all over the house, and he wouldn't lift a\nfinger to stop 'em. \"You don't get no thanks,\" he told himself\ngloomily. But after that, No. 20 was not disturbed.\n\nAt first, when David opened his closed Door and looked in, there had\nbeen the shock again. He was stunned with incredulous astonishment.\nThen his mind cleared. With the clearing came once more that organic\nanger of the robbed man; an anger that has in it the uncontrollable\nimpulse to regain his property. It could not be--this thing that had\nhappened. It should not be!\n\nHe would see her; he would take her. As for _him_--David's sinewy\nfingers closed as talons might close into the living flesh of a man's\nneck. He knew the lust of murder, and he exulted in it. Yet even as he\nexulted, the baseness of what Blair had done was so astounding, that,\nsitting there in the dreary room, his hands clenched in his pockets,\nhis legs stretched out in front of him, David Richie actually felt a\nsort of impersonal amazement that had nothing to do with anger. For one\ninstant the unbelievableness of Blair's dishonor threw him back into\nthat clamoring confusion from which he had escaped since he opened the\nDoor. Blair must have been in love with her! Had Elizabeth suspected\nit? She certainly had never hinted it to him; why not? Some girlish\ndelicacy? But Blair--Blair, a dishonorable man? In the confounding\nturmoil of this uprooting of old admirations, he was conscious of the\nhand-organ down in the alley, pounding out its imbecile refrain. He\neven found himself repeating the meaningless words:\n\n   \"In ancient days there lived a Turk,\n   A horrid beast within the East, ......\n   Oh, Kafoozleum, Kafoozleum\"--\n\nHis mind righted itself; he came back to facts, and to the simple\nincisive question: what must he do? It was not until the afternoon\nthat, by one tortuous and torturing line of reasoning after another, he\ncame to know that, as her uncle had said, for the present he could do\nnothing.\n\n\"Nothing?\" At first, David had laughed savagely; he would turn the\nworld upside down before he would leave her in her misery! For that she\nwas in misery he never doubted; nor did he stop to ask himself whether\nshe had repented her madness, he only groaned. He saw, or thought he\nsaw, the whole thing. There was not one doubt, not one poisonous\nsuspicion of Elizabeth herself. That she was disloyal to him never\nentered his head. To David she was only in a terrible trap, from which,\nat any cost, she must be rescued. That her own mad temper had brought\nher to such a pass was neither here nor there; it had nothing to do\nwith the matter in hand, namely her rescue--and then the killing of the\nman who had trapped her! It came into David's head--like a lamp moving\ntoward him through a mist--that perhaps she had written to him? He had\nnot really grasped the idea when Robert Ferguson suggested it; but now\nhe was suddenly certain that a letter must be awaiting him in\nPhiladelphia! Perhaps in it she called on him to come and help her? The\nthought was like a whip. He forgot his desire to kill Blair; he leaped\nto his feet, fumbling in his pocket for a time-table; then realized\nthat there was no train across the mountains until night. Should he\ntelegraph his mother to open any letter from Elizabeth, and wire him\nwhere she was? No; even in the whirl of his perplexity, he knew he\ncould not let any other eyes than his own see what, in her abasement,\nElizabeth must have written. He began to pace frantically up and down;\nthen stood and looked out of the window, beating his mind back to\ncalmness,--for he must be calm. He must think what could be done. He\nwould get the letter as soon as he reached home; until he got it and\nlearned where she was, the only thing to do was to decide how she\nshould be saved.\n\nAnd so it was that, not allowing himself to dip down into that\nelemental rage of the wronged man, not even daring to think of his own\nincredible blunder which had kindled her crazy anger, still less\nventuring to let his thought rest on the suffering that had come to\nher, he kept his mind steadily on that one imperative question: _what\nwas to be done?_ At first the situation seemed almost simple: she must\nleave Blair instantly. \"To-day!\" he said to himself, striking the\nrickety table before him with his fist; \"to-day!\" Next, the marriage\nmust be annulled. That was all; annulled! These were the premises from\nwhich he started. All that long, dark morning, well into the afternoon,\nhe followed blind alleys of thought, ending always in the same\n_impasse_--there was nothing he could do. He did not even know where\nshe was, until the letter in Philadelphia should tell him,--at that\nthought he looked at his watch again. Oh, how many endless hours before\nhe could go and get that letter! And after all, she was Blair\nMaitland's wife. Suppose she did leave him, would the swine give her\nher freedom? Not without long, involved processes of law; he knew his\nman well enough to know that. Yes, there would have to be dreadful\npublicity, heart-breaking humiliation for his poor, mad darling. She\nwould have to face those things. Oh, if he only knew where she was, so\nthat he could go that moment and help her to take that first step of\nflight. She must go at once to his mother. Yes, his mother would\nshelter her from the beast. If he could only get word to her, to go,\n_instantly_, to his mother. But he did not know where she was! He\ncursed himself for not having taken the ten o'clock express! He could\nhave been at home that night, had her letter, and started out again to\ngo to her. As it was, nothing could be done until to-morrow morning.\nThen he would know what to do, because then he would know where she\nwas. But meantime--meantime...\n\nThere is no doubt that when the frantic man realized his befogging\nignorance, and found himself involved in this dreadful delay, the hotel\nclerk's apprehensions were, at least for wild moments, justified. But\nonly for moments--Elizabeth was to be rescued! David could not consider\nescape from his own misery until that task had been accomplished. Yet\nconsider: his girl, his woman--another man's; and he helpless! And\nsuppose he did rescue her; suppose he did drag her from the arms of the\nthief who had been his friend--could it ever be the same? Never. Never.\nNever. His Elizabeth was dead. The woman whom he meant to have\nyet--somehow, sometime, somewhere; the woman whom Blair Maitland had\nfilched from him, was not his Elizabeth. The rose, trampled in the\nmire, may be lifted, it may be revived, it may be fragrant--but it has\nknown the mire!\n\nThere were, in the early darkening afternoon, crazy moments for David\nRichie. Moments of murderous hate of Blair, moments of unbearable\nconsciousness of his own responsibility, moments of almost repulsion\nfor the tragic, marred creature he loved; and at this last appalling\nrevelation to himself of his own possibilities--moments of absolute\ndespair. And when one of those despairing moments came, he put his head\ndown on the table, on his folded arms, and cried for his mother. He\ncried hard, like a child: \"Materna!\"\n\nAnd so it was that he arose and went to his mother.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nWhen, after his interview with David, Robert Ferguson went into Mrs.\nMaitland's office at the Works, he looked older by twenty years than\nwhen he had left it the night before. Sarah Maitland, sitting at her\ndesk, heard his step, and wheeled round to greet him.\n\n\"Better shut that door,\" she said briefly; and he gave the door in the\nglass partition a shove with his foot. Then they looked at each other.\n\"Well,\" she said; and stretched out her hand. \"We're in the same box. I\nguess we'd better shake hands.\" She grinned with pain, but she forced\nher grunt of a laugh. \"What's your story? Mine is only his explanation\nto Nannie.\"\n\n\"Mine isn't even that. She merely wrote me she had married him; that\nwas all. Miss White told me what he wrote to Nannie. What do you know\nabout it?\"\n\n\"That's all I know,\" she said, and gave him Blair's note.\n\nHe read it, and handed it back in silence.\n\n\"Well, what are you going to do?\" she asked.\n\n\"Do? There's nothing to do. I'm done with her!\"\n\n\"He's my son,\" Sarah Maitland said. \"I have got to do something.\"\n\n\"But there's nothing to be done,\" he pointed out; it was not like this\nruthless woman to waste time crying over spilt milk. \"They are both of\nage, and they are married; that's all there is to it. I went into the\nmayor's office and found the registry. The marriage is all right so far\nas that goes. As for David--men don't go out with a gun or a horsewhip\nin these fine times. He won't do anything. For that matter, he is well\nrid of her. I told him so. I might have added that the best thing a\njilted man can do is to go down on his knees and thank God that he's\nbeen jilted; I know what I'm talking about! As for your son--\" he\nstopped.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"_my son?_\" And even in his fury, Robert Ferguson felt\na pang at the sight of her torn and ravaged face that quivered so that\nhe turned his eyes away out of sheer decency. \"I must do something for\nmy son. And I think I know what it will be.\" She bit her forefinger,\nfrowning with thought. \"I think I know ... I have not done right by\nBlair.\"\n\n\"No, you haven't,\" he said dryly. \"Have you just discovered that? But I\ndon't see what you or I or God Almighty can do _now_! They're married.\"\n\n\"Oh, I can't do anything about this marriage,\" she said, with a gesture\nof indifference; \"but that's not the important thing.\"\n\n\"Not important? What do you mean?\"\n\n\"I mean that the important thing is to know what made Blair behave in\nthis way; and then cure him.\"\n\n\"Cure him! There's no cure for rottenness.\" He was so beside himself\nwith pain that he forgot that she was a woman, and Blair's mother.\n\n\"I blame myself for Blair's conduct,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh, Elizabeth is as bad as he is!\" But he waited for her contradiction.\n\nIt did not come. \"Probably worse.\" Involuntarily he raised a protesting\nhand.\n\n\"But I mean to forgive her,\" said Sarah Maitland, with cold\ndetermination.\n\n\"Forgive Elizabeth?\" he said, angrily, and his anger was the very small\nend of the wedge of his own forgiveness; \"forgive _her_? It strikes me\nthe boot is on the other leg, Mrs. Maitland.\"\n\n\"Oh, well,\" she said, \"what difference does it make? I guess it's a\ncase of the pot and the kettle. I'm not blaming your girl overmuch;\nalthough a bad woman is always worse than a bad man. In this case,\nElizabeth acted from hate, and Blair from love; the result is the same,\nof course, but one motive is worse than the other. But never mind\nthat--Blair has got her, and he will be faithful to her; for a while,\nanyhow. And Elizabeth will get used to him--that's Nature, and Nature\nis bigger than a girl's first fancy. So if David doesn't interfere--you\nthink he won't? you don't know human nature, Friend Ferguson! David\nisn't a saint--at least I hope he isn't; I don't care much about\ntwenty-seven-year-old male saints. David may not be able to interfere,\nbut he'll try to, somehow. You wait! As for Blair, as I say, if David\ndoesn't put his finger in the pie, Blair isn't hopeless.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you think so.\"\n\n\"I _do_ think so. Blair is young yet; and if she costs him something,\nhe may value her--and I think I can manage to make her cost him\nsomething! A man doesn't value what comes cheap; and all his life\neverything has come cheap to Blair.\"\n\n\"I don't see what you're driving at.\"\n\n\"Just this,\" she explained; \"Blair has had everything he wanted,--oh,\nyes, yes; it's my fault!\" she struck an impatient fist upon the arm of\nher chair. \"I told you it was my fault. Don't take precious time to\nargue over that. It is _all_ my fault. There! will that satisfy you?\nI've given him everything. So he thought he could have everything. He\ndoesn't know the meaning of 'no.' He has got to learn. I shall teach\nhim. I have thought it all out. I'm going to make a man of him.\"\n\n\"How?\" said Robert Ferguson.\n\n\"I haven't got the details clear in my mind yet, but this is the gist\nof it: _NO money but what he earns_.\"\n\n\"No money?\"\n\n\"After this, it will be 'root, hog, or die.'\"\n\n\"But Blair can't root,\" her superintendent said, fair in spite of\nhimself. And at that her face lighted with a sort of awful purpose.\n\n\"Then he must die! Ferguson, don't you see--_he has begun to die\nalready?_\" Again her face quivered. \"Look at this business of taking\nDavid's wife--oh, I know, they weren't married yet, but the principle\nis the same; what do you call that but dying? Look at his whole life:\nwhat has he done? Received--received! Given nothing. Ferguson, you\ncan't fool God: you've got to give something! A privilege means an\nobligation--the obligation of sweat! Sweat of your body or your brains.\nBlair has never sweated. He's always had something for nothing. That is\nthe one immorality that damns. It has damned Blair. Of course, I ought\nto have realized it before, but I--I suppose I was too busy. Yes; I\ntell you, if Blair had had to work for what he's got, as you and I have\nworked for what we've got, he wouldn't be where he is to-day. You know\nthat! He'd have had something else to think of than satisfying his\neyes, or his stomach, or his lust. He'd have been decent.\"\n\n\"He might have been,\" Robert Ferguson said drearily, \"but I doubt it.\nAnyway, you can't, by making him earn or go without, or anything else,\ngive David's girl back to him.\"\n\n\"No,\" she said heavily, and for a moment her passion of hope flagged;\n\"no, I can't do that. But I shall try to make it up to David in some\nway, of course. Where is he?\" she broke off.\n\nHe told her briefly of David's arrival and departure. \"He's gone back\nto his mother,\" he ended; \"she'll comfort him.\" Then, with a bark of\nanger, he added, \"Mrs. Richie was always saying that Elizabeth would\nturn out well. I wonder what she will say now? I knew better; her\nmother, my brother Arthur's wife, was--no good. Yet I let Mrs. Richie\nbamboozle me into building on her. I always said Life shouldn't play\nthe same trick on me twice--but it has done it! It has done it. My\nheart was set on Elizabeth. Yes, Mrs. Maitland, I've been fooled\nagain--but so have you.\"\n\n\"Nothing of the kind! I never was fooled before,\" Sarah Maitland said;\n\"and I sha'n't be again. I am going to make a man of my son! As for\nyour girl, forgive her, Ferguson. Don't be a fool; you take it out of\nyourself when you refuse forgiveness.\"\n\n\"I'll never forgive her,\" said Robert Ferguson; \"she's hurt the woman\nI--I have a regard for; she's made David's mother suffer. I'm done with\nher!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nWhen, on drunken and then on leaden feet, there came to Elizabeth the\nruthless to-morrow of her act, her first clear thought was to kill\nherself ....\n\nAfter the marriage in the mayor's office--where they paused long enough\nto write the two notes that were received the next day--Blair had fled\nwith her up into the mountains to a little hotel, where they would not,\nhe felt certain, encounter any acquaintances.\n\nElizabeth neither assented nor objected. From the moment she had struck\nher hand into his, there in the tawdry \"saloon\" of the toll-house, and\ncried out, \"_Come!_\" she let him do as he chose. So he had carried her\naway to the city hall, where, like any other unclassed or unchurched\nlovers, they were married by a hurried city official. She had had one\nmore crisis of rage, when in the mayor's office, as she stood at a high\nwall desk and wrote with an ink-encrusted pen that brief note to her\nuncle, she said to herself that, as to David Richie, he could hear the\nnews from her uncle--or never hear it; she didn't care which. Then for\nan instant her eyes glittered again; but except for that one moment,\nshe seemed stunned, mind and body. To Blair, her silent acquiescences\nhad been signs that he had won something more than her consent to\nrevenge herself upon David,--and he wanted more! In all his life he had\nnever deeply cared for anybody but himself; but now, under the terrible\nselfishness of his act, under the primitive instinct that he called\nlove, there was, trembling in the depths of his nature, _Love_. It had\nbeen born only a little while ago, this new, naked baby of Love. It had\nhad no power and no knowledge; unaided by that silent god of his, it\nhad not been strong enough to save him from himself, or save Elizabeth\nfrom him. But he did love her, in spite of his treason to her soul, for\nhe was tender with her, and almost humble; yet his purpose was\ninflexible. It seemed to him it must find response in her. Such purpose\nmight strike fire from the most unbending steel--why not from this\nyielding, silent thing, Elizabeth's heart? But numb and flaccid,\nperfectly apathetic, stunned by that paroxysm of fury, she no more\nresponded to him than down would have responded to the blow of flint ...\n\nIt was their second day in the mountains. Blair, going down-stairs very\nearly in the morning, stopped in the office of the hotel to write a\nbrief but intensely polite note to his mother, telling her of his\nmarriage. \"Nannie will have broken it to her--poor, dear old Nannie!\"\nhe said to himself, pounding a stamp down on the envelope, \"but of\ncourse it's proper to announce it myself.\" Then he dropped the\n\"announcement\" into the post-bag, and went out for a tramp in the\nwoods. It was a still, furtive morning of low clouds, with an\nexpectancy of snow in the air. But it was not cold, and when, leaving\nthe road and pushing aside the frosted ferns and underbrush, he found\nhimself in the silence of the woods, he sat down on a fallen tree trunk\nto think.... The moment had come when the only god he knew would no\nlonger be denied.\n\n\"I might as well face it,\" he said; and slowly lit a cigar. But instead\nof \"facing it,\" he began to watch the first sparse and fitful\nbeginnings of snow--hesitant flakes that sauntered down to rest for a\ncrystal moment on his coat sleeve. Suddenly he caught his thoughts\ntogether with a jerk: \"I've _got_ to think it out!\" he said. Curiously\nenough, when he said this his thought did not turn with any especial\ndistinctness to David Richie.\n\nInstead, in the next hour of reasonings and excuses, there was always,\nback in his mind, one face--scornful, contemptuous even; a face he had\nknown only as gentle, and sometimes tender; the face of David's mother.\nOnce he swore at himself, to drive that face out of his mind. \"What a\nfool I am! Elizabeth had broken her engagement with him. I had the\nright to speak before the thing was smoothed over again. Anybody would\nsay so, even--even Mrs. Richie if she could really understand how\nthings were. But of course she will only see _his_ side.\" All his\nexcuses for his conduct were in relation to David Richie; he did not\nthink of Elizabeth. He honestly did not know that he had wronged her.\nHe loved her so crazily that he could not realize his cruelty.\n\nIt was snowing steadily now; he could hear the faint patter of small,\nhard flakes on the dry oak leaves over his head. Suddenly some bleached\nand withered ferns in front of him rustled, and he saw wise, bright\neyes looking at him. \"I wish I had some nuts for you, bunny,\" he\nsaid--and the bright eyes vanished with a furry whirl through the\nferns. He picked up the empty half of a hickory-nut, and turning it\nover in his fingers, looked at the white grooves left by small sharp\nteeth. \"You little beggars must get pretty hungry in the winter,\nbunny,\" he said; \"I'll bring a bag of nuts out here for you some day.\"\nBut while he was talking to the squirrel, he was wrestling with his\ngod. It was characteristic of him that never once in that struggle to\njustify himself did he use the excuse of Elizabeth's consent. His code,\nwhich had allowed him to injure a woman, would not permit him to blame\nher--even if she deserved it. Instead, over and over he heaped up his\nown poor defense: \"If I had waited, he might have patched it up with\nher.\" Over and over the defense crumbled before his eyes: \"it was\ncontemptible not to give him the chance to patch it up.\" Then would\ncome his angry retort: \"That's nonsense! Besides it is better,\ninfinitely better, for her to marry me than a poor man like him. I can\ngive her everything,--and love her! God, how I love her. Apart from any\nselfish consideration, it is a thousand times better for her.\" For an\ninstant his marrying her seemed actually chivalrous; and at that his\ngod laughed. Blair reddened sharply; to recognize his hypocrisy was the\n\"touch on the hollow of the thigh; and the hollow of the thigh was out\nof joint\"! He pitched the nut away with a vicious fling, and knew,\ninarticulately, that there was no use lying to himself any longer.\n\nWith blank eyes he watched the snow piling up on a withered stalk of\ngoldenrod. \"I wish it hadn't happened in just the way it did,\" he\nconceded;--his god was beginning to prevail!--\"but if I had waited, I\nmight have lost her.\" Then a thought stabbed him: suppose that he\nshould lose her anyhow? Suppose that when she came to herself--the\nphrase was a confession! suppose she should want to leave him? It was\nan intolerable idea. \"Well, she can't,\" he told himself, grimly, \"she\ncan't, now.\" His face was dusky with shame, yet when he said that, his\nlip loosened in a furtively exultant smile. Blair would have been less,\nor more, than a man if, at that moment, in spite of his shame, he had\nnot exulted. \"She's my wife!\" he said, through those shamed and smiling\nlips. Then his eyes narrowed: \"And she doesn't care a damn for me.\"\n\nSo it was that as he sat there in the snow, watching the puff of white\ndeepen on the stalk of goldenrod, his god prevailed yet a little more,\nfor, so far as Elizabeth was concerned, he did not try to fool himself:\n\"she doesn't care a damn.\" But when he said that, he saw the task of\nhis life before him--to make her care! It was like the touch of a spur;\nhe leaped to his feet, and flung up his arms in a sort of challenge.\nYes; he _had_ \"done the thing a man can't do.\" Yes; he ought not to\nhave taken advantage of her anger. Yes; his honor was smirched, grant\nit all! grant it all! \"I was mad,\" he said, stung by this intolerable\nself-knowledge; \"I was a cur. I ought to have waited; I know it. I\nadmit it. But what's the use of talking about it now? It's done; and by\nGod, she shall love me yet!\"\n\nSo it was that his god blessed him, as the best that is in us, always\nblesses us when it conquers us: the blessing was the revelation of his\nown dishonor. It is a divine moment, this of the consciousness of\nhaving been faithless to one's own ideals. And Blair Maitland, a false\nfriend, a selfish and cruel lover, was not entirely contemptible, for\nhis eyes, beautiful and evasive, confessed the shock of a heavenly\nvision.\n\nAs he walked home, he laid his plans very carefully: he must show her\nthe most delicate consideration; he must avoid every possible\nannoyance; he must do this, he must not do that. \"And I'll buy her a\npearl necklace,\" he told himself, too absorbed in the gravity of the\nsituation to see in such an impulse the assertion that he was indeed\nhis mother's son! But the foundation of all his plans for making\nElizabeth content, was the determination not to admit for a single\ninstant, to anybody but himself, that he had done anything to be\nashamed of. Which showed that his god was not yet God.\n\nWhen he got back to the hotel, he found that Elizabeth had not left her\nroom; and rushing up-stairs two steps at a time, he knocked at her\ndoor. . . . She was sitting on the edge of her bed, her lips parted,\nher eyes staring blindly out of the window at the snow. The flakes were\nso thick now that the meadow on the other side of the road and the\nmountain beyond were blurred and almost blotted out; there was a gray\npallor on her face as if the shadow of the storm had fallen on it.\nInstantly Blair knew that she \"had come to herself.\" As he stood\nlooking at her, something tightened in his throat; he broke out into\nthe very last thing he had meant to say: \"Elizabeth?-forgive me!\"\n\n\"I ought to die, you know,\" she said, without turning her eyes from the\nwindow and the falling snow.\n\nHe came and knelt down beside her, and kissed her hand. \"Elizabeth,\ndearest! When I love you so?\"\n\nHe kissed her shoulder. She shivered.\n\n\"My darling,\" he said, passionately.\n\nShe looked at him dully; \"I wish you would go away.\"\n\n\"Elizabeth, let me tell you how I love you.\"\n\n\"Love me?\" she said; \"_me?_\"\n\n\"Elizabeth!\" he protested; \"you are an angel, and I love you--no man\never loved a woman as I love you.\"\n\nIn her abasement she never thought of reproaching him, of saying \"if\nyou loved me, why did you betray me?\" She had not gone as far as that\nyet. Her fall had been so tremendous that if she had any feeling about\nhim, it was nothing more than the consciousness that he too, had gone\nover the precipice. \"Please go away,\" she said.\n\n\"Dearest, listen; you are my wife. If--if I hurried you too much, you\nwill forgive me because I loved you so? I didn't dare to wait, for\nfear--\" he stumbled on the confession which his god had wrung from him,\nbut which must not be made to her. Elizabeth's heavy eyes were suddenly\nkeen.\n\n\"Fear of what?\"\n\n\"Oh, don't look at me that way! I love you so that it kills me to have\nyou angry at me!\"\n\n\"I am not angry with you,\" she said, faintly surprised; \"why should I\nbe angry with _you_? Only, you see, Blair, I--I can't live. I simply\ncan't live.\"\n\n\"You have got to live!--or I'll die,\" he said. \"I love you, I tell you\nI love you!\" His outstretched, trembling hands entreated hers, but she\nwould not yield them to his touch; her shrinking movement away from\nhim, her hands gripped together at her throat, filled him with absolute\nterror: \"Elizabeth! _don't_--\" She glanced at him with stony eyes.\nBlair was suffering. Why should _he_ suffer? But his suffering did not\ninterest her. \"Please go away,\" she said, heavily.\n\nHe went. He dared not stay. He left her, going miserably down-stairs to\nmake a pretense of eating some breakfast. But all the while he was\narranging entreaties and arguments in his own mind. He went to the door\nof their room a dozen times that morning, but it was locked. No, she\ndid not want any breakfast. Wouldn't she come out and walk? No, no, no.\nPlease let her alone. And then in the afternoon; \"Elizabeth, I _must_\ncome in! You must have some food.\"\n\nShe let him enter; but she was indifferent alike to the food and to the\nfact that by this time there was, of course, a giggling consciousness\nin the hotel that the \"bride and groom had had a rumpus.\" ... \"A nice\nbeginning for a honeymoon,\" said the chambermaid, \"locking that pretty\nyoung man out of her room!--and me with my work to do in there. Well,\nI'm sorry for him; I bet you she's a case.\"\n\nBlair, too, was indifferent to anything ridiculous in his position; the\nmoment was too critical for such self-consciousness. When at last he\ntook a little tray of food to his wife, and knelt beside her, begging\nher to eat, he was appalled at the ruin in her face. She drank some tea\nto please him; then she said, pitifully:\n\n\"What shall we do, Blair?\" That she should say \"we\" showed that these\nhours which had plowed her face had also sowed some seed of\nunselfishness in her broken soul.\n\n\"Darling,\" he said, tenderly, \"have you forgiven me?\"\n\nAt this she meditated for a minute, staring with big, anguished eyes\nstraight ahead of her at nothing; \"I _think_ I have, Blair. I have\ntried to. Of course I know I was more wicked than you. It was more my\ndoing than yours. Yes. I ought to ask you if you would forgive me.\"\n\n\"Elizabeth! Forgive you? When you made me so happy! Am I to forgive you\nfor making me happy?\"\n\n\"Blair,\" she said--she put the palms of her hands together, like a\nchild; \"Blair, please let me go.\" She looked at him with speechless\nentreaty. The old dominant Elizabeth was gone; here was nothing but the\nweak thing, the scared thing, pleading, crouching, begging for mercy.\n\"Please, Blair, _please_--\"\n\nBut the very tragedy of such humbleness was that it made an appeal to\npassion rather than to mercy. It made him love her more, not pity her\nmore. \"I can't let you go, Elizabeth,\" he said, hoarsely; \"I can't; I\nlove you--I will never let you go! I will die before I will let you go!\"\n\nWith that cry of complete egotism from him, the storm which her egotism\nhad let loose upon their little world broke over her own head. As the\nsense of the hopelessness of her position and the futility of her\nstruggle dawned upon her, she grew frightened to the point of violence.\nShe was outrageous in what she said to him--beating against the walls\nof this prison-house of marriage which she herself had reared about\nthem, and crying wildly for freedom. Yet strangely enough, her fury was\nnever the fury of temper; it was the fury of fear. In her voice there\nwas a new note, a note of entreaty; she demanded, but not with the old\ninvincible determination of the free Elizabeth. She was now only the\nwoman pleading with the man; the wife, begging the husband.\n\nThrough it all, her jailer, insulted, commanded, threatened, never lost\na gentleness that had sprung up in him side by side with love. It was,\nof course, the gentleness of power, although he did not realize that,\nfor he was abjectly frightened; he never stopped to reassure himself by\nremembering that, after all, rave as she might, she was his! He was\nincredibly soft with her--up to a certain point: \"I will never let you\ngo!\" If his god spoke, the whisper was drowned in that gale of\nselfishness. Elizabeth, now, was the flint, striking that she might\nkindle in Blair some fire of anger which would burn up the whole\nedifice of her despair. But he opposed to her fiercest blows of terror\nand entreaty nothing but this softness of frightened love and\nunconscious power. He cowered at the thought of losing her; he\nentreated her pity, her mercy; he wept before her. The whole scene in\nthat room in the inn, with the silent whirl of snow outside the\nwindows, was one of dreadful abasement and brutality on both sides.\n\n\"I am a bad woman. I will not stay with you. I will kill myself first.\nI am going away. I am going away to-night.\"\n\n\n\"Then you will kill me. Elizabeth! Think how I love you; think!\nAnd--_he_ wouldn't want you, since you threw him over. You couldn't go\nback to him.\"\n\n\"Go back to David? now? How can you say such a thing! I am dead, so far\nas he is concerned. Oh--oh--oh,--why am I not dead? Why do I go on\nliving? I will kill myself rather than stay with you!\" It seemed to\nElizabeth that she had forgotten David; she had forgotten that she had\nmeant to write him a terrible letter. She had forgotten everything but\nthe blasting realization of what had happened to her. \"Do not dare to\nspeak his name!\" she said, frantically. \"I cannot bear it! I cannot\nbear it! I am dead to him. He despises me, as I despise myself. Blair,\nI can't--I can't live; I can't go on--\"\n\nIn the end he conquered. There were two days and nights of struggle;\nand then she yielded. Blair's reiterated appeal was to her sense of\njustice. Curiously, but most characteristically, through all the clamor\nof her despair at this incredible thing that she had done, justice was\nthe one word which penetrated to her consciousness. Was it fair, she\ndebated, numbly, in one of their long, aching silences, was it just,\nthat because she had ruined herself, she should ruin him?\n\nShe had locked herself in her room, and was sitting with her head on\nher arms that were stretched before her on a little table. Blair had\ngone out for one of his long, wretched walks through the snow;\nsometimes he took the landlord's dog along for company, and on this\nparticular morning, a morning of brilliant sunshine and cold, insolent\nwind, he had stopped to buy a bag of nuts for the hungry squirrels in\nthe woods. As he walked he was planning, planning, planning, how he\ncould make his misery touch Elizabeth's heart; he was all unconscious\nthat her misery had not yet touched his heart. But Elizabeth, locked in\nher room, was beginning to think of his misery. Dully at first, then\nwith dreary concentration, she went over in her mind his arguments and\npleadings: he was satisfied to love her even if she didn't love him; he\nhad known what stakes he played for, and he was willing to abide by\nthem; she ought to do the same; she had done this thing--she had\nmarried him, was it fair, now, to destroy him, soul and body, just\nbecause she had acted on a moment's impulse? In a crisis of terror, his\nprimitive instinct of self-preservation had swept away the acquired\ninstinct of chivalry, and like a brutal boy, he had reminded her that\nshe was to blame as well as he. \"You did it, too,\" he told her.\nsullenly. She remembered that he had said he had not fully understood\nthat it was only impulse on her part; \"I thought you cared for me a\nlittle, or else you wouldn't have married me.\" In the panic of the\nmoment he really had not known that he lied, and in her absorption in\nher own misery she did not contradict him. She ought, he said, to make\nthe best of the situation; or else he would kill himself. \"Do you want\nme to kill myself?\" he had threatened. If she would make the best of\nit, he would help her. He would do whatever she wished; he would be her\nfriend, her servant,--until she should come to love him.\n\n\"I shall never love you,\" she told him. \"I will always love you! But I\nwill not make you unhappy. Let me be your servant; that's all I ask.\"\n\n\"I love David. I will always love him.\"\n\nHe had been silent at that; then broke again into a cry for mercy. \"I\ndon't care if you do love him! Don't destroy me, Elizabeth.\"\n\nHe had had still one other weapon: _they were married_. There was no\ngetting round that. The thing was done; except by Time and the\noutrageous scandal of publicity, it could not be undone. But this\nweapon he had not used, knowing perfectly well that the idea of public\nshame would be, just then, a matter of indifference to\nElizabeth?-perhaps even a satisfaction to her, as the sting of the\npenitential whip is a satisfaction to the sinner. All he said was\nsummed up in three words: \"Don't destroy me.\"\n\nThere was no reply. She had fallen into a silence which frightened him\nmore than her words. It was then that he went out for that walk on the\ncreaking snow, in the sunshine and fierce wind, taking the bag of nuts\nalong for the squirrels. Elizabeth, alone, her head on her arms on the\ntable, went over and over his threats and entreaties, until it seemed\nas if her very mind was sore. After a while, for sheer weariness, she\nleft the tangle of motives and facts and obligations, and began to\nthink of David. It was then that she moaned a little under her breath.\n\nTwice she had tried to write to him to tell him what had happened. But\neach time she cringed away from her pen and paper. After all, what\ncould she write? The fact said all there was to say, and he knew the\nfact by this time. When she said that, her mind, drawn by some horrible\ncuriosity, would begin to speculate as to how he had heard the fact?\nWho told him? What did he say? How did he--? and here she would groan\naloud in an effort _not_ to know \"how\" he took it! To save herself from\nthis speculation which seemed to dig into a grave, and touch and handle\nthe decaying body of love, she would plan what she should say to him\nwhen, after a while, \"to-morrow,\" perhaps, she should be able to take\nup her pen: \"David,--I was out of my head. Think of me as if I were\ndead.\" . . . \"David,--I don't want you to forgive me. I want you to\nhate me as I hate myself.\" . . . \"David,--I was not in my right\nmind--forgive me. I love you just the same. But it is as if I were\ndead.\" Again and again she had thought out long, crying, frightened\nletters to him; but she had not written them. And now she was beginning\nto feel, vaguely, that she would never write them. \"What is the use? I\nam dead.\" The idea of calling upon him to come and save her, never\noccurred to her. \"I am dead,\" she said, as she sat there, her face\nhidden in her arms; \"there is nothing to be done.\"\n\nAfter a while she stopped thinking of David and the letter she had not\nbeen able to write; it seemed as if, when she tried to make it clear to\nherself why she did not write to him, something stopped in her mind--a\ncog did not catch; the thought eluded her. When this happened--as it\nhad happened again and again in these last days; she would fall to\nthinking, with vague amazement, that this irremediable catastrophe was\nout of all proportion to its cause. It was monstrous that a crazy\nminute should ruin a whole life--two whole lives, hers and David's. It\nwas as if a pebble should deflect a river from its course, and make it\nturn and overflow a landscape! It was incredible that so temporary a\nthing as an outbreak of temper should have eternal consequences. She\ngasped, with her face buried in her arms, at the realization--which\ncomes to most of us poor human creatures sooner or later--that sins may\nbe forgiven, but their results remain. As for sin--but surely that\nmeaningless madness was not sin? \"It was insanity,\" she said, shivering\nat the memory of that hour in the toll-house--that little mad hour,\nthat brought eternity with it! She had had other crazy hours, with no\nsuch weight of consequence. Her mind went back over her engagement: her\nlove, her happiness--and her tempers. Well, nothing had come of them.\nDavid always understood. And still further back: her careless, fiery\ngirlhood--when the knowledge of her mother's recreancy, undermining her\nsense of responsibility by the condoning suggestion of heredity, had\nmade her quick to excuse her lack of self-control. Her girlhood had\nbeen full of those outbreaks of passion, which she \"couldn't help\";\nthey were all meaningless, and all harmless, too; at any rate they were\nall without results of pain to her.\n\nSuddenly it seemed to her, as she looked across the roaring gulf that\nseparated her from the past, that all her life had been just a sunny\nslope down to the edge of the gulf. All those \"harmless\" tempers which\nhad had no results, had pushed her to this result!\n\nHer poor, bright, shamed head lay so long and so still on her folded\narms that one looking in upon her might have thought her dead. Perhaps,\nin a way, Elizabeth did die then, when her heart seemed to break with\nthe knowledge that it is impossible to escape from yesterday. \"Oh,\" she\nsaid, brokenly, \"why didn't somebody tell me? Why didn't they stop me?\"\nBut she did not dwell upon the responsibility of other people. She\nforgot the easy excuse of 'heredity.' This new knowledge brought with\nit a vision of her own responsibility that filled her appalled mind to\nthe exclusion of everything else. It is not the pebble that turns the\ncurrent--it is the easy slope that invites it. All her life Elizabeth\nhad been inviting this moment; and the moment, when it came, was her\nDay of Judgment. What she had thought of as an incredible injustice of\nfate in letting a mad instant turn the scales for a whole life, was\nmerely an inevitable result of all that had preceded it. When this\nfierce and saving knowledge came to her, she thought of Blair. \"I have\nspoiled my own life and David's life. I needn't spoil Blair's. He said\nif I left him, it would destroy him.... Perhaps if I stay, it will be\nmy punishment. I can never be punished enough.\"\n\nWhen Blair came home, she was standing with her forehead against the\nwindow, her dry eyes watching the dazzling white world.\n\nComing up behind her, he took her hand and kissed it humbly. She turned\nand looked at him with somber eyes.\n\n\"Poor Blair,\" she said.\n\nAnd Blair, under his breath, said, \"Thank God!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nThe coming back to Mercer some six weeks later was to Blair a miserable\nand skulking experience. To Elizabeth it was almost a matter of\nindifference; there is a shame which goes too deep for embarrassment.\nThe night they arrived at the River House, Nannie and Miss White were\nwaiting for them, tearful and disapproving, of course, but distinctly\nexcited and romantic. After all, Elizabeth was a \"bride!\" and\nCherry-pie and Nannie couldn't help being fluttered. Blair listened\nwith open amusement to their half-scared gossip of what people thought,\nand what the newspapers had said, and how \"very displeased\" his mother\nhad been; but Elizabeth hardly heard them. At the end of the call,\nwhile Blair was bidding Nannie tell his mother he was coming to see her\nin the morning. Miss White, kissing her \"lamb\" good night, tried to\nwhisper something in her ear: \"_He_ said to tell you--\" \"No--no--no,--I\ncan't hear it; I can't bear it yet!\" Elizabeth broke in; she put her\nhands over her eyes, shivering so that Cherry-pie forgot David and his\nmessage, and even her child's bad behavior.\n\n\"Elizabeth! you've taken cold?\"\n\nElizabeth drew away, smiling faintly. \"No; not at all. I'm tired.\nPlease don't stay.\" And with the message still unspoken, Miss White and\nNannie went off together, as fluttering and frightened as when they\ncame.\n\nThe newspaper excitement which had followed the announcement of the\nelopement of Sarah Maitland's son, had subsided, so there was only a\nbrief notice the morning after their arrival in town, to the effect\nthat \"the bride and groom had returned to their native city for a short\nstay before sailing for Europe.\" Still, even though the papers were\ninclined to let them alone, it would be pleasanter, Blair told his\nwife, to go abroad.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, dully. Elizabeth was always dull now. She had lifted\nherself up to the altar, but there was no exaltation of sacrifice;\npossibly because she considered her sacrifice a punishment for her sin,\nbut also because she was still physically and morally stunned.\n\n\"Of course there is nobody in Mercer for whose opinion I care a\ncopper,\" Blair said. They were sitting in their parlor at the hotel;\nElizabeth staring out of the window at the river, Blair leaning forward\nin his chair, touching once in a while, with timid fingers, a fold of\nher skirt that brushed his knee. \"Of course I don't care for a lot of\ngossiping old hens; but it will be pleasanter for you not to be meeting\npeople, perhaps?\" he said gently.\n\nThere was only one person whom he himself shrank from meeting--his\nmother. And this shrinking was not because of the peculiar shame which\nthe thought of Mrs. Richie had awakened in him that morning in the\nwoods, when the vision of her delicate scorn had been so unbearable;\nhis feeling about his mother was sheer disgust at the prospect of an\ninterview which was sure to be esthetically distressing. While he was\nstill absent on what the papers called his \"wedding tour,\" Nannie had\nwritten to him warning him what he might expect from Mrs. Maitland:\n\n\"Mamma is terribly displeased, I am afraid, though she hasn't said a\nword since the night I told her. Then she said very severe things--and\noh, Blair, dear, why _did_ you do it the way you did? I think Elizabeth\nwas perfectly--\" The unfinished sentence was scratched out. \"You _must_\nbe nice to Mamma when you come home,\" she ended.\n\n\"She'll kick,\" Blair said, sighing; \"she'll row like a puddler!\" In his\nown mind, he added that, after all, no amount of kicking would alter\nthe fact. And again the little exultant smile came about his lips. \"As\nfor being 'nice,' Nannie might as well talk about being '_nice_' to a\ncircular saw,\" he said, gaily. His efforts to be gay, to amuse or\ninterest Elizabeth, were almost pathetic in their intensity. \"Well! the\nsooner I'll go, the sooner I'll get it over!\" he said, and reached for\nhis hat; Elizabeth was silent. \"You might wish me luck!\" he said. She\ndid not answer, and he sighed and left her.\n\nAs he loitered down to Shantytown, lying in the muddy drizzle of a\nmidwinter thaw, he planned how soon he could get away from the\ndetestable place. \"Everything is so perfectly hideous,\" he said to\nhimself, \"no wonder she is low-spirited. When I get her over in Europe\nshe'll forget Mercer, and--everything disagreeable.\" His mind shied\naway from even the name of the man he had robbed.\n\nAt his mother's house, he had a hurried word with Nannie in the parlor:\n\"Is she upset still? She mustn't blame Elizabeth! It was all my doing.\nI sort of swept Elizabeth off her feet, you know. Well--it's another\ncase of getting your tooth pulled quickly. Here goes!\" When he opened\nthe dining-room door, his mother called to him from her bedroom: \"Come\nin here,\" she said; and there was something in her voice that made him\nbrace himself. \"I'm in for it,\" he said, under his breath.\n\nFor years Sarah Maitland's son had not seen her room; the sight of it\nnow was a curious shock that seemed to push him back into his youth,\nand into that old embarrassment which he had always felt in her\npresence. The room was as it had been then, very bare and almost\nsqualid; there was no carpet on the floor, and no hint of feminine\ncomfort in a lounge or even a soft chair. That morning the inside\nshutters on the lower half of the uncurtained windows were still\nclosed, and the upper light, striking cold and bleak across the dingy\nceiling, glimmered on the glass doors of the bookcases behind which, in\nhis childhood, had lurked such mysterious terrors. The narrow iron bed\nhad not yet been made up, and the bedclothes were in confusion on the\nback of a chair; the painted pine bureau was thick with dust; on it was\nthe still unopened cologne bottle, its kid cover cracked and yellow\nunder its faded ribbons, and three small photographs: Blair, a baby in\na white dress; a little boy with long trousers and a visored cap; a big\nboy of twelve with a wooden gun. They were brown with time, and the\nfigures were almost undistinguishable, but Blair recognized them,--and\nagain his armor of courage was penetrated.\n\n\"Well, Mother,\" he said, with great directness and with at least an\neffort at heartiness, \"I am afraid you are rather disgusted with me.\"\n\n\"Are you?\" she said; she was sitting sidewise on a wooden chair--what\nis called a \"kitchen chair\"; she had rested her arm along its back, and\nas Blair entered, her large, beautiful hand, drooping limply from its\nwrist, closed slowly into an iron fist.\n\n\"No, I won't sit down, thank you,\" he said, and stood, lounging a\nlittle, with an elbow on the mantelpiece. \"Yes; I was afraid you would\nbe displeased,\" he went on, good-humoredly; \"but I hope you won't mind\nso much when I tell you about it. I couldn't really go into it in my\nletter. By the way, I hope my absence hasn't inconvenienced you in the\noffice?\"\n\n\"Well, not seriously,\" she said dryly. And he felt the color rise in\nhis face. That he was frightfully ill at ease was obvious in the\nelaborate carelessness with which he began to inquire about the Works.\nBut her only answer to his meaningless questions was silence. Blair was\nconscious that he was breathing quickly, and that made him angry. \"Why\n_am_ I such an ass?\" he asked himself; then said, with studied\nlightness, that he was afraid he would have to absent himself from\nbusiness for still a little longer, as he was going abroad.\nFortunately--here the old sarcastic politeness broke into his really\nserious purpose to be respectful; fortunately he was so unimportant\nthat his absence didn't really matter. \"You _are_ the Works, you know,\nMother.\"\n\n\"You are certainly unimportant,\" she agreed. He noticed she had not\ntaken up her knitting, though a ball of pink worsted and a\nhalf-finished baby sock lay on the bureau near her; this unwonted quiet\nof her hands, together with the extraordinary solemnity of her face,\ngave him a sense of uneasy astonishment. He would almost have welcomed\none of those brutal outbursts which set his teeth on edge by their very\nugliness. He did not know how to treat this new dignity.\n\n\"I would like to tell you just what happened,\" he began, with a\nseriousness that matched her own. \"Elizabeth had made up her mind not\nto marry David Richie. They had had some falling out, I believe. I\nnever asked what; of course that wasn't my business. Well, I had been\nin love with her for months; but I didn't suppose I had a ghost of a\nchance; of course I wouldn't have dreamed of trying to--to take her\nfrom him. But when she broke with him, why, I felt that I had a--a\nright, you know.\"\n\nHis mother was silent, but she struck the back of her chair softly with\nher closed fist: her eyebrow began to lift ominously.\n\n\"Well; we thought--I mean I thought; that the easiest way all round was\nto get married at once. Not discuss it, you know, with people; but\njust--well, in point of fact, I persuaded her to run off with me!\" He\ntried to laugh, but his mother's face was rigid. She was looking at him\nclosely, but she said nothing. By this time her continued silence had\nmade him so nervous that he went through his explanation again from\nbeginning to end. Still she did not speak. \"You see, Mother,\" he said,\nreddening with the discomfort of the moment, \"you see it was best to do\nit quickly? Elizabeth's engagement being broken, there was no reason to\nwait. But I do regret that I could not have told you first. I fear you\nfelt--annoyed.\"\n\n\"Annoyed?\" For a moment she smiled. \"Well, I should hardly call it\n'annoyed.'\" Suddenly she made a gesture with her hand, as if to say,\nstop all this nonsense! \"Blair,\" she said, \"I'm not going to go into\nthis business of your marriage at all. It's done.\" Blair drew a breath\nof astonished relief. \"You've not only done a wicked thing, which is\nbad; you've done a fool thing, which is worse. I have some sort of\npatience with a knave, but a fool--'annoys' me, as you express it.\nYou've married a girl who loves another man. You may or may not repent\nyour wickedness--you and I have different ideas on such subjects; but\nyou'll certainly repent your foolishness. When you are eaten up with\njealousy of David, you'll wish you had behaved decently. I know what\nI'm talking about\"--she paused, looking down at her fingers picking\nnervously at the back of the chair; \"I've been jealous,\" she said in a\nlow voice. Then, with a quick breath: \"However, wicked or foolish, or\nboth, it's _done_, and I'm not going to waste my time talking about it.\"\n\n\"You're very kind,\" he said; he was so bewildered by this unexpected\nmildness that he could not think what to say next. \"I very much\nappreciate your overlooking my not telling you about it before I did\nit. The--the fact was,\" he began to stammer; her face was not\nreassuring; \"the fact was, it was all so hurried, I--\"\n\nBut she was not listening. \"You say you mean to go to Europe; how?\"\n\n\"How?\" he repeated. \"I don't know just what you mean. Of course I shall\nbe sorry to leave the Works, but under the circumstances--\"\n\n\"It costs money to go to Europe. Have you got any?\"\n\n\"My salary--\"\n\n\"How can you have a salary when you don't do any work?\"\n\nBlair was silent; then he said, frowning, something about his mother's\nalways having been so kind--\n\n\"Kind?\" she broke in, \"you call it kind? Well, Blair, I am going to be\nkind now--another way. So far as I'm concerned, you'll not have one\ndollar that you don't earn.\"\n\nHe looked perfectly uncomprehending.\n\n\"I've done being 'kind,' in the way that's ruined you, and made you a\nuseless fool. I'm going to try another sort of kindness. You can work,\nmy son, or you can starve.\" Her face quivered as she spoke.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" Blair said, quietly; his embarrassment fell from\nhim like a slipping cloak; he was suddenly and ruthlessly a man.\n\nShe told him what she meant. \"This business of your marrying Elizabeth\nisn't the important thing; that's just a symptom of your disease. It's\nthe fact of your being the sort of man you are, that's important.\"\nBlair was silent. Then Sarah Maitland began her statement of the\nsituation as she saw it; she told him just what sort of a man he was:\nindolent, useless, helpless, selfish. \"Until now I've always said that\nat any rate you were harmless. I can't say even that now!\" She tried to\nexplain that when a man lives on money he has not earned, he incurs, by\nmerely living, a debt of honor;--that God will collect. But she did not\nknow how to say it. Instead, she told him he was a parasite;--which\nloathsome truth was like oil on the flames of his slowly gathering\nrage. He was a man, she said, whose business in life was to enjoy\nhimself. She tried to make clear to him that after youth,--perhaps even\nafter childhood,--enjoyment, as the purpose of effort, was dwarfing.\n\"You are sort of a dwarf, Blair,\" she said, with curiously impersonal\nbrutality. Any enjoyment, she insisted, that was worthy of a man, was\nonly a by-product, as you might call it, of effort for some other\npurpose than enjoyment. \"One of our puddlers enjoys doing a good job, I\nguess;--but that isn't why he does it,\" she said, shrewdly. Any man\nwhose sole effort was to get pleasure is, considering what kind of a\nworld we live in, a poor creature. \"That's the best that can be said\nfor him,\" she said; \"as for the worst, we won't go into that. You know\nit even better than I do.\" Then she told him that his best, which had\nbeen harmlessness, and his worst, which they \"would not go into\"--were\nboth more her fault than his. It was her fault that he was such a poor\ncreature; \"a pithless creature; I've made you so!\" she said. She\nstopped, her face moving with emotion. \"I've robbed you of incentive; I\nsee that now. Any man who has the need of work taken away from him, is\nrobbed. I guess enjoyment is all that is left for him. I ask your\npardon.\" Her humility was pitiful, but her words were outrageous. \"You\nare young yet,\" she said; \"I _think_ what I am going to do will cure\nyou. If it doesn't, God knows what will become of you!\" It was the cure\nof the surgeon's knife, ruthless, radical; it was, in fact, kill or\ncure; she knew that. \"Of course it's a gamble,\" she admitted, and\npaused, nibbling at her finger; \"a gamble. But I've got to take it.\"\nShe spoke of it as she might of some speculative business decision. She\nlooked at him as if imploring comprehension, but she had to speak as\nshe thought, with sledgehammer directness. \"It takes brains to make\nmoney--I know because I've made it; but any fool can inherit it, just\nas any fool can accept it. I'm going to give you a chance to develop\nsome brains. You can work or you can starve. Or,\" she added simply,\n\"you can beg. You have begged practically all your life, thanks to me.\"\n\nIf only she could have said it all differently! But alas! yearning over\nhim with agonized consciousness of her own wrong-doing, and with\nsingular justice in regard to his, she approached his selfish heart as\nif it were one of her own \"blooms,\" and she a great engine which could\nmold and squeeze it into something of value to the world. She flung her\niron facts at him, regardless of the bruises they must leave upon that\nmost precious thing, his self-respect. Well; she was going to stop her\nwork of destruction, she said. Then she told him how she proposed to do\nit: he had had everything--and he was nothing. Now he should have\nnothing, so that he might become something.\n\nThere was a day, many years ago, when this mother and son, standing\ntogether, had looked at the fierce beauty of molten iron; then she had\ntold him of high things hidden in the seething and shimmering metal--of\ndreams to be realized, of splendid toils, of vast ambitions. And as she\nspoke, a spark of vivid understanding had leaped from his mind to hers.\nNow, her iron will, melted by the fires of love, was seething and\nglowing, dazzlingly bright in the white heat of complete\nself-renunciation; it was ready to be poured into a torturing mold to\nmake a tool with which he might save his soul! But no spark of\nunderstanding came into his angry eyes. She did not pause for that; his\nagreement was a secondary matter. The habit of success made her believe\nthat she could achieve the impossible--namely, save a man's soul in\nspite of himself; \"make,\" as she had told Robert Ferguson, \"a man of\nher son.\" She would have been glad to have his agreement, but she would\nnot wait for it.\n\nBlair listened in absolute silence. \"Do I understand,\" he said when she\nhad finished, \"that you mean to disinherit me?\"\n\n\"I mean to give you the finest inheritance a young man can have: _the\nnecessity for work!_--and work for the necessity. For, of course, your\njob is open to you in the office. But it will be at an honest salary\nafter this; the salary any other unskilled man would get.\"\n\n\"Please make yourself clear,\" he said laconically; \"you propose to\nleave me no money when you die?\"\n\n\"Exactly.\"\n\n\"May I ask how you expect me to live?\"\n\n\"The way most decent men live--_by work_. You can work; or else, as I\nsaid, you can starve. There's a verse in the Bible--you don't know your\nBible very well; perhaps that's one reason you have turned out as you\nhave; but there's a verse in the Bible that says if a man won't work,\nhe sha'n't eat. That's the best political economy I know. But I never\nthought of it before,\" she said simply; \"I never realized that the\nworst handicap a young man can have in starting out in life is a rich\nfather--or mother. Ferguson used to tell me so, but somehow I never\ntook it in.\"\n\n\"So,\" he said--he was holding his cane in both hands, and as he spoke\nhe struck it across his knees, breaking it with a splintering snap;\n\"so, you'll disinherit me because I married the girl I love?\"\n\n\"No!\" she said, eager to make herself clear; \"no, not at all! Don't you\nunderstand? (My God! how can I make him understand?) I disinherit you\nto make a man of you, so that your father won't be ashamed of you--as I\nam. Yes, I owe it to your father to make a man of you; if it can be\ndone.\"\n\nShe rose, with a deep breath, and stood for an instant silent, her big\nhands on her hips, her head bent. Then, solemnly: \"That is all; you may\ngo, my son.\"\n\nBlair got on to his feet with a loud laugh--a laugh singularly like her\nown. \"Well,\" he said, \"I _will_ go! And I'll never come back. This lets\nme out! You've thrown me over: I'll throw you over. I think the law\nwill have something to say to this disinheritance idea of yours; but\nuntil then--take a job in your Works? I'll starve first! So help me\nGod, I'll forget that you are my mother; it will be easy enough, for\nthe only womanly thing about you is your dress\"--she winced, and flung\nher hand across her face as if he had struck her. \"If I can forget that\nI am your son, starvation will be a cheap price. We've always hated\neach other, and it's a relief to come out into the open and say so. No\nmore gush for either of us!\" He actually looked like her, as he hurled\nhis insults at her. He picked up his coat and left the room; he was\ntrembling all over.\n\nShe, too, began to tremble; she looked after him as he slammed the\ndoor, half rose, bent over and lifted the splintered pieces of his\ncane; then sat down, as if suddenly weak. She put her hands over her\nface; there was a broken sound from behind them.\n\nThat night she came into Nannie's parlor and told her, briefly, that\nshe meant to disinherit Blair. She even tried to explain why, according\nto her judgment, she must do so. But Nannie, appalled and crying, was\nincapable of understanding.\n\n\"Oh, Mamma, don't--don't say such things! Tell Blair you take it back.\nYou don't mean it; I know you don't! Disinherit Blair? Oh, it isn't\nfair! Mamma, please forgive him, please--please--\"\n\n\"My dear,\" said Sarah Maitland patiently, \"it isn't a question of\nforgiving Blair; I'm too busy trying to forgive myself.\" Nannie looked\nat her in bewilderment. \"Well, well, we won't go into that,\" said Mrs.\nMaitland; \"you wouldn't understand. What I came over to say,\nespecially, was that if things can go back into the old ways I shall be\nglad. I reckon Blair won't want to see me for a while, but if Elizabeth\nwill come to the house as she used to, I sha'n't rake up unpleasant\nsubjects. She is your brother's wife, and shall be treated with respect\nin my house. Tell her so. 'Night.\"\n\nBut Nannie, with a soft rush across the room, darted in front of her\nand stood with her back against the door, panting. \"Mamma! Wait. You\nmust listen to me!\" Her stepmother paused, looking at her with mild\nastonishment. She was like another creature, a little wild creature\nstanding at bay to protect its young. \"You have no right,\" Nannie said\nsternly, \"you have no right, Mother, to treat Blair so. Listen to me:\nit was not--not nice in him to run away with Elizabeth; I know that,\nthough I think it was more her fault than his. But it wasn't wicked! He\nloved her.\"\n\n\"My dear, I haven't said it was wicked,\" Blair's mother tried to\nexplain; \"in fact, I don't think it was; it wasn't big enough to be\nwicked. No, it was only a dirty, contemptible trick.\" Nannie cringed\nback, her hand gripping the knob behind her. \"If Blair had been a\nhard-working man, knocking up against other hard-working men, trying to\nget food for his belly and clothes for his nakedness, he'd have been\nashamed to play such a trick--he'd have been a man. If I had loved him\nmore I'd have made a man of him; I'd have made work real to him, not\nmake-believe, as I did. And I wouldn't have been ashamed of him, as I\nam now.\"\n\n\"I think,\" said Nannie, with one of those flashes of astuteness so\ncharacteristic of the simple mind, \"that a man would fall in love just\nas much if he were poor as if he were rich; and--and you ought to\nforgive him, Mamma.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland half smiled: \"I guess there's no making you understand,\nNannie; you are like your own mother. Come! Open this door! I've got to\ngo to work.\"\n\nBut Nannie still stood with her hand gripping the knob. \"I must tell\nyou,\" she said in a low voice: \"I must not be untruthful to you, Mamma:\nI will give Blair all I have myself. The money my father left me shall\nbe his; and--and everything I may ever have shall be his.\" Then she\nseemed to melt away before her stepmother, and the door banged softly\nbetween them.\n\n\"Poor little soul!\" Sarah Maitland said to herself, smiling, as she sat\ndown at her desk in the dining-room. \"Exactly like her mother! I must\ngive her a present.\"\n\nThe next day she sent for her general manager and told him what course\nshe had taken with her son. He was silent for a moment; then he said,\nwith an effort, \"I have no reason to plead Blair's cause, but you're\nnot fair, you know.\"\n\n\"So Nannie has informed me,\" she said dryly. Then she leaned back in\nher chair and tapped her desk with one big finger. \"Go on; say what you\nlike. It won't move me one hair.\"\n\nRobert Ferguson said a good deal. He pointed out that she had no right,\nhaving crippled Blair, to tell him to run a race. \"You've made him what\nhe is. Well, it's done; it can't be undone. But you are rushing to the\nother extreme; you needn't leave him millions, of course; but leave him\na reasonable fortune.\"\n\nShe meditated. \"Perhaps a very small allowance, in fact, to make my\nwill sound I may have to. I must find out about that. But while I'm\nalive, not one cent. I never expected to be glad his father died before\nhe was born, and so didn't leave him anything, but I am. No, sir; my\nson can earn what he wants or he can go without. I've got to do my best\nto make up to him for all the harm I've done him, and this is the way\nto do it. Now, the next thing is to make my will _sound_. He says he'll\ncontest it\"--she gave her grunt of amusement. \"Pity I can't see him do\nit! I'd like the fun of it. It will be cast-iron. If there was any\ndoubt about it, I would realize on every security I own to-morrow and\ngive it all away in one lump, now, while I'm alive--if I had to go\nhungry myself afterward! Will you ask Howe and Marston to send their\nMr. Marston up here to draw up a new will for me? I want to go to work\non it to-night. I've thought it out pretty clearly, but it's a big job,\na big job! I don't know myself exactly how much I'm worth--how much I'd\nclean up to, at any rate. But I've got a list of charities on my desk\nas long as your arm. Nannie will be the residuary legatee; she has some\nmoney from her father, too, though not very much. The Works didn't\namount to much when my husband was alive; he divided his share between\nNannie and me; he--\"; she paused, reddening faintly with that strange\ndelicacy that lay hidden under the iron exterior; \"he didn't know Blair\nwas coming along. Well, I suppose Nannie will give Blair something. In\nfact, she as good as warned me. Think of Nannie giving _me_ notice! But\nas I say, she won't have any too much herself. And, Mr. Ferguson, I\nwant to tell you something: I'm going to give David some money now. I\nmean in a year or two. A lot.\"\n\nRobert Ferguson's face darkened. \"David doesn't take money very easily.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland did not ask him to explain. She was absorbed in the most\ntremendous venture of her life--the saving of her son, and her plan for\nDavid was comparatively unimportant. She put through the business of\nher will with extraordinary despatch and precision, and with a\nruthlessness toward Blair that took her lawyer's breath away; but she\nwould not hear one word of protest.\n\n\"Your business, sir, is to see that this instrument is unbreakable,\"\nshe said, \"not to tell me how to leave my money.\"\n\nThe day after the will was executed she went to Philadelphia. \"I am\ngoing to see David,\" she told her general superintendent; \"I want to\nget this affair off my mind so I can settle down to my work, but I've\ngot to square things up first with him. You'll have to run the shop\nwhile I'm off!\"\n\nShe had written to David briefly, without preface or apology:\n\n\"DEAR DAVID,--Come and see me at the Girard House Tuesday morning at\n7.45 o'clock.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nNearly two months had passed since that dreadful day when David Richie\nhad gone to his mother to be comforted. In his journey back across the\nmountains his mind and body were tense with anticipation of the letter\nwhich he was confident was awaiting him in Philadelphia. He was too\nrestless to lie down in his berth. Once he went into the day coach and\nwandered up and down the aisle between the rows of huddled and\nuncomfortable humanity. Sometimes a sleepy passenger, hunched up on a\nplush seat, would swear at him for jostling a protruding foot, and once\na drearily crying baby, propped against a fat and sleeping mother,\nclutched with dirty fingers at his coat. At that little feeble pull he\nstopped and looked down at the small, wabbling head, then bent over and\nlifted the child, straightening its rumpled clothes and cuddling it\nagainst his shoulder. The baby gurgled softly in his ear--and instantly\nhe remembered the baby he had seen on the raft the night that he first\nknew he was in love with Elizabeth. When he went back to the\nsmoking-compartment and sat down, his hands deep in his pockets, his\nhead sunk between his shoulders, his hat pulled down over his eyes, he\nthought of that raft baby and wondered if it were alive. But such\nthoughts were only in the moments when his bruised mind could not\nsteady itself on what had happened to him. Most of the time he was\nsaying, over and over, just what he was going to do the next morning:\nhe would get into the station; take a cab; drive to the hospital--a\ndozen times that night his thumb and finger sought his waistcoat pocket\nfor a bill to hasten the driver of that cab! leap out, run up the\nstairs to the mail-rack beside the receiving clerk's desk, seize\nElizabeth's letter--here the pause would come, the moment when his body\nrelaxed, and something seemed to melt within him: suppose the letter\nwas not there? Very well: back to the cab! another tip; hurry! hurry!\nhurry! His mother's house, the steps, his key in the lock--again and\nagain his fingers closed on the key-ring in his pocket! letters on the\nhall table awaiting him--_her_ letter. Then again the relaxing shock:\nsuppose it was not there? The thought turned him sick; after the almost\nphysical recoil from it, came brief moments of longing for his mother's\ntender arms, or the remembrance of that baby on the raft. But almost\nimmediately his mind would return to the treadmill of expectation; get\ninto the station--take a cab--rush--So it went, on and on, until,\ntoward dawn, through sheer exhaustion he slept.\n\nThat next day was never very clear in David's memory. Only one fact\nstood out distinctly in the mists: there was no letter. Afterward, when\nhe tried to recall that time of discovering that she had not written,\nhe was confused by the vision of his mother smiling down at him from\nthe head of the stairs and calling to an unseen maid, \"Bring the doctor\na cup of coffee, Mary!\" He could remember that he stood sorting out the\nletters on the hall table, running them over swiftly, then going\nthrough them slowly, one by one, scanning each address, each post-mark;\nthen, with shaking hands, shuffling and sorting them like a pack of\ncards, and going through them again. _She had not written_. He could\nremember that he heard the blood beating in his ears, and at the same\ntime his mother's voice: \"Bring the doctor a cup of coffee.\" . . . She\nhad not written.\n\nFor months afterward, when he tried to recall that morning, the weak\nfeeling in his knees, the way the letters that were not from her shook\nin his hand, the sound of his mother's joyous voice--these things would\ncome into his mind together. They were all he could remember of the\nwhole day; the day when the grave closed over his youth.\n\nAfter that came hours of expectation, of telegrams back and forth:\n\"Have you heard where they are?\" And: \"No news.\" Weeks of letters\nbetween Robert Ferguson and his mother: \"It is what I have always said,\nshe is her mother's daughter.\" And: \"Oh, don't be so hard on her--and\non her poor, bad mother. Find out where she is, and go and see her.\"\nAnd: \"I will never see her. I'm done with her.\" But among all the\nletters, never any letter from Elizabeth to David.\n\nIn those first days he seemed to live only when the mail arrived; but\nhis passion of expectation was speechless. Indeed his inarticulateness\nwas a bad factor when it came to recovery from the blow that had been\ndealt him. At the moment when the wound was new, he had talked to his\nmother; but almost immediately he retreated into silence. And in\nsilence the worst things in his nature began to grow. Once he tried to\nwrite to Elizabeth; the letter commenced with frantic directions to\ncome to his mother \"at once!\" Then his pen faltered: perhaps she did\nnot care to come? Perhaps she did not wish to leave \"him\"?--and the\nunfinished letter was flung into the fire. With suspicion of Elizabeth\ncame a contemptuous distrust of human nature in general, and a\nshrinking self-consciousness, both entirely foreign to him. He was not\nonly crushed by loss, but he was stinging with the organic\nmortification of the man who has not been able to keep his woman. It\nwas then that Helena Richie first noticed a harshness in him that\nfrightened her, and a cynical individualism that began to create its\nown code of morals, or at any rate of responsibilities. But before he\nshut himself into all this misery, not only of loss, but of suspicion\nand humiliation, he did say one thing:\n\n\"I'm not going to howl; you needn't be afraid. I shall do my work. You\nwon't hear me howl.\" There were times when she wished he would! She\nwished it especially when Robert Ferguson wrote that Elizabeth and\nBlair were going to return to Mercer, that they would live at the River\nHouse, and that it was evident that the \"annulment,\" to which at first\nDavid's mind had turned so incessantly, was not being thought of. \"I\nunderstand from Miss White (of course I haven't heard from or written\nto Mrs. Blair Maitland) that she does not wish to take any steps for a\nseparation,\" Elizabeth's uncle wrote.\n\n\"He _must_ see her when she gets back,\" Helena Richie said, softly; but\nDavid said nothing at all. At that moment his suspicion became a\ncertainty; yes, she had loved the fellow! It had been something else\nthan one of her fits of fury! It had been _love_. ... No wonder, with\nthis poison working in him, that he shut even his mother out of his\nheart. At times the pitying tenderness of her eyes was intolerable to\nhim; he thought he saw the same pity in everybody's eyes; he felt sure\nthat every casual acquaintance was thinking of what had happened to\nhim: he said to himself he wished to God people would mind their\nbusiness, and let him mind his! \"I'm not howling,\" he told himself. He\nwas like a man whose skin has been taken off; he winced at everything,\nbut all the same, he did his work in the hospital with exhausting\nthoroughness; to be sure he gave his patients nothing but technical\ncare. Whether they lived or died was nothing to David; whether he\nhimself lived or died was still less to him--except, perhaps, that in\nhis own case he had a preference. But work is the only real sedative\nfor grief, and the suffering man worked himself callous, so he had dull\nmoments of forgetfulness, or at any rate of comparative indifference,\nYet when he received that note from Mrs. Maitland summoning him to her\nhotel he flinched under the callousness. However, at a little before\neight o'clock on Tuesday morning, he knocked at her bedroom door.\n\nThe Girard House knew Sarah Maitland's eccentricities as well as her\ncredit; she always asked for a cheap room, and was always put up under\nthe roof. She had never learned to use her money for her own comfort,\nso it never occurred to her to have a parlor for herself; her\ninfrequent callers were always shown up here to the top of the house.\n\nOn this especial morning she had come directly from the train, and when\nDavid arrived she was pacing up and down the narrow room, haggard and\ndisheveled from a night in the sleeping-car; she had not even taken off\nher bonnet. She turned at his step and stopped short in her tracks--he\nwas so thin, so grim, so old! \"Well, David,\" she said; then hesitated,\nfor there was just an instant's recoil in David. He had not realized\nthe fury that would leap up and scorch him like a flame at the sight of\nBlair's mother.\n\n\"David, you'll--you'll shake hands with me, won't you?\" she said\ntimidly. At the sound of her voice his anger died out; only the cold\nashes of misery were left.\n\n\"Why, Mrs. Maitland!\" he protested, and took her big, beautiful,\nunsteady hand in both of his.\n\nFor a moment neither of them spoke. It was a dark, cold morning; far\nbelow them stretched the cheerless expanse of snow-covered roofs; from\ncountless chimneys smoke was rising heavily to the lowering sky, and\nsoot was sifting down; the snow on the window-sill was speckled with\nblack. Below, in the courtyard of the hotel, ice-carts rumbled in and\nout, and milk-cans were banged down on the cobblestones; a dull day, an\nempty sky, a futile interview, up here in this wretched little room\nunder the eaves. David wondered how soon he could get away.\n\n\"David,\" Mrs. Maitland said, \"I know I can't make it up to you in any\nway. But I'd like to.\"\n\n\"You are very kind,\" he said coldly, \"but we won't go into that, if you\nplease, Mrs. Maitland.\"\n\n\"No, we won't talk about it,\" she said, with evident relief; \"but\nDavid, I came to Philadelphia to say that I want you to let me be of\nhelp to you in some way.\"\n\n\"Help to me?\" he repeated, surprised. \"I really don't see--\"\n\n\"Why,\" she explained, \"you want to begin to practise; you don't want to\ndrudge along at a hospital under some big man's thumb. I want to set\nyou up!\"\n\nDavid smiled involuntarily, \"But the hospital is my greatest chance,\nMrs. Maitland. I'm lucky to have these three years there. But it's kind\nin you to think of giving me a hand.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" she said, quite missing the force of what he said. \"You\nought to put out your own shingle. David, you can have all the money\nyou need; it's yours to take.\"\n\nDavid started as if she had struck him: \"_yours to take_.\" Oh, that had\nbeen said to him before! \"No, I can't, I couldn't take money! You don't\nunderstand. I couldn't take money from--anybody!\" he said with a gasp.\n\nShe looked at him helplessly, then stretched out her empty hands.\n\"David,\" she said pitifully, \"money is all I've got. Won't you take\nit?\" The tears were on her cheeks and the big, empty hands shook. \"I\nhaven't got anything but money, David,\" she entreated.\n\nHis face quivered; he said some broken, protesting word; then suddenly\nhe put his arms round her and kissed her. Her gray head, in the\nbattered old bonnet, rested a moment on his shoulder, and he felt her\nsob. \"Oh, David,\" she said, \"what shall I do? He--he hates me. He said\nthe only womanly thing about me was ... Oh, can I make a man of him, do\nyou think?\" She entirely forgot David's wrongs in her cry for comfort,\na cry that somehow penetrated to his benumbed heart, for in his effort\nto comfort her he was himself vaguely comforted, For a minute he held\nher tightly in his arms until he was sure he could command himself.\nWhen he let her go, she put her hand up in a bewildered way and touched\nher cheek; the boy had kissed her! But by that time she was able to go\nback to the purpose that had brought her here; she told him to sit down\nand then began, dogmatically, to insist upon her plan.\n\nDavid smiled a little as he explained that, quite apart from any\nquestion of income, the hospital experience was valuable to him. \"I\nwouldn't give it up, Mrs. Maitland, if I had a million dollars!\" he\nsaid, with a convincing exaggeration that was like the old David. \"But\nit's mighty kind in you. Please believe I do appreciate your kindness.\"\n\n\"No kindness about it,\" she said impatiently; \"my family is in your\ndebt, David.\" At which he hardened instantly.\n\n\"Well,\" she said; and was silent for awhile, biting her finger and\nlooking down at her boots. Suddenly, with a grunt of satisfaction, she\nbegan to hit the arm of her chair softly with her closed fist. \"I've\ngot it!\" she said. \"I suppose you wouldn't refuse the trusteeship of a\nfund, one of these days, to build a hospital? Near my Works, maybe? I'm\nall the time having accidents. I remember once getting a filing in my\neye, and--and somebody suggested a doctor to take it out. A doctor for\na filing! I guess _you'd_ have been equal to that job--young as you\nare? Still, it wouldn't be bad to have a doctor round, even if he was\nyoung, if anything serious happened. Yes, a hospital near the\nWorks--first for my men and then for outsiders. It is a good idea! I\nsuppose you wouldn't refuse to run such a hospital, and draw your\nwages, like a man?\"\n\n\"Well, no, I wouldn't refuse that,\" he said, smiling. It was many weeks\nsince David had smiled so frankly. A strange thing had happened in that\nmoment when he had forgotten himself in trying to comfort Blair's\nmother--his corroding suspicion of Elizabeth seemed to melt away! In\nits place was to come, a little later, the dreadful but far more\nbearable pain of enduring remorse for his own responsibility for\nElizabeth's act. But just then, when he tried to comfort that poor\nmother, there was only a breaking of the ice about his own heart in a\nwarm gush of pity for her.... \"I don't see that there's much chance of\nfunds for hospitals coming my way,\" he said, smiling.\n\n\"You never can tell,\" said Mrs. Maitland.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nThe morning Blair heard his sentence from his mother, Elizabeth spent\nin her parlor in the hotel, looking idly out of the window at the tawny\ncurrent of the river covered with its slipping sheen of oil. Steamboats\nwere pushing up and down or nosing into the sand to unload their\ncargoes; she could hear the creak of hawsers, the bang of gangplanks\nthrown across to the shore, the cries and songs of stevedores sweating\nand toiling on the wharf that was piled with bales of cotton, endless\nblue barrels of oil, and black avalanches of coal. She did not think of\nBlair's ordeal; she was not interested in it. She was not interested in\nanything. Sometimes she thought vaguely of the letter which had never\nbeen and would never be written to David, and sometimes of that message\nfrom him which she had not yet been able to hear from Miss White's\nlips; but for the most part she did not think of anything. She was\ntired of thinking. She sat huddled in a chair, staring dully out of the\nwindow; she was like a captive bird, moping on its perch, its poor\nbright head sinking down into its tarnished feathers. She was so\nabsorbed in the noise and confusion of traffic that she did not hear a\nknock. When it was repeated, she rose listlessly to answer it, but\nbefore she reached the door it opened, and her uncle entered. Elizabeth\nbacked away silently. He followed her, but for a moment he was silent,\ntoo--it seemed to Robert Ferguson as if youth had been wiped out of her\nface. Under the shock of the change in her, he found for a moment\nnothing to say. When he spoke his voice trembled--with anger, she\nthought. \"Mrs. Richie wrote me that I must come and see you. I told her\nI would have nothing to do with you.\"\n\nElizabeth sat down without speaking.\n\n\"I don't see what good it does to come,\" he said, staring at the tragic\nface. \"Of course you know my opinion of you.\" She nodded. \"So why\nshould I come?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Well, I--I'm here. And you may come home sometimes, if you want to.\nMiss White is willing to see you, I believe.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Uncle Robert.\"\n\nAs she spoke the door of the elevator in the hall clanged shut, and the\nnext moment Blair entered. He carried a loose twist of white paper in\nhis arms, and when, at the sight of Robert Ferguson, he tossed it down\non the table it fell open, and the fragrance of roses overflowed into\nthe room. Raging from the lash of his mother's tongue, he had rushed\nback to the hotel to tell Elizabeth what had happened, but in spite of\nhis haste he stopped on the way to get her some flowers. He did not\nthink of them now, nor even of his own wrongs, for here was Robert\nFerguson attacking her! \"Mr. Ferguson,\" he said, quietly, but reddening\nto his temples, \"of course you know that in the matter of Elizabeth's\nhasty marriage I am the only one to blame. But though you blame me, I\nhope you will believe that I will do my best to make her happy.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"OF COURSE YOU KNOW MY OPINION OF YOU\"]\n\n\"I believe,\" said Elizabeth's uncle, \"that you are a damned scoundrel.\"\nHe took up his hat and began to smooth the nap on his arm; then he\nturned to Elizabeth--and in his heart he damned Blair Maitland more\nvigorously than before: the lovely color had all been washed away by\ntears, the amber eyes were dull, even the brightness of her hair seemed\ndimmed. It was as if something had breathed upon the sparkle and\nclearness; it was like seeing her through a mist. So, barking fiercely\nto keep his lip from shaking, he said: \"And I hope you understand,\nElizabeth, I have no respect for you, either.\"\n\nShe looked up with faint surprise. \"Why, of course not.\"\n\n\"I insist,\" Blair said, peremptorily, \"that you address my wife with\nrespect or leave her presence.\"\n\nMr. Ferguson put his hat down on the table, not noticing that the roses\nspotted it with their wet petals, and stared at him. \"Well, upon my\nword!\" he said. \"Do you think I need _you_ to instruct me in my duty to\nmy niece?\" Then, with sudden, cruel insight, he added, \"David Richie's\nmother has done that.\" As he spoke he bent over and kissed Elizabeth.\nInstantly, with a smothered cry, she clung to him. There was just a\nmoment when, her head on his breast, he felt her soft hair against his\ncheek--and a minute later, she felt something wet on her cheek. They\nhad both forgotten Blair. He slunk away and left them alone.\n\nRobert Ferguson straightened up with a jerk. \"Where--where--where's my\nhat!\" he said, angrily; \"she said I was hard. She doesn't know\neverything!\" But Elizabeth caught his hand and held it to her lips.\n\nWhen Blair came back she was quite gentle to him; yes, the roses were\nvery pretty; yes, very sweet. \"Thank you, Blair,\" she said; but she did\nnot ask him about his interview with his mother; she had forgotten it.\nHe took the stab of her indifference without wincing; but suddenly he\nwas comforted, for when he began to tell her what his mother was going\nto do, she was sharply aroused. She lifted her head--that spirited head\nwhich in the old days had never drooped; and looked at him in absolute\ndismay. Blair was being punished for a crime that was more hers than\nhis!\n\n\"Oh,\" she said, \"it isn't fair! I'm the one to blame; it isn't fair!\"\n\nThe indignation in her voice made his heart leap. \"Of course it isn't\nfair. But Elizabeth, I would pay any price to know that you were my\nwife.\" He tried to take her hand, but she pushed him aside and began to\npace about the room.\n\n\"It isn't right!\" she said; \"she sha'n't treat you so!\" She was almost\nlike the old, furious Elizabeth in that gust of distress at her own\nresponsibility for an injustice to him. But Blair dared to believe that\nher anger was for his sake, and to have her care that he should lose\nmoney made the loss almost welcome. He felt, through his rage at his\nmother, a thrill of purpose, a desire to amount to something, for\nElizabeth's sake--which, if she could have known it, might have\ncomforted Sarah Maitland, sitting in her dreary bedroom, her face\nhidden in her hands.\n\n\"Dearest, what do I care for her or her money?\" he cried out; \"_I have\nyou!_\"\n\nElizabeth was not listening to him; she was thinking what she could do\nto save him from his mother's displeasure. \"I'll go and see her, and\ntell her it was my fault,\" she said to herself. She had a vague feeling\nthat if she could soften Mrs. Maitland she and Blair would be quits.\n\nShe did not tell him of her purpose, but the mere having a purpose made\nher face alert, and it seemed to him that she identified herself with\nhim and his interests. His eager denial of her self-accusation that she\nhad injured him, his ardent impulse to protect her from any remorse, to\ntake all the blame of a possible \"mistake\" on his own shoulders,\nbrought an astonishing unselfishness into his face. But Elizabeth would\nnot let him blame himself.\n\n\"It was all my fault,\" she insisted. \"I was out of my head!\"\n\nAt that he frowned sharply--\"when you are eaten up with jealousy,\" his\nmother had said. Oh, he did not need his mother to tell him what\njealousy meant: Elizabeth would not have married him if she had not\nbeen 'out of her head'! \"She still thinks of him,\" he said to himself,\nas he had said many, many times in these two months of marriage--months\nof alternate ecstasies and angers, of hopes and despairs. As for her\nindignation at the way he had been treated, it meant nothing personal,\nafter all. In his disappointment he went out of the room in hurt\nsilence and left her to her thoughts of \"him.\" This was the way most of\ntheir talks ended.\n\nBut Elizabeth's indignation did not end. In the next two days, while\nMrs. Maitland was in Philadelphia making her naive offer to David, she\nbrooded over the situation. \"I won't have Blair punished for my sins,\"\nshe said to herself; \"I won't have it!\" Her revolt at an injustice was\na faint echo of her old violence. She had no one to talk to about it;\nNannie was too shy to come to see her, and Miss White too tearful to be\nconsulted. But she did not need advice; she knew what she must do. The\nafternoon following Mrs. Maitland's return from Philadelphia she went\nto see her. . . . She found Nannie in the parlor, sitting forlornly at\nher drawing-board. Nannie had heard, of course, from Blair, the details\nof that interview with his mother, and in her scared anger she planned\nmany ways of \"making Mamma nice to Blair,\" but she had not thought of\nElizabeth's assistance. She took it for granted that Elizabeth would\nnot have the courage to \"face Mamma.\"\n\n\"I have come to see Mrs. Maitland,\" Elizabeth said. \"Is she in the\ndining-room?\"\n\nNannie quailed. \"Oh, Elizabeth! How do you dare? But do go; and make\nher forgive him. She wouldn't listen to me. And after all, Elizabeth,\nyou know that _you_--\"\n\n\"Yes, I'm the one,\" Elizabeth said, briefly; and went swiftly across\nthe hall. She stood for a moment by Sarah Maitland's desk unnoticed.\n\"Mrs. Maitland!\" Elizabeth's voice was peremptory. Blair's mother put\nher pen down and looked up over her spectacles. \"Oh--Elizabeth?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Maitland, I came to tell you that you must not be angry at Blair.\nIt was all my fault.\"\n\n\"I guess, as I told your uncle, it was the pot and the kettle,\nElizabeth.\"\n\n\"No, no! I was angry, and I was--willing.\"\n\n\"Do you think it excuses Blair if you did throw yourself at his head?\"\n\nElizabeth, who had thought that no lesser wound than the one she had\ndealt herself could hurt her, flinched. But she did not defend herself.\n\"I think it does excuse him to some extent, and that is why I have come\nto ask you to forgive him.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Mrs. Maitland, and paused; then with most disconcerting\nsuddenness, sneezed violently and blew her nose; \"bless you, I've\nforgiven him.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Elizabeth, with a gasp of relief, \"you won't disinherit\nhim!\"\n\n\"Disinherit him? What's that got to do with forgiving him? Of course I\nwill disinherit him,--or rather, I have. My will is made; signed,\nsealed. I've left him an income of a thousand dollars a year. That will\nkeep you from starvation. If Blair is worth more he'll earn more. If he\nisn't, he can live on a thousand dollars--as better men than he have\ndone. Or he can go to the workhouse;--your uncle can take care of you.\nI reckon I've paid taxes in this county long enough to entitle my son\nto go to the workhouse if he wants to.\"\n\n\"But Mrs. Maitland,\" Elizabeth protested, hotly, \"it isn't fair, just\nbecause I--I let him marry me, to punish him--\"\n\nMrs. Maitland struck her fist on the arm of her chair. \"You don't know\nwhat you are talking about! I am not 'punishing' him; that's the last\nthing I was thinking of. If there's any 'punishing' going on, I'm the\none that's getting it. Listen, Elizabeth, and I'll try to explain--you\nlook as if you had some sense, so maybe you can understand. Nannie\ncouldn't; she has no brains. And Blair wouldn't--I guess he has no\nheart. But this is how it is: Blair has always been a loafer--that's\nwhy he behaved as he did to you. Satan finds some mischief still, you\nknow! So I'm cutting off his allowance, now, and leaving him\npractically penniless in my will, to stop his loafing. To make him\nwork! He'll have to work, to keep from starving; and work will make a\nman of him. As for you, you've done an abominable thing, Elizabeth; but\nit's _done_! Now, turn to, and pay for your whistle: do your duty! Use\nyour influence to induce Blair to work. That's the best way to make up\nfor the injury you've done him. As for the injury he's done you, I hope\nthe Lord will send you some children to make up for that. Now, my--my\ndear, clear out! clear out! I've got my work to do.\"\n\nElizabeth went back to Nannie's parlor, stinging under her\nmother-in-law's candor. That she was able to feel it showed that her\napathy was wearing off. At any rate, the thought of the \"injury\" she\nhad done Blair, which she took to be the loss of fortune, strengthened\nher sometimes wavering resolution to stay with him. She did not tell\nhim of this interview, or of its effect upon her, but she told her\nuncle--part of it. She went to him that night, and sitting down on a\nhassock at his feet, her head against his knee, she told him how Blair\nwas to be punished for her crime--she called it a crime. Then, in a low\nvoice, she told him, as well as she could, just how the crime had been\ncommitted.\n\n\"I guessed how it was,\" he said. And they were silent for a while. Then\nhe broke out, huskily: \"I don't care a hang about Blair or his mother's\nwill. He deserves all he gets--or won't get, rather! But, Elizabeth,\nif--if you want to be free--\"\n\n\"Uncle Robert, what I want isn't of any importance any more.\"\n\n\"I talked it over as a supposititious case with Howe the other day, and\nhe said that if Blair would agree, possibly--mind you, only\n_possibly_;--a divorce could be arranged.\"\n\nShe sunk her head in her hands; then answered in a whisper: \"Uncle, I\ndid it. I've got to see it through.\"\n\nAfter a minute's silence he put his hand on her soft hair. \"Bully for\nyou, Elizabeth,\" he said, brokenly. Then, to escape from the emotional\ndemand of the moment, he began to bark: \"You are outrageously careless\nabout money. How on earth a girl, who has been brought up by a man, and\nso might be expected to have some sense in such matters, can be so\ncareless, I don't understand! You've never asked me about that legacy.\nI've put the money in the bank. Your bank-book is there on my table.\"\n\nElizabeth was silent. That money! Oh, how could she ever touch it? But\nin view of Mrs. Maitland's decision it was perfectly obvious that\nultimately she would have to touch it. \"Blair can live on it.\" she\nthought--it was a relief to her to stab herself with words;--\"_Blair_\n'can live on it for two years.'\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nOf course, after a while, as time passed, all the people who had been\ncaught in the storm the two reckless creatures had let loose, shook\ndown again into their grooves, and the routine of living went on. There\nare few experiences more bewildering to the unhappy human heart than\nthis of discovering that things do go on. Innumerable details of the\nunimportant flood in and fill up the cracks and breaches that grief has\nmade in the structure of life; we continue to live, and even to find\nlife desirable!\n\nMiss White had been the first to realize this; her love for Elizabeth,\nbeing really (poor old maid!) maternal, was independent of respect, so\nalmost the next day she had been able to settle down with complete\nhappiness into the old habit of loving. Blair's mother was the next to\nget into the comfortable track of routine; the very day after she came\nback from that trip to Philadelphia she plunged into business. She did,\nhowever, pause long enough to tell her superintendent how she was going\nto \"even things up with David.\"\n\n\"I am going to give him a lot of money for a hospital,\" she said. \"I'm\nnot going to leave it to him; I'm only sixty-two, and I don't propose\nto die yet awhile. When I do Blair will probably contest the will. He\ncan't break it. It's cast-iron. But I don't want David to wait until\nI'm dead and gone, and Blair has given up trying to break my will, and\nthe estate is settled. I'm going to give it to him before I die. In a\nyear or two, maybe. I'm realizing on securities now--why don't I give\nhim the securities? My dear sir, what does a doctor know about\nsecurities? Doctors have no more financial sense than parsons--at\nleast, not much more,\" she added, with relenting justice. \"No; David is\nto have his money, snug in the bank--that new bank, on Federal Street.\nI told the president I was rolling up a nest-egg for somebody--I could\nsee he thought it was for Blair! I didn't enlighten him, because I\ndon't want the thing talked about. When I get the amount I want, I'll\nhand Master David a bank certificate of deposit, and with all his airs\nabout accepting money, he won't be able to help himself! He'll have to\nbuild his hospital, and draw his wages. It will make him independent of\nhis outside customers, you see. Yes, I guess I can whip the devil round\nthe stump as well as the next person!\" she said, bridling with\nsatisfaction. So, with an interest and a hope, Sarah Maitland, like\nMiss White, found life worth living.\n\nWith David's mother the occupation of trying to help David made living\ndesirable. It also made her a little more remote from other people's\ninterests. Poor Robert Ferguson discovered this to his cost: it had\noccurred to him that now, when they were all so miserable, she might\nperhaps \"be willing.\" But she was not. When, a day or two after he had\ngone to see Elizabeth, he went to Philadelphia, Mrs. Richie was\ntremulously glad to see him, so that she might pour out her fears about\nDavid and ask advice on this point and that. \"Being a man, you\nunderstand better than I do,\" she acknowledged meekly; then broke down\nand cried for her boy's pain. And when the kind, barking old friend,\nhimself blinking behind misty spectacles, said, \"Oh, now, my dear,\ndon't cry,\" she was so comforted that she cried some more, and for a\nsingle minute found her head most unexpectedly on his shoulder. But all\nthe same, she was not \"willing.\"\n\n\"Don't ask me, dear Mr. Ferguson,\" she said, wiping her eyes. \"We are\nsuch good friends, and I'm so fond of you, don't let's spoil it all.\"\n\n\"I believe you are fond of me,\" he said, \"and that is why it's so\nunreasonable in you not to marry me. I don't ask--impossibilities. But\nyou do like me; and I love you, you dear, good, foolish woman;--so good\nthat you couldn't see badness when it lived next door to you!\"\n\n\"Don't be so hard on people who do wrong,\" she pleaded; \"you make me\nafraid of you when you are so hard.\"\n\n\"I'm not hard; Elizabeth is her mother's daughter; that's all.\" \"Oh!\"\nshe cried, with sudden passion, \"that poor mother! Can't you forgive\nher?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said; \"I can't.\"\n\n\"You ought to forgive Elizabeth, at any rate,\" she insisted, faintly;\n\"and you ought to go and see her.\"\n\n\"Have you forgiven her?\" he parried.\n\nShe hesitated. \"I think I have. I've tried to; but I don't understand\nher. I can understand doing something--wicked, for love; but not for\nhate.\"\n\nHe gave his meager laugh. \"If forgiveness was a question of\nunderstanding, I'm afraid you'd be as hard on her mother as I am.\"\n\n\"On the contrary,\" she said, vehemently, \"if I forgive Elizabeth, it is\nfor her mother's sake.\" Then she broke out, almost with tears: \"Oh, how\ncan you be so unkind as not to go and see the child? The time we need\nour friends most is when we have done wrong!\"\n\nHe was silent.\n\n\"Sometimes,\" she said, \"sometimes I wish you would do something wrong\nyourself, just to learn to be pitiful!\"\n\n\"You wish I would do wrong? I'm _always_ doing wrong! I did wrong when\nI growled so. But--\" he paused; \"I believe I _have_ seen Elizabeth,\" he\nsaid sheepishly; \"I believe we kissed and made up.\" At which even poor,\nsad Helena laughed.\n\nBut these two old friends discovered, just as Miss White and Blair's\nmother had discovered, that life was not over for them, because the\nhabit of friendship persisted. And by and by, nearly a year later,\nDavid--even David! began to find a reason for living, in his\nprofession. The old, ardent interest which used to make his eyes dim\nwith pity, or his heart leap with joy at giving help, was gone; he no\nlonger cared to cuddle the babies he might help to bring into the\nworld; and a death-bed was an irritating failure rather than any more\nhuman emotion. So far as other people's hopes and fears went, he was\nbitter or else callous, but he began to forget his humiliation, and he\nlost his self-consciousness in the serious purpose of success. He did\nnot talk to his mother of the catastrophe of his life; but he did talk\nof other things, and with the old friendly intimacy. She was his only\nintimate friend.\n\nThus, gradually, the little world that loved Elizabeth and Blair fell\nback, after the storm of pain and mortification, into the merciful\ncommonplace of habit and of duty to be done.\n\nBut for Elizabeth and Blair there was no going back; they had indeed\nfired the Ephesian dome! The past now, to Elizabeth, meant David's\nmessage,--to which, finally, she had been able to listen: \"Tell her I\nunderstand; ask her to forgive me.\" In Blair's past there was nothing\nreal to which he could return; for him the reality of life had begun\nwith Love; and notwithstanding the bite of shame, the battle with his\nsense of chivalry, that revolted (now and then) at the thought of\nholding an unwilling woman as his wife, and the constant dull ache of\njealousy, he had madly happy moments that first year of his marriage.\nElizabeth was his! That was enough for him. His circumstances, which\nwould have caused most men a good deal of anxiety, were, thanks to his\nirresponsibility, very little in his thought. There was still a balance\nat his bank which made it possible, without encroaching on Elizabeth's\ncapital--which he swore he would not do--to live at the old River House\n\"fairly decently.\" He was, however, troubled because he could not\npropitiate Elizabeth with expensive gifts; and almost immediately after\nthat interview with his mother, he began to think about an occupation,\nmerely that he might have more money to spend on his wife. \"If I could\nonly buy her some jewels!\" he used to say to himself, with a worried\nlook. \"I want to get you everything you want, my darling,\" he told her\nonce.\n\nShe made no answer; and he burst out in sudden angry pain: \"You don't\ncare what I do!\" Still she did not speak. \"You--you are thinking of him\nstill,\" he said between set teeth. This constant corroding thought did\nnot often break through his studied purpose to win her by his\npassionately considerate tenderness; when it did, it always ended in\nbitterness for him.\n\n\"Of course I am thinking of him,\" she would say, dully; \"I never stop\nthinking of him.\"\n\n\"I believe you would go back to him now!\" he flung at her\n\n\"Go back to him? I would go back to him on my hands and knees if he\nwould take me.\"\n\nWords like that left him speechless with misery; and yet he was\nhappy--she was his wife!\n\nWhen his bank account began to dwindle, he found it easy to borrow; the\nfact that he was the son of his mother (and consequently his bills had\nalways been paid) was sufficient collateral. That he borrowed at a\nruinous interest was a matter of indifference to a man who, having\nnever earned a dollar, had not the slightest idea of the value of a\ndollar. At the end of the first year of his marriage, jewels for\nElizabeth seemed less important to him than her bread and butter; and\nit was then that with real anxiety he tried to find something to do.\nAgain \"Sarah Maitland's son\" found doors open to him which the ordinary\nman, inexperienced and notoriously idle, would have found closed; but\nnone of them offered what he thought a sufficient salary; and by and by\nhe realized that very soon he would be obliged, as he expressed it, \"to\nsponge on Elizabeth\"; for, reckless as he was, he knew that his\nborrowing capacity must come to an end. When the \"sponging\" finally\nbegan, he was acutely uncomfortable, which was certainly to his credit.\nAt any rate, it proved that he was enough of a man to be miserable\nunder such conditions. When a husband who is young and vigorous lives\nidly on his wife's money one of two things happens: he is miserable, or\nhe degenerates into contentment. Blair was not\ndegenerating--consequently he was honestly wretched.\n\nHis attempts to find something to do were not without humor to his\nmother, who kept herself informed, of course, of all his \"business\"\nventures. \"What! he wants the Dalzells to take him on? What for?\nErrand-boy? That's all he's good for. But I'm afraid two dollars and a\nhalf a week won't buy him many china beetles!\" When Blair essayed a\nbroker's office she even made an ancient joke to her superintendent:\n\"If Blair could buy himself for what he is worth to Haines, and sell\nhimself for what he thinks he's worth, he might make a fair\nprofit,--and pick up some more old masters.\"\n\nBut she was impatient for him to get through with all this nonsense of\ndilly-dallying at making a living by doing things he knew nothing\nabout! How soon would he get down to hard-pan and knock at her door at\nthe Works and ask for a job, man-fashion? \"That's what I want to know!\"\nshe used to tell Mr. Ferguson, who was silent. He did not want to know\nanything about Blair; all he cared for was to help his girl bear the\nburden of her folly. He called it \"folly\" now, and Miss White used to\nnod her old head in melancholy agreement. It was only to Robert\nFerguson that Mrs. Maitland betrayed her constant anxiety about her\nson; and it was that anxiety which made her keenly sensitive to\nElizabeth's deepening depression. For as the excitement of sacrifice\nand punishment wore off, and the strain of every-day living began to\ntell, Elizabeth's depression was very marked. She was never angry\nnow--she had not the energy for anger; and she was never unkind to\nBlair; perhaps her own pain made her pitiful of his. But she was\nalways, as Cherry-pie expressed it, \"under a cloud.\" Mrs. Maitland,\nwatching her, wondered if she was moody because funds were getting low.\nHow intensely she hoped that was the reason! \"I reckon that money of\nhers is coming to an end,\" she used to think, triumphantly--for she had\nknown, through Nannie, just when Blair had reached the point at which\nhe had been obliged to use his wife's capital. Whenever she saw\nElizabeth--who for want of anything better to do came constantly to see\nNannie: she would drop a word or two which she thought might go back to\nher son: \"We need an extra hand in the office.\" Or: \"How would Blair\nlike to travel for the Works? We can always take on a traveling man.\"\n\nShe never had the chance to drop her hints to Blair himself. In vain\nNannie urged upon her brother her old plea: \"Be nice to Mamma. Do come\nand see her. Everything will be all right again if you will only come\nand see her!\" Nothing moved him. If his mother could be firm, so could\nhe; he was never more distinctly her son than in his obstinacy.\n\n\"If she alters her will,\" he said, briefly, \"I will alter my behavior.\nShe's not my mother so long as she casts off her son.\"\n\nMrs. Maitland seemed to age very much that second year. Her business\nwas still a furious interest; she stormed her way through every trade\nobstacle, occasionally bargaining with her conscience by increasing her\ndonations to foreign missions; but there was this change of suddenly\napparent age. Instead of the old, clear-eyed, ruthless joy in work,\nthere was a look of furtive waiting; an anxiety of hope deferred, that\ngrooved itself into her face. And somewhere in the spring of the third\nyear, the hoped-for moment approached--necessity began to offer its\nbeneficent opportunity to her son. In spite of experiments in prudence\nin borrowing and in earning, the end of Elizabeth's money was in sight.\nWhen the end was reached, there would be nothing for Blair Maitland but\nsurrender.\n\n\"Shall I cave in now?\" he vacillated; he was wandering off alone across\nthe bridge, fairly aching with indecision, and brooding miserably, not\nonly over the situation, but over his helplessness to buy his way into\nElizabeth's affections. \"She ought to have a carriage; it is\npreposterous for my wife to be going round in streetcars. If I could\ngive her a carriage and a pair of horses!\" But of course it was\nridiculous to think of things like that. He could not buy a carriage\nfor Elizabeth out of her own money--besides, her money was shrinking\nalarmingly. It was this passionate desire to propitiate her, as well as\nthe recognition of approaching necessities, that brought him to the\npoint where he saw capitulation ahead of him. \"I wish I could make up\nmy mind,\" he thought, wearily. \"Well, if I don't get something to do\npretty soon, it will be made up for me,--I'll _have_ to eat crow! I'll\nhave to go to the Works and ask for a job. But I swear I won't speak\nto--_her!_ It is damnable to have to cave in; I'd starve before I'd do\nit, if it wasn't for Elizabeth.\"\n\nBut before the time for eating crow arrived, something happened.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nMrs. Maitland and Nannie were having their supper at the big, cluttered\noffice table in the shabby dining-room--shabbier now by twenty years\nthan when Blair first expressed his opinion of it. In the midst of the\nsilent meal Sarah Maitland's eye fell on her stepdaughter, and hardened\ninto attention. Nannie looked pale, she thought; and frowned slightly.\nIt occurred to her that the girl might be lonely in the long evenings\nover there in the parlor, with nothing to do but read foolish little\nstories, or draw foolish little pictures, or embroider foolish little\ntidies and things. \"What a life!\" she said to herself; it was a shame\nBlair did not come in and cheer his sister up. Yes; Nannie was\ncertainly very solitary. What a pity David Richie had no sense! \"Now\nthat he can't get Elizabeth, nothing could be more sensible,\" she said\nto herself; then sighed. Young men were never very sensible in regard\nto matrimony. \"I suppose I ought to do something myself to cheer her\nup,\" she thought--a little impatiently, for really it was rather absurd\nto expect a person of her quality to cheer Nannie! Still, she might\ntalk to her. Of course they had only one topic in common:\n\n\"Seen your brother lately?\"\n\n\"No, Mamma. He went East day before yesterday.\"\n\n\"Has he found anything to do?\" This was the usual weary question;\nNannie gave the usual scared answer:\n\n\"I _think_ not; not yet. He is going to look up something in New York,\nElizabeth says.\"\n\n\"Tell Elizabeth I will take him on at the Works, whenever he is ready\nto come. His belly will bring him to it yet!\" she ended, with the old,\nhopeful belief that has comforted parents ever since the fatted calf\nproved the correctness of the expectation. Nannie sighed. Mrs. Maitland\nrealized that she was not \"cheering\" her very much. \"You ought to amuse\nyourself,\" she said, severely; \"how do you amuse yourself?\"\n\n\"I--draw,\" Nannie managed to say; she really could not think of any\nother amusement.\n\nThen her stepmother had an inspiration: \"Would you like to come over to\nthe furnace and see the night cast? It's quite a sight, people say.\"\n\nNannie was dumfounded at the attention. Mamma offering to take her to\nthe Works! To be sure, it was the last thing on earth she would choose\nto do, but if her stepmother asked her, of course she could not say no.\nShe said \"yes,\" reluctantly enough, but Mrs. Maitland did not detect\nthe reluctance; she was too pleased with herself at having thought of\nsome way of entertaining the girl.\n\n\"Get your bonnet on, get your bonnet on!\" she commanded, in high good\nhumor. And Nannie, quailing at the thought of the Works at night--\"it's\ndreadful enough in the daytime,\" she said to herself--put on her hat,\nin trembling obedience. \"Yes,\" Mrs. Maitland said, as she tramped down\nthe cinder path toward the mills, Nannie almost running at her\nheels--\"yes, the cast is a pretty sight, people say. Your brother once\nsaid that it ought to be painted. Well, I suppose there are people who\ncare for pictures,\" she said, incredulously. \"I know I'm $5,000 out of\npocket on account of a picture,\" she ended, with a grim chuckle.\n\nAs they were crossing the Yards, the cavernous glooms of the Works,\nunder the vast stretch of their sheet-iron roofs, were lighted for\ndazzling moments by the glow of molten metal and the sputtering roar of\nflames from the stacks; a network of narrow-gauge tracks spread about\nthem, and the noises from the mills were deafening. Nannie clutched\nnervously at Mrs. Maitland's arm, and her stepmother grunted with\namusement. \"Hold on to me,\" she shouted--she had to shout to make\nherself heard; \"there's nothing to hurt you. Why, I could walk around\nhere with my eyes shut!\"\n\nNannie clung to her frantically; if she protested, the soft flutter of\nher voice did not reach Mrs. Maitland's ears. A few steps farther\nbrought them into the comparative silence of the cast-house of the\nfurnace, and here they paused while Sarah Maitland spoke to one of the\nkeepers. Only the furnace itself was roofed; beyond it the stretch of\nmolded sand was arched by the serene and starlit night.\n\n\"That's the pig bed out there,\" Mrs. Maitland explained, kindly; \"see,\nNannie? Those cross-trenches in the sand they call sows; the little\nhollows on the side are the pigs. When they tap the furnace, the melted\niron will flow down into 'em; understand?\"\n\n\"Mamma, I'd--I'd like to go home,\" poor Nannie managed to say; \"it\nscares me!\"\n\nMrs. Maitland looked at her in astonishment. \"Scares you? What scares\nyou?\"\n\n\"It's so--dreadful,\" Nannie gasped.\n\n\"You don't suppose I'd bring you anywhere where you could get hurt?\"\nher stepmother said, incredulously. She was astonished to the point of\nbeing pained. How could Herbert's girl be such a fool? She remembered\nthat Blair used to call his sister the \"'fraid-cat.\" \"Good name,\" she\nthought, contemptuously. She made no allowance for the effect of this\nscene of night and fire, of stupendous shadows and crashing noises,\nupon a little bleached personality, which for all these years, had\nlived in the shadow of a nature so dominant and aggressive that, quite\nunconsciously, it sucked the color and the character out of any\ntemperament feebler than itself. Sarah Maitland frowned, and said\nroughly, \"Oh, you can go home, if you want to; Mr. Parks!\" she called\nto the foreman; \"just walk back to the house, if you please, with my\ndaughter;\" then she turned on her heel and went up to the furnace.\n\nNannie, clutching Parks's hand, stumbled out into the darkness. \"It's\nperfectly awful!\" she confided to the good-natured man, when he left\nher at her back door.\n\n\"Oh, you get used to it,\" he said, kindly. \"You'd 'a knowed,\" he told\none of his workmen afterward, \"that there wasn't hide nor hair of her\nthat belonged to the Old One. A slip of a thing, and scared to death of\nthe noise.\"\n\nThe \"Old One,\" after Nannie had gone, poked about for a moment or\ntwo,--\"she noses into things, to save two cents,\" her men used to say,\nwith reluctant admiration of the ruthless shrewdness that was instant\nto detect their shortcomings; then she went down the slight incline\nfrom the furnace hearth to the open stretch of molding-sand; there was\na pile of rusty scrap at one side, and here, in the soft April darkness\nunder the stars, she seated herself, looking absently at the furnace\nand the black, gnome-like figures of the helpers. She was thinking just\nwhat Parks had thought, that Nannie had none of her blood in her.\n\"Afraid!\" said Sarah Maitland. Well, Blair had never been afraid, she\nwould say that for him; he was a fool, and pig-headed, and a loafer;\nbut he wasn't a coward. He had even thought it fine, that scene of\npower, where civilization made itself before his very eyes! When would\nhe think it fine enough to come in and go to work? Come in, and take\nhis part in making civilization? Then she noticed the bending figure of\nthe keeper opening the notch of the furnace; instantly there was a roar\nof sparks, and a blinding white gush of molten iron flowing like water\ndown into the sand runner. The sudden, fierce illumination drowned the\nstars overhead, and brought into clear relief her own figure, sitting\nthere on the pile of scrap watching the flowing iron. Tiny blue flames\nof escaping gas danced and shimmered on its ineffable rippling\nbrightness, that cooled from dazzling snow to rose, then to crimson,\nand out in the sand, to glowing gray. Blair had called it \"beautiful.\"\nWell, it was a pretty sight! She wished she had told him that she\nherself thought it pretty; but the fact was, it had never struck her\nbefore. \"I suppose I don't notice pretty things very much,\" she\nthought, in some surprise. \"Well, I've never had time for foolishness.\nToo busy making money for Blair.\" She sighed; after all, he wasn't\ngoing to have the money. She had been heaping up riches, and had not\nknown who should gather them. She had been too busy to see pretty\nthings. And why? That orphan asylums and reformatories--and David\nRichie's hospital--should have a few extra thousands! A month ago the\nfund she was making for David had reached the limit she had set for it,\nand only to-day she had brought the bank certificate of deposit home\nwith her. She had felt a little glow of satisfaction when she locked it\ninto the safe in her desk; she liked the consciousness of a good job\nfinished. She was going to summon the youngster to Mercer, and tell him\nhow he was to administer the fund; and if he put on any of his airs and\ngraces about accepting money, she would shut him up mighty quick! \"I'll\nwrite him to-morrow, if I've time,\" she had said. At the moment, the\nsense of achievement had exhilarated her; yet now, as she sat there on\nthe heap of scrap, bending a pliant boring between her fingers, her\npillar of fire roaring overhead from the chimneys of the furnaces, the\nachievement seemed flat enough. Why should she, to build a hospital for\nanother woman's son, have worked so hard that she had never had time to\nnotice the things her own son called \"pretty\"? Not his china beetles,\nof course, or truck like that; but the shimmering flow of her iron,--or\neven that picture, for which she was out of pocket $5,000. \"I can see\nyou might call it pretty, if it hadn't cost so much,\" she admitted.\nYes, she had worked, she told herself, \"as hard as a man,\" to earn\nmoney for Blair!--only to make him idle and to have him say that thing\nabout her clothes which Goose Molly had said before he was born.\n\"Wonder if I've been a fool?\" she ruminated.\n\nIt was at that moment that she noticed, at one side of the furnace,\nbetween two bricks of the hearth, a little puff of white vapor;\ninstantly she leaped, shouting, to her feet. But it was too late. The\nmolten iron, seeping down through some crack in the furnace, creeping,\ncreeping, beneath the bricks of the pavement, had reached some\nmoisture...The explosion, the clouds of scalding steam, the terror of\nthe flowing, scattering fire, drowned her voice and hid her frantic\ngestures of warning....\n\n\"Killed?\" she said, furiously, as some one helped her up from the\nscrap-heap against which she had been hurled; \"of course not! I don't\nget killed.\" Then suddenly the appalling confusion was dominated by her\nvoice:\n\n\"_Look after those men._\"\n\nShe stood there in the center of the horror, reeling a little once or\ntwice, holding her skirt up over her left arm, and shouting her quick\norders. \"Hurt?\" she said again to a questioning helper. \"I don't know.\nI haven't time to find out. That man there is alive! Get a doctor!\" She\ndid not leave the Works until two badly burned men had been carried\naway, and two dead bodies lifted out of the reek of steam and the\nspatter of half-chilled metal. Then, still holding her skirt over her\narm, she went alone, in the darkness, up the path to her back door.\n\n\"No! I don't want anybody to go home with me,\" she said, angrily; \"look\nafter things here. Notify Mr. Ferguson. I'll come back.\" When she\nbanged open her own door, she had only one question:\n\"Is--Nannie--all--right?\" Harris, gaping with dismay, and stammering,\n\"My goodness! yes'm; yes'm!\" followed her to the dining-room, where she\ncrashed down like a felled tree, and lay unconscious on the floor.\n\nWhen she began to come to herself, a doctor, for whom Harris had fled,\nwas binding up her torn arm, which, covered with blood, and black with\ngrit and rust, was an ugly sight. \"Where's Blair?\" she said, thickly;\nthen came entirely to her senses, and demanded, sharply, \"Nannie all\nright?\" Reassured again on this point, she looked frowningly at the\ndoctor. \"Come, hurry! I want to get back to the Works.\"\n\n\"Back to the Works! To-night? Impossible! You mustn't think of such a\nthing,\" the young man protested. Mrs. Maitland looked at him, and he\nshifted from one foot to the other. \"It--it won't do, really,\" he said,\nweakly; \"that was a pretty bad knock you got on the back of your head,\nand your arm--\"\n\n\"Young man,\" she said, \"you patch this up, _quick_. I've got to see to\nmy men. That's my business. You 'tend to yours.\"\n\n\"But my business is to keep you here,\" he told her, essaying to be\nhumorous. His humor went out like a little candle in the wind: \"Your\nbusiness is to put on bandages. That's all I pay you for.\"\n\nAnd the doctor put on bandages with expedition. In the front hall he\nspoke to Nannie. \"Your mother has a very bad arm, Miss Maitland; and\nthat violent blow on her head may have done damage. I can't tell yet.\nYou must make her keep still.\"\n\n\"_Make!_--Mamma?\" said Nannie.\n\n\"She says she's going over to the Works,\" said the doctor, shrugging\nhis shoulders; \"when she comes home, get her to bed as quickly as you\ncan. I'll come in and see her in the morning, if she wants me. But if\nshe won't do what I say about keeping quiet, I'd rather you called in\nother advice.\" When Nannie tried to \"make Mamma\" keep still, the only\nreply she received was: \"You showed your sense in going home, my dear!\"\nAnd off she went, Harris, at Nannie's instigation, lurking along behind\nher. \"If Herbert's girl had been hurt!\" she said, aloud, staggering a\nlittle as she walked, \"my God, what would I have done?\"\n\nAfterward, they said it was astounding that she had been able to go\nback to the Works that night. She must have been in very intense pain.\nWhen she came home, the pain conquered to the extent of sending her, at\nmidnight, up to her stepdaughter's room; she was red with fever, and\nher eyes were glassy. \"Got any laudanum, or stuff of that kind?\" she\ndemanded. And yet the next day, when the bandages had been changed and\nthere was some slight relief, she persisted in going to the Works\nagain. But the third day she gave up, and attended to her business in\nthe dining-room.\n\n\"If only Blair would come home,\" Nannie said, \"I think, perhaps, she\nwould be nice to him. Haven't you any idea where he is, Elizabeth?\"\n\n\"Not the slightest,\" Elizabeth said, indifferently. She herself came\nevery day, and performed what small personal services Mrs. Maitland\nwould permit. Nannie did not amount to much as a nurse, but she was\nreally helpful in writing letters, signing them so exactly in Sarah\nMaitland's hand that her stepmother was greatly diverted at her\nproficiency. \"I shall have to look after my check-book,\" she said, with\na chuckle.\n\nIt was not until a week later that they began to be alarmed. It was\nHarris who first discovered the seriousness of her condition; when he\ndid, the knowledge came like a blow to her household and her office. It\nwas late in the afternoon. Earlier in the day she had had a violent\nchill, during which she sat crouching and cowering over the dining-room\nfire, refusing to go to bed, and in a temper that scared Nannie and\nHarris almost to death. When the chill ceased, she went, flushed with\nfever, to her own room, saying she was \"all right,\" and banging the\ndoor behind her. At about six, when Harris knocked to say that supper\nwas ready, she came out, holding the old German cologne bottle in her\nhand. \"_He_ gave me that,\" she said, and fondled the bottle against her\ncheek; then, suddenly she pushed it into Harris's face. \"Kiss it!\" she\ncommanded, and giggled shrilly.\n\nHarris jumped back with a screech. _\"Gor!\"_ he said; and his knees hit\ntogether. The slender green bottle fell smashing to the floor. Mrs.\nMaitland started, and caught her breath; her mind cleared instantly.\n\n\"Clean up that mess. The smell of the cologne takes my breath away.\nI--I didn't know I had it in my hand.\"\n\nThat night Elizabeth sent a peremptory letter into space, telling Blair\nthat his mother was seriously ill, and he really ought to be at home.\nBut he had left the hotel to which she sent it, without giving any\naddress, so it lay in a dusty pigeonhole awaiting his return a week\nlater.\n\nThe delirium came again the next day; then Sarah Maitland cried,\nbecause, she said, Nannie had hidden the Noah's ark; \"and Blair and I\nwant to play with it,\" she whined. But a moment afterward she looked at\nher stepdaughter with kind eyes, and said, as she had said a dozen\ntimes in the last ten days, \"Lucky you went home that night, my dear.\"\n\nOf course by this time the alarm was general. The young doctor was\nsupported, at Robert Ferguson's insistence, by an old doctor, who, if\nhe was awed by his patient, at least did not show it. He was even\ncourageous enough to bring a nurse along with him.\n\n\"Miss Baker will spare your daughter,\" he said, soothingly, when Sarah\nMaitland, seeing the strange figure in her bedroom, had declared she\nwouldn't have a fussing woman about. \"Miss Nannie needs help,\" the\ndoctor said. Mrs. Maitland frowned, and yielded.\n\nBut the nurse did not have a good time. In her stiffly starched skirt,\nwith her little cap perched on her head, she went fluttering prettily\nabout, watched all the while by the somber, half-shut eyes. She moved\nthe furniture, she dusted the bureau, she arranged the little row of\nphotographs; and then she essayed to smooth Mrs. Maitland's hair--it\nwas the last straw. The big, gray head began to lift slowly; a\ntrembling finger pointed at the girl; there was only one word:\n\n\"_Stop_.\"\n\nThe startled nurse stopped,--so abruptly that she almost lost her\nbalance.\n\n\"Clear out. You can sit in the hall. When I want you, I'll let you\nknow.\"\n\nMiss Baker fled, and Mrs. Maitland apparently forgot her. When the\ndoctor came, however, she roused herself to say: \"I won't have that\nfool girl buzzing round. I don't like all this highfalootin' business\nof nurses, anyhow. They are nothing but foolish expense.\" Perhaps that\nlast word stirred some memory, for she added abruptly: \"Nannie, bring\nme that--that picture you have in the parlor. The Virgin Mary, you\nknow. Rags of popery, but I want to look at it. No; I can't pay $5,000\nfor 14 X 18 inches of old master, and hire nurses to curl my hair,\ntoo!\" But nobody smiled at her joke.\n\nWhen Nannie brought the picture, she bade her put it on a chair by the\nbedside, and sometimes the two girls saw her look at it intently. \"I\nthink she likes the child,\" Elizabeth said, in a low voice; but Nannie\nsighed, and said, \"No; she is provoked because Blair was extravagant.\"\nAfter Miss Baker's banishment, Elizabeth did most of the waiting on\nher, for Nannie's anxious timidity made her awkward to the point of\nbeing, as Mrs. Maitland expressed it, wearily, \"more bother than she\nwas worth.\" Once she asked where Blair was, and Elizabeth said that\nnobody knew. \"He heard of some business opening, Mrs. Maitland, and\nwent East to see about it.\"\n\n\"Went East? What did he go East for? He's got a business opening at\nhome, right under his nose,\" she said, thickly.\n\nAfter that she did not ask for him. But from her bed in her own room\nshe could see the dining-room door, and she lay there watching it, with\nexpectation smoldering in her half-shut eyes. Once, furtively, when no\none was looking, she lifted the hem of the sheet with her fumbling\nright hand and wiped her eyes. For the next few days she gained, and\nlost, and gained again. There were recurrent periods of lucidity,\nfollowed by the terrible childishness that had been the first\nindication of her condition. At the end of the next week she suddenly\nsaid, in a loud voice, \"I won't stay in bed!\" And despite Nannie's\npleadings, and Miss Baker's agitated flutterings, she got up, and\nshuffled into the dining-room; she stood there, clutching with her\nuninjured hand a gray blanket that was huddled around her shoulders.\nHer hair was hanging in limp, disordered locks about her face, which\nhad fallen away to the point of emaciation. She was leaning against the\ntable, her knees shaking with weakness. But it was evident that her\nmind was quite clear. \"Bed is a place to die in,\" she said; \"I'm well.\nLet me alone. I shall stay here.\" She managed to get over to her desk,\nand sank into the revolving chair with a sigh of relief. \"Ah!\" she\nsaid, \"I'm getting out of the woods. Harris! Bring me something to\neat.\" But when the food was put before her, she could not touch it.\n\nRobert Ferguson, who almost lived at the Maitland house that week, told\nher, soothingly, that she really ought to go back to bed, at which she\nlaughed with rough goodnature. \"Don't talk baby-talk. I'm getting well.\nBut I've been sick; I've had a scare; so I'm going to write a letter,\nin case--Or here, you write it for me.\"\n\n\"To Blair?\" he said, as he took his pen out of his pocket.\n\n\"Blair? No! To David Richie about that money. Don't you remember I told\nyou I was going to give him a lot of money for a hospital? That I was\ngoing to get a certificate of deposit\"--her voice wavered and she\nseemed to doze. A moment later, when her mind cleared again, her\nsuperintendent said, with some effort: \"Aren't you going to do\nsomething for Blair? You will get well, I'm sure, but--in case--Your\nwill isn't fair to the boy; you ought to do something for him.\"\n\nInstantly she was alert: \"I have. I've done the best thing in the world\nfor him; I've thrown him on his own legs! As for getting well, of\ncourse I'm going to get well. But if I didn't, everything is closed up;\nmy will's made; Blair is sure of poverty. Well; I guess I won't have\nyou write to David to-day; I'm tired. When I'm out again, I'll tell\nHowe to draw up a paper telling him just what the duties of a trustee\nare.... Why don't you ... why don't you marry his mother, and be done\nwith it? I hate to see a man and woman shilly-shally.\"\n\n\"She won't have me,\" he said, good-naturedly; in his anxiety he was\nwilling to let her talk of anything, merely to amuse her.\n\n\"Well, she's a nice woman,\" Sarah Maitland said; \"and a good woman; I\nwas afraid _you_ were doing the shilly-shallying. And any man who would\nhesitate to take her, isn't fit to black her boots. Friend Ferguson, I\nhave a contempt for a man who is more particular than his Creator.\"\nRobert Ferguson wondered what she was driving at, but he would not\nbother her by a question.\n\n\"What was that I used to say about her?\" the sick woman ruminated, with\nclosed eyes; \"'fair and--What was it? Forty? No, that wasn't it.\"\n\n\"Fifty,\" he suggested, smiling.\n\nShe shook her head peevishly. \"No, that wasn't it. 'Fair, and,\nand'--what was it? It puts me out of patience to forget things! 'Fair\nand--_frail_!' That was it; frail! 'Fair and frail.'\" She did not pause\nfor her superintendent's gasp of protest. \"Yes; first time I saw her, I\nthought there was a nigger in the woodpile. She won't marry you, friend\nFerguson, because she has something on her conscience. Tell her I say\nnot to be a fool. The best man going is none too good for her!\"\n\nRobert Ferguson's heart gave a violent plunge in his breast, but before\nhis angry denial could reach her brain, her thought had wandered. \"No!\nno! no! I won't go to bed. Bed is where people die.\" She got up from\nher chair, to walk about and show how well she was; but when she\nreached the center of the room she seemed to crumple up, sinking and\nsliding down on to the floor, her back against one of the carved legs\nof the table. Once there, she would not get up. She became so violently\nangry when they urged her to let them help her to her feet, that they\nwere obliged to yield. \"We will do more harm by irritating her,\" the\ndoctor said, \"than any good we could accomplish by putting her back to\nbed forcibly.\" So they put cushions behind her, and there she sat,\nstaring with dim, expectant eyes at the dining room door; sometimes\nspeaking with stoical endurance, intelligently enough; sometimes, when\ndelirious, whimpering with the pain of that terrible arm, swollen now\nto a monstrous mass of agony.\n\nLate in the afternoon she said she wanted to see '\"that picture\"; and\nElizabeth knelt beside her, holding the little dark canvas so that she\ncould look at it; she sat staring into it for a long time. \"Mary didn't\ntry to keep her baby from the cross,\" she said, suddenly; \"well, I've\ndone better than that; I brought the cross to my baby.\" Her face fell\ninto wonderfully peaceful lines. Just at dusk she tried to sing.\n\n    \"'Drink to me only with thine eyes'\"\n\nshe quavered; \"my boy sings that beautifully. I must give him a\npresent. A check. I must give him a check.\"\n\nBut when Nannie said, eagerly, \"Blair has written Elizabeth that he\nwill be at home to-morrow; I'll tell him you want to see him; and oh,\nMamma, won't you please be nice to him?\"--she looked perfectly blank.\nToward morning she sat silently for a whole hour sucking her thumb.\nWhen, abruptly, she came to herself and realized what she had been\ndoing, the shamed color rose in her face. Nannie, kneeling at her side,\ncaught at the flicker of intelligence to say, \"Mamma, would you like to\nsee the Rev. Mr. Gore? He is here; waiting in the parlor. Sha'n't I\nbring him in?\"\n\nMrs. Maitland frowned. \"What does he come for now? I'm sick. I can't\nsee people. Besides, I sent him a check for Foreign Missions last\nmonth.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mamma!\" Nannie said, brokenly, \"he hasn't come for money; I--I\nsent for him.\"\n\nSarah Maitland's eyes suddenly opened; her mind cleared instantly.\n\"Oh,\" she said; and then, slowly: \"Um-m; I see.\" She seemed to meditate\na moment; then she said, gravely: \"No, my dear, no; I won't see little\nGore. He's a good little man; a very good little man for missions and\nthat sort of thing. But when it comes to _this_--\" she paused; \"I\nhaven't time to see to him,\" she said, soberly. A minute later,\nnoticing Nannie's tears, she tried to cheer her: \"Come, come! don't be\ntroubled,\" she said, smiling kindly, \"I can paddle my own canoe, my\ndear.\" After that she was herself for nearly half an hour. Once she\nsaid. \"My house is in order, friend Ferguson.\" Then she lost herself\nagain. To those who watched her, huddled on the heap of cushions,\nmumbling and whimpering, or with a jerk righting her mind into stony\nendurance, she seemed like a great tower falling and crumbling in upon\nitself. At that last dreadful touch of decay, when she put her thumb in\nher mouth like a baby, her stepdaughter nearly fainted.\n\nAll that night the mists gathered, and thinned, and gathered again. In\nthe morning, still lying on the floor, propped against all the pillows\nand cushions of the house, she suddenly looked with clear eyes at\nNannie.\n\n\"Why!\" she said, in her own voice, and frowning sharply, \"that\ncertificate of deposit! I got it from the Bank the day of the accident,\nbut I haven't indorsed it! Lucky I've got it here in the house. Bring\nit to me. It's in the safe in my desk. Take my keys.\"\n\nNannie, who for the moment was alone with her, found the key, and\nopening the little iron door in the desk, brought the certificate and a\npen dipped in ink; but even in those few moments of preparation, the\nmist had begun to settle again: \"I told the cashier it was a present I\nwas going to make,\" she chuckled to herself; \"said _he'd_ like to get a\npresent like that. I reckon he would. Reckon anybody would.\" Her voice\nlapsed into incoherent murmurings, and Nannie had to speak to her twice\nbefore her eyes were intelligent again; then she took the pen and\nwrote, her lips faintly mumbling: \"Pay to the order of--what's the\ndate?\" she said, dully, her eyes almost shut. \"Never mind; I don't have\nto date it. But I was thinking: Blair gave me a calendar when he was a\nlittle boy. Blair--Blair--\" And as she spoke his name, she wrote it:\n\"_Blair Maitland_.\" But just as she did so, her mind cleared, and she\nsaw what she had written. \"Blair Maitland?\" she said, and smiled and\nshook her head. \"Oh, I've written that name too many times. Too many\ntimes. Got the habit.\" She lifted her pen heavily, perhaps to draw it\nthrough the name, but her hand sagged.\n\n\"Aren't you going to sign it, Mamma?\" Nannie asked, breathlessly; and\nher stepmother turned faintly surprised eyes upon her. Nannie, kneeling\nbeside her, urged again: \"Mamma, you want to give it to Blair! Try, do\ntry--\" But she did not hear her.\n\nAt noon that day, through the fogged and clogging senses, there was\nanother outburst of the soul. They had been trying to give her some\nmedicine, and each time she had refused it, moving her head back and\nside-wise, and clenching her teeth against the spoon. Over and over the\nstimulant was urged and forced upon her; when suddenly her eyes flashed\nopen and she looked at them with the old power that had made people\nobey her all her life. The mind had been insulted by its body beyond\nendurance; she lifted her big right hand and struck the spoon from the\ndoctor's fingers: \"_I have the right to die_.\"\n\nThen the flame fluttered down again into the ashes.\n\nWhen Blair reached the house that afternoon, she was unconscious. Once,\nat a stab of pain, she burst out crying with fretful wildness; and once\nshe put her thumb into her mouth.\n\nAt six o'clock that night she died.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nWhen the doctor came to tell Nannie that Sarah Maitland was dead, he\nfound her in the parlor, shivering up against her brother. Blair had\ncome to his mother's house early that afternoon; a note from Elizabeth,\nawaiting him at the River House, had told him of the gravity of Mrs.\nMaitland's condition, and bidden him \"come instantly.\" As he read it,\nhis face grew tense. \"Of course I must go,\" he said; but there was no\nsoftening in his eyes. In all these months, in which his mother's\ndetermination had shown no weakening, his anger had deepened into the\nbitterest animosity. Yet curiously enough, though he hated her more, he\ndisliked her less. Perhaps because he thought of her as a Force rather\nthan as a mother; a power he was fighting--force against force! And the\nmere sense of the grapple gave him a feeling of equality with her which\nhe had never had. Or it may have been merely that his eyes and ears did\nnot suffer constant offense from her peculiarities. He had not\nforgotten the squalor of the peculiarities, but they did not strike him\ndaily in the face, so hate was not made poignant by disgust. But\nneither was it lessened by the possibility of her death.\n\n\"I wonder if she has changed her will?\" he said to himself, with fierce\ncuriosity. But whether she had done so or not, propriety demanded his\npresence in her house if she were dying. As for anything more than\npropriety,--well, if by destroying her iniquitous will she had showed\nproper maternal affection, he would show proper filial solicitude. It\nstruck him, as he stepped into a carriage to drive down to Shanty town,\nthat such an attitude of mind on his part was pathetic for them both.\n\"She never cared for me,\" he thought; and he knew he had never cared\nfor her. Yes, it was pathetic; if he could have had for a mother such a\nwoman as--he frowned; he would not name David Richie's mother even in\nhis thoughts. But if he could have had a gentle and gracious woman for\na mother, how he would have loved her! He had always been motherless,\nhe thought; it was not today which would make him so. Still, it was\nstrangely shaking, this idea of her death. When Nannie came into the\nparlor to greet him, he was silent while she told him, shivering and\ncrying, the story of the last two weeks.\n\n\"She hasn't been conscious since noon,\" she ended, \"but she may call\nfor you; and oh, if she does. Blair, you will be lovely to her, won't\nyou?\"\n\nHis grave silence seemed an assent.\n\n\"Will you go in and see her?\" she said, weeping. But Blair, with the\npicture she had given him of that awful figure lying on the floor,\nshook his head.\n\n\"I will wait here.--I could not bear to see it,\" he added, shuddering.\n\n\"Elizabeth is with her,\" Nannie said, \"so I'll stay a little while with\nyou. I don't believe it will be before morning.\"\n\nNow and then they spoke in whispers; but for the most part they were\nsilent, listening to certain sinister sounds that came from the room\nacross the hall.\n\nIt was a warm May twilight; above the gaunt outline of the foundry, the\ndim sickle of a young moon hung in a daffodil sky; the river, running\nblack between banks of slag and cinders, caught the sheen of gold and\nwas transfigured into glass mingled with fire. Through the open\nwindows, the odor of white lilacs and the acrid sweetness of the\nblossoming plum-tree, floated into the room. The gas was not lighted;\nsometimes the pulsating flames, roaring out sidewise from under the\nhalf-shut dampers of the great chimneys, lighted the dusk with a red\nglare, and showed Blair's face set in new lines. He had never been so\nnear the great Reality before; never been in a house where, on the\nthreshold, Death was standing; his personal affairs, angers or\nanxieties, dropped out of his mind. So sitting and listening and not\nspeaking, the doctor found them.\n\n\"She has gone,\" he said, solemnly. Nannie began to cry; Blair stood up,\nthen walked to the window and looked out at the Yards. _Dead?_ For a\nmoment the word had no meaning. Then, abruptly, the old, elemental\nmeaning struck him like a blow; that meaning which the animal in us\nknows, before we know the acquired meanings which grief and faith have\nput into the word: his mother \"was not.\" It was incredible! He gasped\nas he stood at the window, looking out over the blossoming lilacs at\nthe Works, black against a fading saffron sky. Ten minutes ago his\nmother was in the other room, owning those Works; now--? The sheer\nimpossibility of imagining the cessation of such a personality filled\nhim with an extraordinary dismay. He was conscious of a bewildered\ninability to believe what had been said to him.\n\nMr. Ferguson, who had been with Sarah Maitland when the end came,\nfollowed the doctor into the parlor; but neither he nor Blair\nremembered personalities. They stood together now, listening to what\nthe doctor was saying; Blair, still dazed and unbelieving, put his arm\nround Nannie and said, \"Don't cry, dear; Mr. Ferguson, tell her not to\ncry!\" And the older man said, \"Make her sit down, Blair; she looks a\nlittle white.\" Both of them had forgotten individual resentments or\nembarrassments.\n\nWhen some people die, it is as if a candle flame were gently blown out;\nbut when, on the other side of the hall, this big woman lay dead on the\nfloor, it seemed to the people who stood by as if the whole machinery\nof life had stopped. It was so absorbing in its astonishment that\neverything else became simple. Even when Elizabeth entered, and came to\nput her arms around Nannie, Blair hardly noticed her. As the doctor and\nRobert Ferguson spoke together in low tones, of terrible things they\ncalled \"arrangements,\" Sarah Maitland's son listened, and tried to make\nhimself understand that they were talking of--his mother!\n\n\"I shall stay until everything has been done,\" Mr. Ferguson said, after\nthe doctor left them. \"Blair, you and Elizabeth will be here, of\ncourse, to-night? Or else I'll stay. Nannie mustn't be alone.\"\n\nBlair nodded. \"Of course,\" he said. At which Nannie, who had been\ncrying softly to herself, suddenly looked up.\n\n\"I would rather be by myself. I don't want any one here. Please go home\nwith Elizabeth, Blair. Please!\"\n\n\"But Nannie dear, I want to stay,\" Blair began, gently; she interrupted\nhim, almost hysterically:\n\n\"No! _Please!_ It troubles me. I would rather you didn't. I--I want to\nbe alone.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Blair said, vaguely; he was too dazed to protest.\n\nRobert Ferguson yielded too, though with a little surprise at her\nvehemence. Then he turned to Blair; \"I'll give you some telegrams that\nmust be sent,\" he said, in the old friendly voice. It was only when he\nwrote a despatch to David's mother that the world was suddenly adjusted\nto its old levels of anger and contempt. \"I'll send this myself,\" he\nsaid, coldly. Blair, with instant intuition, replied as coldly, \"Oh,\nvery well.\"\n\nHe and Elizabeth went back to the hotel in silence, each deeply shaken\nby the mere physical fact of death. When they reached the gloomy\ngranite columns of the old River House, Blair left his wife, saying\nbriefly something about \"walking for a while.\" He wanted to be alone.\nThis was not because he felt any lack of sympathy in Elizabeth; on the\ncontrary, he was nearer to her than at any time since their marriage;\nbut it was a moment that demanded solitude. So he wandered about\nMercer's streets by himself until after midnight--down to the old\ncovered bridge, past Mrs. Todd's ice-cream saloon, out into the\ncountry, where the wind was rising, and the tree-tops had begun to sway\nagainst the sky.\n\nThere is a bond, it appears, between mother and child which endures as\nlong as they do. It is independent of love; reason cannot weaken it;\nhate cannot destroy it. When a man's mother dies, something in the man\ndies, too. Blair Maitland, walking aimlessly about in the windy May\nmidnight, standing on the bridge watching the slipping twinkle of a\nstar in the inky ripples below him, was vaguely conscious of this. He\nthought, with a reluctance that was almost repulsion, of her will. He\ndid not want to think of it, it was not fitting! Yet he knew, back in\nhis mind, that within a few days, as soon as decency permitted, he\nwould take the necessary steps to contest it. Nor did he think\ndefinitely of her; certainly not of all the unbeautiful things about\nher, those acute, incessant trivialities of ugliness which had been a\nveil between them all his life. Now, the veil was rent, and behind it\nwas a holy of holies,--the inviolable relation of the child and the\nmother. It was of this that he thought, inarticulately, as he stood on\nthe bridge, listening to the rush of the wind; this, and the bare and\nunbelievable fact that she \"was not.\" As he struggled to realize her\ndeath, he was aware of a curious uneasiness that was almost fright.\n\nWhen he came to Nannie the next morning, he was still deeply absorbed;\nand when she put something into his hands and said it was from his\nmother, he suddenly wept.\n\n    * * * * *\n\nThey had respected Nannie's desire to be alone that night, but it was\nnearly twelve before she was really left to herself, and the house was\nsilent. Robert Ferguson had made her go up-stairs to bed, and bidden\nthe worn-out nurse sleep in the room next to her so that she would not\nbe so entirely solitary. He himself did not go home until those soft\nand alien footsteps that cross our thresholds, and dare as business the\noffices that Love may not essay, had at last died away. Nannie, in her\nbedroom, sat wide-eyed, listening for those footsteps. Once she said to\nherself: \"When _they_ have gone--\" and her heart pounded in her throat.\nAt last \"they\" went; she heard the front door close; then, out in the\nstreet, another door banged softly; after that there was the sound of\nwheels.\n\n\"Now!\" she said to herself. But still she did not move.... Was the\nnurse asleep? Was Harris up in his room in the garret? Was there any\none downstairs--except Death? Death in Mrs. Maitland's bedroom. \"For\nGod's sake, _lock her door!_\" Harris had said. And they locked it. We\ngenerally lock it. Heaven knows why! Why do we turn the key on that\npoor, broken, peaceful thing, as if it might storm out in the night,\nand carry us back with it into its own silence?\n\nIt was almost dawn--the high spring dawn that in May flushes even\nMercer's skies at three o'clock in the morning, when, lamp in hand,\nNannie Maitland opened her bedroom door and peered into the upper hall.\nOutside, the wind, which had begun to blow at sunset, was roaring\naround the old house; it rumbled in the chimneys, and a sudden gust\ntore at a loose shutter, and sent it banging back against the bricks.\nBut in the house everything was still. The window over the front door\nwas an arch of glimmering gray barred by the lines of the casement; but\ntoward the well of the staircase there was nothing but darkness. Nannie\nput a hesitating foot across her own threshold, paused, then came\ngliding out into the hall; at the head of the stairs she looked down\ninto a gulf of still blackness; the close, warm air of the house seemed\nto press against her face. She listened intently: no sound, except the\nmuttering indifference of the wind about the house. Slowly, step by\nstep, shivering and shrinking, she began to creep down-stairs. At the\nclosed door of the dining-room--next to that other room which Harris\nhad bidden them lock up; she stood for a long time, her fingers\ntrembling on the knob; her lamp, shaking in her hand, cast a nimbus of\nlight around her small gray figure. It seemed to her as if she could\nnot turn that knob. Then, with gasp of effort, it was done, and she\nentered. Her first look was at that place on the floor, where for the\nlast two days the pillows had been piled. The pillows were not there\nnow; the room was in new, bleak order. Instantly, after that shrinking\nglance at the floor, she looked toward Mrs. Maitland's room, and her\nhand went to her throat as if she could not breathe. A moment afterward\nshe began to creep across the floor, one terrified step dragging after\nanother; she walked sidewise, always keeping her head turned toward\nthat silent room. Just as she reached the big desk, the wind, sucking\nunder the locked door, shook it with sly insinuation;--instantly she\nwheeled about, and stood, swaying with fright, her back against the\ndesk. She stood there, panting, for a full minute. The terror of that\nfurtively shaken door was agonizing. Then, very slowly, with a sidewise\nmotion so that she could look toward the room, she put her lamp down on\nthe top of the desk, and began, with constant bird-like glances over\nher shoulder, to search.... Yes; there it was! just where she herself\nhad put it, slipped between the pages of a memorandum-book, so that if,\nin another gleam of consciousness, Blair's mother should ask for it,\nthere need be no delay in getting it. When her fingers closed on it,\nshe turned, swiftly, so that the room might not be behind her. Always\nwatching the locked door, she groped for pen and ink and some sheets of\npaper, which she carried over to the table. Then she drew up a chair,\nfolded back the sleeves of her wrapper, propped the\nmemorandum-book--which had on the inside page the flowing signature of\nits owner--open before her. Then, slowly and steadily, she began to do\nthe thing she had come to do. Instantly she was calmer. When a great\ngust of wind rumbled suddenly in the chimney, and a wraith of ashes\nblew out of the fireplace, she did not even raise her eyes; but once\nshe looked over toward the room, and smiled, as if to say \"It is all\nright. I am making it all right!\"\n\nIt took her a long time, this business that would make it \"all right,\"\nthis business that brought her, a creature who all her life had been\nafraid of her own shadow, creeping down to the dining-room, creeping\npast the room into which Death had been locked, creeping over to the\ndesk, to that unsigned indorsement which had been meant for Blair! It\ntook a long time. Sheet after sheet of paper was scrawled over, held up\nbeside the name in the notebook, then tossed into the empty grate. At\nlast she did it:\n\n    _Sarah Maitland_\n\nWhen she had finished, her relief, in having done what she could to\ncarry out the purpose of the dying hand, was so great that she was\nable, without once looking over her shoulder, to put the pen and ink\nback into the desk and set a match to the papers in the fireplace.\nIndeed, as she took up her lamp to creep up-stairs again, she even\nstopped and touched the knob of the locked door with a sort of caress.\n\nBut when, with a last breathless rush across the upper hall, she\nregained her own room, she bolted her door with furious panic-stricken\nhands, then sank, almost fainting, upon her bed.\n\n[Illustration: SHE WHEELED ABOUT AND STOOD, SWAYING WITH FRIGHT]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nThe Maitland Works were still. High in the dusty gloom of the foundry,\na finger of sunshine pointing down from a grimy window touched the cold\nlip of a cupola and traveled noiselessly over rows of empty molds upon\nthe blackened floor. The cast-house was silent. The Yards were\ndeserted. The pillar of fire was out; the pillar of smoke had faded\naway.\n\nIn the darkened parlor of her great house, Sarah Maitland was still,\ntoo. Lines of sunshine fell between the bowed shutters, and across them\nwavering motes swam noiselessly from gloom to gloom. The marble\nserenities of death were without sound; the beautiful, powerless hands\nwere empty, even of the soft futility of flowers; some one had placed\nlilies-of-the-valley in them, but her son, with new, inarticulate\nappreciation, lifted them and took them away. The only sound that broke\nthe dusky stillness of the room was the subdued brush of black\ngarments, or an occasional sigh, or the rustle of a furtively turned\npage of a hymn-book. Except when, standing shoulder to shoulder in the\nhall, her business associates, with hats held decorously before\nwhispering lips, spoke to each other of her power and her money,--who\nnow had neither money nor power,--the house was profoundly still. Then,\nsuddenly, from the head of the stairs, a Voice fell into the quietness:\n\n_\"Lord, let me know mine end and the number of my days, that I may be\ncertified how long I have to live. When thou with rebukes dost chasten\nman for sin, thou makest his beauty to consume away, like as it were a\nmoth fretting a garment: every man, therefore, is vanity. For man\nwalketh in a vain show, and disquieteth--\"_ the engine of a passing\nfreight coughed, and a cloud of smoke billowed against the windows; the\nstrips of sunshine falling between the shutters were blotted out; came\nagain--went again. Over and over the raucous running jolt of backing\ncars, the rattling bump of sudden breaks, swallowed up the voice,\ndeclaring the eternal silence: \". . . _glory of the celestial is one,\nand the glory of the terrestrial is . . . of the sun, and another glory\nof the moon, for one star differeth from . . . Dust to dust, ashes to\nashes_ . . .\"\n\nOut in the street the shadow of her house fell across the meager\ndooryard, where, on its blackened stems, the pyrus japonica showed some\nscattered blood-red blossoms; it fell over Shantytown, that packed the\nsidewalk and stared from dingy doors and windows; it fell on her men,\nstanding in unrebuked idleness, their lowered voices a mutter of energy\nheld, for this waiting moment, in leash. A boy who had climbed up the\nlamp-post announced shrilly that \"It\" was coming. Some girls, pressing\nagainst the rusted iron spears of the fence, and sagging under the\nweight of babies almost as big as themselves, called across the street\nto their mothers, \"Here she is!\"\n\nAnd so she came. No squalor of her surroundings could mar the pomp of\nher approach. The rumble of her men's voices ceased before it;\nShantytown fell silent. Out from between the marble columns of her\ndoorway, out from under the twisted garland of wistaria murmurous with\nbees, down the curving steps, along the path to the crowded, curious\nsidewalk, she came. Out of the turmoil and the hurry of her life, out\nof her triumphs and arrogances and ambitions, out of her careless\ngenerosities and her extraordinary successes, she came. And following\nher, with uncovered head, came the sign and symbol of her failure--her\nonly son.\n\nUp-stairs, in the front hall, standing a little back from the wide\narched window, Nannie,--forbidden by the doctor, because of her\nfatigue, to go to the grave; and Elizabeth and Miss White, who would\nnot leave her alone,--looked down on the slowly moving crowd. When\nSarah Maitland's men closed in behind her, nearly a thousand strong,\nand the people in twos and threes began to file out of the house,\nNannie noiselessly turned a slat of the Venetian blind. Why! there were\nthose Maitlands from the North End. \"I didn't suppose they remembered\nour existence,\" she said, her breath still catching in a sob; \"and\nthere are the Knights,\" she whispered to Elizabeth. \"Do you see old\nMrs. Knight? I don't believe she's been to call on Mamma for ten years.\nI never supposed she'd come.\"\n\nMiss White, wiping her eyes as she peered furtively through the blinds,\nsaid in a whisper that there was So-and-so, and that such and such a\nperson was evidently going out to the cemetery. \"Mrs. Knight is\ndreadfully lame, isn't she?\" Nannie said. \"Poor Mamma always called her\nGoose Molly. It was nice in her to come, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"Nannie,\" some one said, softly. And turning, she saw Mrs. Richie. \"I\ncame on last night, Nannie dear. She was a good, kind friend to me. And\nDavid is here, too. He hopes you will feel like seeing him. He was very\nfond of her.\" Then she looked at Elizabeth: \"How do you do? How is\nBlair?\" she said, calmly.\n\nThe moment was tense, yet of the four women, Elizabeth felt it least.\nDavid was in the house! She could not feel anything else.\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Richie--poor Mamma!\" Nannie said; and with Mrs. Richie's kind\narm about her, she retreated to her own room.\n\nMiss White went hurrying down-stairs--Elizabeth knew why! As for her,\nshe stood there in the empty hall, quite alone. She heard the carriage\ndoors closing out in the street, the sound of horses' feet, the drag of\nwheels--even the subdued murmur of Shantytown looking on at the show....\nDavid was in the house.\n\nShe went to the end of the hall and stood leaning over the banisters;\nshe could hear Miss White's flurried voice; then, suddenly, he spoke.\nIt was only some grave word,--she did not catch the sense of it, but\nthe sound--the sound of his voice! It turned her dizzy. Before she knew\nit she sank down on the top step of the stairs, her head against the\nbanisters. She sat there, her face haggard with unshed tears, until\nMrs. Richie came out of Nannie's room and found her. It was then that\nDavid's mother, who thought she had done her best in the courteous\ncommonplace of how-do-you-do--suddenly did better; she stooped down and\nkissed Elizabeth's cheek.\n\n\"You poor child!\" she said; \"oh, you _poor_ child!\" The pity of the\nslender, crouching figure touched even Helena Richie's heart,--that\nheart of passionate and resentful maternity; so she was able to kiss\nher, and say, with wet eyes, \"poor child!\"\n\nElizabeth could not speak. Later, when the mother and son had left the\nhouse, Miss White came upstairs and found her still sitting dumb and\ntearless, on the top step. She clutched at Cherry-pie's skirt with\nshaking hands: \"Did he say--anything?\"\n\n\"Oh, my poor lamb,\" old Miss White said, nibbling and crying, \"how\ncould he, _here?_\"\n\nDavid, coming with his mother over the mountains to be present at Mrs.\nMaitland's funeral, thought to himself how strange it was that it had\ntaken death to bring him to Mercer. In all those long months of\nbewildered effort to adjust himself to the altered conditions of life,\nthere had been an undercurrent of purpose: _he would see Elizabeth._ He\nwould know from her own lips just how things were with her. It seemed\nto David that if he could do that, if he could know beyond doubt--or\nhope--that she was happy, he would himself be cured of the incessant,\ndull ache of remorse, which quickened sometimes into the stabbing\nsuspicion that she had never really loved him. ... If she was happy,\nthen he need no longer blame himself for injuring her. The injury he\nhad done himself, he must bear, as men before him had borne, and as men\nafter him would bear, the results of their own sins and follies. He\nhad, of course, long since lost the wincing self-consciousness of the\njilted man, just as he had lost the expectation that she would send for\nhim, summon him to storm her prison and carry her away to freedom! That\nwas a boy's thought, anyhow. It was when that hope had completely\nfaded, that he began to say he must see for himself that she was happy\nand that she did not wish to leave the man who had, at any rate, been\nman enough to take her, and whom now, very likely, she loved. It was\nthe uncertainty about her happiness that was so intolerable to him. Far\nmore intolerable, he thought, than would be the knowledge that she was\ncontent, for that he would deserve, and to the honest mind there is a\ncertain satisfaction in receiving its deserts. But his hatred of Blair\ndeepened a little at the mere suggestion of her contentment. Those evil\nmoments of suspecting her loyalty to him at the time of her marriage\nwere very rare now; though the evil moments of speculating as to how\nGod--or he himself, would finally punish Blair Maitland, were as\nfrequent as ever. During the last six months the desire to know how\nthings were with Elizabeth had been at times almost overwhelming. Once\nhe went so far as to buy his railroad ticket; but though his feet\ncarried him to the train, his mind drove him away from it, and the\nticket was not used. But when the news came of Sarah Maitland's death,\nhe went immediately to the station and engaged his berth. Then he went\nhome and asked his mother if she were going to the funeral; \"I am,\" he\nsaid. He spoke with affection of Mrs. Maitland, but so far as his going\nto Mercer went, her funeral was entirely incidental. Her death had\nended his uncertainty: he would see Elizabeth!\n\n\"And when I see her,\" he said to himself, \"the moment I see her,--I\nwill know.\" He debated with himself whether he should speak of the\ncatastrophe of their lives, or wait for her to do so. As he thought of\nputting it into words, he was aware of singular shyness, which showed\nhim with startling distinctness how far apart he and she were. Just how\nand when he would see her he had not decided; probably it could not be\non the day Mrs. Maitland was buried; but the next day? \"How shall I\nmanage it?\" he asked himself--then found that it had been managed for\nhim.\n\nWhen they came back from the cemetery, Mrs. Richie went to Robert\nFerguson's. \"You are to come home and have supper with me,\" he had told\nher; \"David can call for you when he gets through his gallivanting\nabout the town.\" (David had excused himself, on the ground of seeing\nKnight and one or two of the fellows; he had said nothing of his need\nto walk alone over the old bridge, out into the country, and, in the\ndarkness, round and round the River House.) So, in the May twilight of\nRobert Ferguson's garden, the two old neighbors paced up and down, and\ntalked of Sarah Maitland.\n\n\"I've got to break to David that apparently he isn't going to get the\nfund for his hospital,\" Mr. Ferguson said. \"There is no mention of it\nin her will. She told me once, about two years ago, that she was\nputting money by for him, and when she got the amount she wanted she\nwas going to give it to him. But she left no memorandum of it. I'm\nafraid she changed her mind.\" His voice, rather than his words, caught\nher attention; he was not speaking naturally. He seemed to talk for the\nsake of talking, which was so unlike him that Mrs. Richie looked at him\nwith mild curiosity. \"Mrs. Maitland had a perfect right to change her\nmind,\" she said; \"and really David never counted very much on the\nhospital. She spoke of it to him, I know, but I think he had almost\nforgotten it--though I hadn't,\" she confessed, a little ruefully. She\nsmiled, and Robert Ferguson, fiercely twitching off his glasses, tried\nto smile back; but his troubled eyes lingered questioningly on her\nserene face. It was almost a beautiful face in its peace. What was it\nMrs. Maitland had said about her looks? \"Fair and--\" He was so angry at\nremembering the word that he swore softly at himself under his breath,\nand Helena Richie gave him a surprised look. He had sworn at himself\nseveral times in these five days since Sarah Maitland, half delirious,\nwholly shrewd, had said those impossible things about David's mother.\nUnder his concern and grief, under his solemn preoccupations, Robert\nFerguson had felt again and again the shock of the incredible\nsuggestion: _\"something on her conscience.\"_ Each time the words thrust\nthemselves up through his absorbed realization of Mrs. Maitland's\ndeath, he pushed them down savagely: \"It is impossible!\" But each time\nthey rose again to the surface of his mind. When they did, they brought\nwith them, as if dredged out of the depths of his memory, some sly\nindorsement of their truth. . . . She never says anything about her\nhusband. \"Why on earth should she? He was probably a bad egg; that\nfriend of hers, that Old Chester doctor, hinted that he was a bad egg.\nNaturally he is not a pleasant subject of conversation for his wife.\" .\n. . Her only friends, except in his own little circle, were two old men\n(one of them dead now), in Old Chester. \"Well, Heaven knows a parson\nand a doctor are about as good friends as a woman can have.\" . . . But\nno _women_ friends belonging to her past. \"Thank the Lord! If she had a\nlot of cackling females coming to see her, _I_ wouldn't want to!\" . . .\nShe is always so ready to defend Elizabeth's wicked mother.\n\n\"She has a tender heart; she's not hard like the rest of her sex.\"\n\nNo, Life had not played another trick on him! Mrs. Maitland was out of\nher head, that was all. As for him, somebody ought to boot him for even\nremembering what the poor soul had said. And so, disposing of the\nintolerable suspicion, he would draw a breath of relief--until the\nwhisper came again: _\"something on her conscience?\"_\n\nHe was so goaded by this fancy of a dying woman, and at the same time\nso shaken by her death, that, as his guest was quick to see, he was\nentirely unreal; almost--if one can say such a thing of Robert\nFerguson, artificial. He was artificial when he spoke of David and the\nmoney he was not to have; the fact was, he did not at that moment care,\nhe said to himself, a hang about David, or his money either!\n\n\"You see,\" he said, as they came to the green door in the brick wall,\nand went into the other garden, \"you see, your house is still empty?\"\n\n\"Dear old house!\" she said, smiling up at the shuttered windows.\n\nHe looked into her face, and its entire candor made him suddenly and\nsharply angry at Sarah Maitland. It was the old friendly anger, just as\nif she were not dead; and he found it curiously comforting. (\"She ought\nto be ashamed of herself to have such an idea of Mrs. Richie. I'll tell\nher so--oh, Lord! what am I saying? Well, well; she was dying; she\ndidn't know what she was talking about.\") . . . \"We could pull down\nsome partitions and make the two houses into one,\" he said, wistfully.\n\nBut she only laughed and shook her head. \"I want to see if my white\npeony is going to blossom; come over to the stone seat.\"\n\n\"You always shut me up,\" he said, sulkily; and in his sulkiness he was\nmore like himself than he had been for days. Sitting by her side on the\nbench under the hawthorn, he let her talk about her peony or anything\nelse that seemed to her a safe subject; for himself, all he wanted was\nthe comfort of looking into her comforting eyes, and telling himself\nthat he insulted her when he even denied those poor, foolish, dying\nwords. When a sudden soft shower drove them indoors to his library he\ncame back with a sigh to Mrs. Maitland; but this time he was quite\nnatural: \"The queer part of it is, she hadn't changed her mind about\nDavid's money up to within two days of her death. She meant him to have\nit when she spoke to me of writing to him; and her mind was perfectly\nclear then; at least\"--he frowned; \"she did wander for a minute. She\nhad a crazy idea--\"\n\n\"What?\" said Mrs. Richie, sympathetically.\n\n\"Nothing; she was wandering. But it was only for a minute, and except\nfor that she was clear. When I urged her to make some provision for\nBlair, she was perfectly clear. Practically told me to mind my own\nbusiness! Just like her,\" he said, sighing.\n\n\"It would have been a great deal of money,\" Mrs. Richie said; \"probably\nDavid is better off without it.\" But he knew she was disappointed; and\nindeed, after supper, in his library, she admitted the disappointment\nfrankly enough. \"He has changed very much; his youth is all gone. He is\nmore silent than ever. I had thought that perhaps the building of this\nhospital would bring him out of himself. You see, he blames himself for\nthe whole thing.\"\n\n\"He is still bitter?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm afraid so. He very rarely speaks of it. But I can see that he\nblames himself always. I wish he would talk freely.\"\n\n\"He will one of these days. He'll blurt it out and then he'll begin to\nget over it. Don't stop him, and don't get excited, no matter what\nabsurd things he says. He'll be better when he has emptied his heart. I\nwas, you know, after I talked to you and told you that I'd\nbeen--jilted.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid it's gone too deep for that with David,\" she said, sadly.\n\n\"It couldn't go deeper than it did with me, and yet you--you taught me\nto forgive her. Yes, and to be glad, too; for if she hadn't thrown me\nover, I wouldn't have known you.\"\n\n\"Now _stop!_\" Mrs. Richie said, with soft impatience.\n\n\"For a meek and mild looking person,\" said Robert Ferguson, twitching\noff his glasses, \"you have the most infernally strong will. I hate\nobstinacy.\"\n\n\"Mr. Ferguson, be sensible. Don't talk--that way. Listen: David must\nsee Elizabeth while he is here. This situation has got to become\ncommonplace. I meant to go home to-morrow morning, but if you will ask\nus all to luncheon--\"\n\n\"'Dinner'! We don't have your Philadelphia airs in Mercer.\"\n\n\"Well, 'dinner,'\" she said, smiling; \"we'll stay over and take the\nevening train.\n\n\"I won't ask Blair!\"\n\n\"I hate obstinacy,\" Mrs. Richie told him, drolly. \"Well, I am not so\nvery anxious to see Blair myself. But I do want Elizabeth and David to\nmeet. You see, David means to practise in Mercer--\"\n\n\"What! Then you will come here to live? When will you come?\"\n\n\"Next spring, I hope. And it is like coming home again. The promise of\nthe hospital was a factor in his decision, but, even without it, I\nthink he will want to settle in Mercer\"; she paused and sighed.\n\nHer old landlord did not notice the sigh. \"I'll get the house in order\nfor you right off!\" he said, beaming. \"I suppose you'll ask for all\nsorts of new-fangled things! A tenant is never satisfied.\" He was so\nhappy that he barked and chuckled at the same time.\n\n\"I hope it's wise for him to come,\" Mrs. Richie said, anxiously; \"I\nconfess I don't feel quite easy about it, because--Elizabeth will be\nhere; and though, of course, nobody is going to think of how things\nmight have been, still, it will be painful for them both just at first.\nThat's why I want you to invite us to dinner,--the sooner they meet,\nthe sooner things will be commonplace.\"\n\n\"When a man has once been in love with a woman,\" Robert Ferguson said,\nputting on his glasses carefully, \"he can hate her, but she can never\nbe commonplace to him.\"\n\nAnd before she knew it she said, impulsively, \"Please don't ever hate\nme.\"\n\nHe laid a quick hand on hers that was resting in her lap. \"I'll never\nhate you and you'll never be commonplace. Dear woman--can't you?\"\n\nShe shook her head; the tears stood suddenly in her leaf-brown eyes.\n\n\"Helena!\" he said, and there was a half-frightened violence in his\nvoice; \"_what_ is it? Tell me, for Heaven's sake; what is it? Do you\nhate me?\"\n\n\"No--no--no!\"\n\n\"If you dislike me, say so! I think I could bear it better to believe\nyou disliked me.\"\n\n\"Robert, how absurd you are! You know I could never dislike you. But\nour--our age, and David, and--\"\n\nHe put an abrupt hand on her shoulder and looked hard into her eyes;\nthen for a single minute he covered his own. \"Don't talk about age, and\nall that nonsense. Don't talk about little things, Helena, for God's\nsake! Oh, my dear--\" he said, brokenly. He got up and went across the\nroom to a bookcase; he stood there a moment or two with his back to\nher. Helena Richie, bewildered, her eyes full of tears, looked after\nhim in dismay. But when he took his chair again, he was \"commonplace\"\nenough, and when, later, David came in, he was able to talk in the most\nmatter-of-fact way. He told the young man that evidently Mrs. Maitland\nhad changed her mind about a hospital. \"Of course some papers may turn\nup that will entitle you to your fund, but I confess I'm doubtful about\nit. I'm afraid she changed her mind.\"\n\n\"Probably she did,\" David said, laconically; \"well, I am glad she\nthought of it,--even if she didn't do it. She was a big person, Mr.\nFerguson; I didn't half know how big a person she was!\" For a moment\nhis face softened until his own preoccupations faded out of it.\n\n\"Nobody knew how big she was--except me,\" Robert Ferguson said. Then he\nbegan to talk about her. . . . It was nearly midnight when he ended;\nwhen he did, it was with an outburst of pain and grief: \"Nobody\nunderstood her. They thought because she ran an iron-works, that she\nwasn't--a woman. I tell you she was! I tell you her heart was a woman's\nheart. She didn't care about fuss and feathers, and every other kind of\ntomfoolery, like all the rest of you, but she was as--as modest as a\ngirl, and as sensitive. You needn't laugh--\"\n\n\"Laugh?\" said Helena Richie; \"I am ready to cry when I think how her\nbody misrepresented her soul!\"\n\nHe nodded; his chin shook. \"Big, generous, incapable of meanness,\nincapable of littleness!--and now she's dead. I believe her\ndisappointment about Blair really killed her. It cut some spring. She\nhas never been the same woman since he--\" He stopped short, and looked\nat David; no one spoke.\n\nThen Mrs. Richie asked some casual question about the Works, and they\nbegan to talk of other things. When his guests said good-night, Robert\nFerguson, standing on his door-step, called after them: \"Oh, hold on:\nDavid, won't you and your mother come in to dinner to-morrow? Luncheon,\nyour mother calls it. She wants us to be fashionable in Mercer! Nobody\nhere but Miss White and Elizabeth.\"\n\n\"Yes, thank you; we'll come with pleasure,\" Mrs. Richie called back,\nand felt the young man's arm grow rigid under her hand.\n\nThe mother and son walked on in silence. It had stopped raining, but\nthe upper sky was full of fleecy clouds laid edge to edge like a\ncelestial pavement; from between them sometimes a serene moon looked\ndown.\n\n\"David, you don't mind staying over for a day?\"\n\n\"Oh no, not at all. I meant to.\"\n\n\"And you don't mind--seeing Elizabeth?\"\n\n\"I want to see her. Will he be there?\"\n\n\"Blair? No! Certainly not. It wouldn't be pleasant for--for--\"\n\n\"For him?\" David said, dryly. \"I should think not. Still, I am sorry. I\nhave rather a curiosity to see Blair.\"\n\n\"Oh, David!\" she protested, sadly.\n\n\"My dear mother, don't be alarmed. I have no intention of calling him\nout. I am merely interested to know how a sneak-thief looks when he\nmeets--\" he laughed; \"the man he has robbed. However, it might not be\npleasant for the rest of you.\"\n\nHis mother was silent; her plan of making things \"commonplace\" was not\nas simple as she thought.\n\nRobert Ferguson, on his door-step, looked after them, his face falling\nabruptly into stern lines. When he went back to his library he stood\nperfectly still, his hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead of\nhim. Once or twice his whole face quivered. Suddenly he struck his\nclenched fist hard on the table: \"Well!\" he said, aloud, violently,\n\"what difference does it make?\" He lit a cigar and sat down, his legs\nstretched out in front of him, his feet crossed. He sat there for an\nhour, biting on his extinguished cigar. Then he said in an unsteady\nvoice, \"She is a heavenly creature.\" The vigil in his library, which\nlasted until the dawn was white above Mercer's smoke, left Robert\nFerguson shaken to the point of humility. He no longer combated Mrs.\nMaitland's wandering words; they did not matter. What mattered was the\ndivine discovery that they did not matter! Or rather, that they opened\nhis eyes to the glory of the human soul. To a man of his narrow and\nobstinate council of perfection, the realization, not only that it was\npossible to enter into holiness through the door of sin--that low door\nthat bows the head that should be upright--but that his own\npossibilities of tenderness were wider than he knew,--such a\nrealization was conversion. It was the recognition that in the matter\nof forgiveness he and his Father were one. Helena might or might not\n\"have something on her conscience.\" If she had, then it proved that she\nin her humility was a better woman than, with nothing on his\nconscience, he in his arrogance was a man; and when he said that, he\nbegan to understand, with shame, that in regard to other people's\nwrong-doing he had always been, as Sarah Maitland expressed it, \"more\nparticular than his Creator.\" He thought of her words now, and his lean\nface reddened. \"She hit me when she said that. I've always set up my\nown Ebenezer. What a fool I must have seemed to a woman like Helena. .\n. . She's a heavenly creature!\" he ended, brokenly; \"what difference\ndoes it make how she became so? But if _that's_ the only reason she\nkeeps on refusing me--\"\n\nWhen Elizabeth and David met in Mr. Ferguson's library at noon the next\nday, everybody was, of course, elaborately unconscious.\n\nElizabeth came in last. As she entered, Miss White, nibbling\nspeechlessly, was fussing with the fire-irons of a grate filled with\nwhite lilacs. Mrs. Richie, turning her back upon her son, began to talk\nentirely at random to Robert Ferguson, who was rapidly pulling out\nbooks from the bookcase at the farther end of the room. David was the\nonly one who made no pretense. When he heard the front door close and\nknew that she was in the house, he stood staring at the library door.\nElizabeth, entering, walked straight up to him, and put out her hand.\n\n\"How are you, David?\" she said.\n\nDavid, taking the small, cold hand in his, said, calmly, \"How're you,\nElizabeth?\" Then their eyes met. Hers held steadfast; it was his which\nfell.\n\n\"Have you seen Nannie?\" she said.\n\nAnd he: \"Yes; poor Nannie!\"\n\n\"Hullo, Elizabeth,\" her uncle called out, carelessly; and Mrs. Richie\ncame over and kissed her.\n\nSo that first terrible moment was lived through. During luncheon, they\nhardly spoke to each other. Elizabeth, with obvious effort, talked to\nMrs. Richie of Nannie and Mrs. Maitland; David talked easily and (for\nhim) a great deal, to Robert Ferguson; he talked politics, and\ndisgusted his iron-manufacturing host by denouncing the tariff; he\ntalked municipal affairs, and said that Mercer had a lot of private\nvirtue, but no public morals. \"Look at your streets!\" said the squirt.\nIn those days, the young man who criticized the existing order was a\nsquirt; now he is a cad; but in the nostrils of middle age, he is as\nrankly unpleasant by one name as by the other. Elizabeth's uncle was so\nannoyed that he forgot the embarrassment of the occasion, and said,\nsatirically, to Mrs. Richie: \"Well, well! 'See how we apples swim'!\"\nwhich made her laugh, but did not disturb David in the least. The\nmoment luncheon was over, Elizabeth rose.\n\n\"I must go and see Nannie,\" she said; and David, opening the door for\nher, said, \"I'll go along with you.\" At which their elders exchanged a\nstartled look.\n\nOut in the street they walked side by side--these two between whom\nthere was a great gulf fixed. By that time the strain of the occasion\nhad begun to show in Elizabeth's face; she was pale, and the tension of\nher set lips drew the old dimple into a livid line. David was\napparently entirely at ease, speaking lightly of this or that;\nElizabeth answered in monosyllables. Once, at a crossing, he laid an\ninvoluntary hand on her arm--but instantly lifted it as if the touch\nhad burnt him! \"Lookout!\" he said, and for the first time his voice\nbetrayed him. But before the clattering dray had passed, his taciturn\nself-control had returned: \"you can hardly hear yourself think, in\nMercer,\" he said. Elizabeth was silent; she had come to the end of\neffort.\n\nIt was not until they reached the iron gate of Mrs. Maitland's house\nthat he dragged his quivering reality out of the inarticulate depths,\nbut his brief words were flat and meaningless to the strained creature\nbeside him.\n\n\"I was glad to see you to-day,\" he said.\n\nAnd she, looking at him with hard eyes, said that it was very kind in\nhim and in his mother to come on to Mrs. Maitland's funeral. \"Nannie\nwas so touched by it,\" she said. She could not say another word; not\neven good-by. She opened the gate and fled up the steps to the front\ndoor.\n\nDavid, so abruptly deserted, stood for a full minute looking at the\ndark old house, where the wistaria looping above the pillared doorway\nwas blossoming in wreaths of lavender and faint green.\n\nThen he laughed aloud. \"What a fool I am,\" he said.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nWhen Nannie Maitland, trembling very much, pressed into her brother's\nhand that certificate for what was, in those days, a very considerable\nfortune, Blair had been deeply moved. It came after a night, not of\ngrief, to be sure, but of what might be called cosmic emotion,--the\nchild's realization of the parent's death. When he saw the certificate,\nand knew that at the last moment his mother's ruthless purpose had\nflagged, her iron will had bent, a wave of something like tenderness\nrose above his hate as the tide rises above wrecking rocks. For a\nmoment he thought that even if she had carried out her threat of\ndisinheriting him he would be able to forgive her. But as inevitably\nthe wave of feeling ebbed, and he saw again those black rocks of hate\nbelow the moving brightness of the tide, he reminded himself that this\ngift of hers was only a small part of what belonged to him. In a way it\nwas even a confession that she had wronged him. She had written his\nname, Nannie told him with a curious tremor in her hands and face,\n\"just at the last. It was that last morning,\" Nannie said, huskily,\ntrying to keep her voice steady; \"she hadn't time to change her will,\nbut this shows she was sorry she made it.\"\n\n\"I don't know that that follows,\" Blair said, gravely. It was not until\nthe next day that he referred to it again: \"After all, Nannie, if her\nwill is what she said it would be, it is--outrageous, you know. This\nmoney doesn't alter that.\"\n\nYet somehow, in those days before the funeral, whenever he thought of\nbreaking the will, that relenting gift seemed to stay his hand. The\nidea of using her money to thwart her purpose, of taking what she had\ngiven him, from affection and a tardy sense of justice, to insult her\nmemory, made him uncomfortable to the point of irritability. It was\nesthetically offensive. Once he sounded Elizabeth on the subject, and\nher agreeing outcry of disgust drove him into defending himself: \"Of\ncourse we don't know yet what her will is; but if she has done what she\nthreatened, it is abominable; and I'll break it--\"\n\n\"With the money she gave you?\" she said.\n\nAnd he said, boldly, \"Yes!\"\n\nBut he was not really bold; he was perplexed and unhappy, for his hope\nthat his mother had not disinherited him was based on something a\nlittle finer than his wish to come into his own; it was a real\nreluctance to do violence to a relationship of which he had first\nbecome conscious the night she died. But with that reluctance, was also\nthe instinct of self-defense: \"I have a right to her money!\"\n\nThe day after the funeral he went to Mrs. Maitland's lawyers with a\nrequest to see the will.\n\n\"Certainly,\" the senior member of the firm said; \"as you are a legatee\na copy has already been prepared for you. I regret, Blair, that your\nmother took the course she did. I cannot help saying to you that we\nventured to advise against it.\n\n\"I was aware of my mother's purpose,\" Blair said, briefly; and added,\nto himself, \"she has done it! ... I shall probably contest the will,\"\nhe said aloud.\n\nSarah Maitland's old friend and adviser looked at him sympathetically.\n\"No use, my boy; it's cast-iron. That was her own phrase, 'cast-iron.'\"\nThen, really sorry for him, he left him in the inner office so that he\nmight read that ruthless document alone.\n\nMrs. Maitland had said it was a pity she could not live to see Blair\nfight her will; she \"would like the fun of it.\" She would not have\nfound any food for mirth if she could have seen her son in that\nlaw-office reading with set teeth, her opinion of himself, her\nrealization of her responsibility in making him what he was, and her\nreason for leaving him merely a small income from a trust fund. Had it\nnot been for the certificate--in itself a denial of her cruel\nwords--lying at that moment in his breast pocket, he would have been\nunable to control his fury. As it was, underneath his anger was the\nconsciousness that she had made what reparation she could.\n\nWhen he folded the copy of the will and thrust it into his pocket his\nface was very pale, but he could not resist saying to old Mr. Howe as\nhe passed him in the outer office, \"I hope you will be pleased, sir, in\nview of your protest about this will, to know that my mother regretted\nher course toward me, and left a message to that effect with my sister.\"\n\n\"I am glad to hear it,\" the astonished lawyer said, \"but--\"\n\nBlair did not wait to hear the end of his sentence. He said to himself\nthat even before he made up his mind what to do about the will he must\nget possession of his money--\"or the first thing I know some of their\nconfounded legal quibbles will make trouble for me,\" he said.\n\nCertainly there was no trouble for him as yet; the process of securing\nhis mother's gift involved nothing more than the depositing of the\ncertificate in his own bank. The cashier, who knew Sarah Maitland's\nname very well indeed on checks payable to her son, ventured to offer\nhis condolences: \"Your late mother was a very wonderful woman, Mr.\nMaitland. There was no better business man this side of the Alleghanies\nthan your mother, sir.\"\n\nBlair bowed; he was too absorbed to make any conventional reply. The\nwill: should he or should he not contest it? His habit of indecision\nmade the mere question--apart from its gravity--acutely painful; not\neven the probabilities of the result of such a contest helped him to\ndecide what to do. The probabilities were grimly clear. Blair had,\nperhaps, a little less legal knowledge than the average layman, but\neven he could not fail to realize that Sarah Maitland's will was, as\nMr. Howe had said, \"iron.\" Even if it could be broken, it might take\nyears of litigation to do it. \"And a 'bird in the hand'!\" Blair\nreminded himself cynically. \"But,\" he told Nannie, a week or two later\nwhen she was repeating nervously, for the twentieth time, just how his\nmother had softened toward him,--\"but those confounded orphan asylums\nmake me mad! If she wanted orphans, what about you and me? Charity\nbegins at home. I swear I'll contest the will!\"\n\nNannie did not smile; she very rarely smiled now. Miss White thought\nshe was grieving over her stepmother's death; and Elizabeth said,\npityingly, \"I didn't realize she was so fond of her.\" Perhaps Nannie\ndid not realize it herself until she began to miss her stepmother's\nroughness, her arrogant generosity, her temper,--to miss, even, the\nmere violence of her presence; then she began to grieve softly to\nherself. \"Oh, Mamma, I wish you hadn't died,\" she used to say, over and\nover, as she lay awake in the darkness. She lay awake a great deal in\nthose first weeks.\n\nAll her life Nannie had been like a little leaf whirled along by a\ngreat gale of thundering power and purpose which she never attempted to\nunderstand, much less contend with; now, abruptly, the gale had\ndropped, and all her world was still. No wonder she lay awake at night\nto listen to such stillness! Apart from grief the mere shock of sudden\nquietness might account for her nervousness, Robert Ferguson said; but\nhe was perplexed at her lack of interest in her own affairs. She seemed\nutterly unaware of the change in her circumstances. That she was a rich\nwoman now was a matter of indifference to her. And she seemed equally\nunconscious of her freedom. Apparently it never occurred to her that\nshe could alter her mode of life. Except that, at Blair's insistence,\nshe had a maid, and that Harris had cleared the office paraphernalia\nfrom the dining-room table, life in the stately, dirty, melancholy old\nhouse still ran in those iron grooves which Mrs. Maitland had laid down\nfor herself nearly thirty years before. Nannie knew nothing better than\nthe grooves, and seemed to desire nothing better. She was indifferent\nto her surroundings, and what was more remarkable, indifferent to\nBlair's perplexities; at any rate, she was of no assistance to him in\nmaking up his mind about the will. His vacillations hardly seemed to\ninterest her. Once he said, suppose instead of contesting it, he should\ngo to work? But she only said, vaguely, \"That would be very nice.\"\n\nCuriously enough, in the midst of his uncertainties, a little certainty\nhad sprung up: it was the realization that work, merely as work, might\nbe amusing. In these months of tormenting jealousy, of continually\ncrushed hope that Elizabeth would begin to care for him, of occasional\nshamed consciousness of having taken advantage of a woman--Blair\nMaitland had had very little to amuse him. So, in those hesitating\nweeks that followed his mother's death, work, which her will\nnecessitated, began to interest him. Perhaps the interest, if not the\namusement, was enhanced by one or two legal opinions as to the\npossibility of breaking the will. Harry Knight read it, and grinned:\n\n\"Well, old man, as you wouldn't give me the case anyhow, I can afford\nto be perfectly disinterested and tell you the truth. In my opinion, it\nwould put a lot of cash into some lawyer's pocket to contest this will;\nbut I bet it would take a lot out of yours! You'd come out the small\nend of the horn, my boy.\"\n\nBut Knight was young, Blair reflected, and perhaps his opinion wasn't\nworth anything. \"He's 'Goose Molly's' son,\" he said to himself, with a\nhalf-laugh; it was strange how easily he fell into his mother's speech\nsometimes! With a distrust of Harry Knight's youth as keen as her own\nmight have been, Blair stated his case to a lawyer in another city.\n\n\"Before reading the will,\" said this gentleman, \"let me inquire, sir,\nwhether there is any doubt in your mind of your mother's mental\ncapacity at the time the instrument was drawn?\"\n\n\"My mother was Sarah Maitland, of the Maitland Works,\" said Blair,\nbriefly; and the lawyer's involuntary exclamation of chagrin would have\nbeen laughable, if it had not been so significant. \"But we should, of\ncourse, be glad to represent you, Mr. Maitland,\" he said. Blair,\nremembering Harry Knight's disinterested remark about pockets, said,\ndryly, \"Thanks, very much,\" and took his departure. \"He must think I'm\nMr. Doestick's friend,\" he told himself. The old joke was his mother's\nway of avoiding an emphatic adjective when she especially felt the need\nof it; but he had forgotten that she had ever used it.\n\nAs he walked from the lawyer's office to his hotel, he was absorbed to\nthe point of fatigue in his effort to make up his mind, but it was\ncharacteristic of him that even in his absorption he winced at the\nsight of a caged robin, sitting, moping on its perch, in front of a\ntobacconist's. He had passed the poor wild thing and walked a block,\nbefore he turned impulsively on his heel, and came back to interview\nthe shopkeeper. \"How much will you sell him for?\" he said, with that\ncharming manner that always made people eager to oblige him. The robin,\nlooking at him with lack-luster eyes, sunk his poor little head down\ninto his dulled feathers; there was something so familiar in the\nmovement, that Blair cringed.\n\n\"I want to buy the little beggar,\" he said, so eagerly that the owner\nmentioned a preposterous price. Blair took the money out of his pocket,\nand the bird out of the cage. For a minute the captive hesitated,\nclinging with terrified claws to his rescuer's friendly finger. \"Off\nwith you, old fellow!\" Blair said, tossing the bird up into the air;\nand the unused wings were spread! For a minute the eyes of the two men\nfollowed the joyous flight over the housetops; then the tobacconist\ngrinned rather sheepishly: \"Guess you've struck oil, ain't you?--or\nsomebody's left you a fortune.\"\n\nBlair chuckled. \"Think so?\" he said. But as he walked on down the\nstreet, he sighed; how dull the robin's eyes had been. Elizabeth's eyes\nlooked like that sometimes. \"What a donkey I am,\" he said to himself;\n\"ten dollars! Well, I'll _have_ to contest the will and get that\nfortune, or I can't keep up the liberator role!\" Then he fell to\nthinking how he must invest what fortune he had--anything to get that\nconfounded robin out of his head! \"I'm not going to keep all my money\nin a stocking in the bank,\" he told himself. The idea of investment\npleased him; and when he got back to Mercer he devoted himself to\nconsultations with brokers. After some three months of it, he found the\n'work,' as he called it, distinctly amusing. \"It's mighty interesting,\"\nhe told his wife once; \"I really like it.\"\n\nElizabeth said, languidly, that she hoped he would go into business\nbecause it would have pleased his mother. Since Mrs. Maitland's death,\nElizabeth had not seemed well; no one connected her languor with that\nspeechless walk with David to Nannie's door, or her look into his eyes\nwhen she bade farewell to a hope that she had not known she was\ncherishing. But the experience had been a profound shock to her. His\nentire ease, his interest in other matters than the one matter of her\nlife, and most of all his casual \"glad to see you,\" meant that he had\nforgiven her, and so no longer loved her,--for of course, if he loved\nher he would not forgive her! In these two years she had told herself\nwith perfect sincerity, a thousand times, that he had ceased to love\nher; but now it seemed to her that, for the first time, she really knew\nit. \"He doesn't even hate me,\" she thought, bleakly. For sheer\nunderstanding of suffering she grew a little gentler to Blair; but her\nsympathy, although it gave him moments of hope, did not reach the point\nof helping him to decide what to do about the will. So, veering between\nthe sobering reflection that litigation was probably useless, and the\nesthetically repulsive idea of using his mother's confession of regret\nto fight her, he reached no decision. Meantime, \"investment\" slipped\neasily into speculation,--speculation which, by that strange tempering\nof the wind that sometimes comes before the lamb is shorn, was\nremarkably successful.\n\nIt was gossip about this speculation that made Robert Ferguson prick up\nhis ears: \"Where in thunder does he get the money to monkey with the\nstock-market?\" he said to himself; \"he hasn't any securities to put up,\nand he can't borrow on his expectations any more,--everybody knows she\ncut him off with a shilling!\" He was concerned as well as puzzled.\n\"I'll have him on my hands yet,\" he thought, morosely. \"Confound it!\nIt's hard on me that she disinherited him. He'll be a millstone round\nmy neck as long as he lives.\" Robert Ferguson had long ago made up his\nmind--with tenderness--that he must support Elizabeth, \"but I won't\nsupply that boy with money to gamble with! And if he goes on in this\nway, of course he'll come down on me for the butcher's bill.\" That was\nhow he happened to ask Elizabeth about Blair's concerns. When he did,\nthe whole matter came out. It was Sunday morning. Elizabeth, starting\nfor church, had asked Blair, perfunctorily, if he were going. \"Church?\"\nhe said--he was sitting at his writing-table, idly spinning a penny;\n\"not I! I'm going to devote the Sabbath day to deciding about the\nwill.\" She had made no comment, and his lip hardened. \"She doesn't care\nwhat I do,\" he said to himself, gloomily; yet he believed she would be\npleased if he refused to fight. \"Heads or tails,\" he said, listening to\nher retreating step; \"suppose I say 'heads, bird in the hand;--work.\nTails, bird in the bush;--fight.' Might as well decide it this way if\nshe won't help me.\"\n\nShe had never thought of helping him; instead she stopped at her\nuncle's and went out into the garden with him to watch him feed his\npigeons. When that was over, they came back together to the library,\nand it was while she was standing at his big table buttoning her gloves\nthat he asked her if Blair was speculating.\n\nYes; she believed he was. No; not with her money; that had been just\nabout used up, anyhow; although he had paid it all back to her when he\ngot his money. \"Will you invest it for me, Uncle Robert?\" she said.\n\n\"Of course; but mind,\" he barked, with the old, comfortable crossness,\n\"you won't get any crazy ten per cent out of my investments! You'll\nhave to go to Blair Maitland's wildcats for that. But if he isn't using\nyour money, how on earth can he speculate? What do you mean by 'his'\nmoney?\"\n\n\"Why,\" she explained, surprised, \"he has all that money Mrs. Maitland\ngave him the day she died.\"\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"Didn't you know about the check?\" she said; she had not mentioned it\nto him herself, partly because of their tacit avoidance of Blair's\nname, but also because she had taken it for granted that he was aware\nof what Mrs. Maitland had done. She told him of it now, adding, in a\nsmothered voice, \"She forgave him for marrying me, you see, at the end.\"\n\nHe was silent for a few moments, and Elizabeth, glancing at the clock,\nwas turning to go, but he stopped her. \"Hold on a minute. I don't\nunderstand this business. Tell me all about it, Elizabeth.\"\n\nShe told him what little she knew, rather vaguely: Mrs. Maitland had\ndrawn a check--no: she believed it was called a bank certificate of\ndeposit. It was for a great deal of money. When she told him how much,\nRobert Ferguson struck his fist on the arm of his chair. \"That's it!\"\nhe said. \"That is where David's money went!\"\n\n\"_David's_ money?\" Elizabeth said, breathlessly.\n\n\"I see it now,\" he went on, angrily; \"she had the money on hand; that's\nwhy she tried to write that letter. How Fate does get ahead of David\nevery time!\"\n\n\"Uncle! What do you mean?\"\n\nHe told her, briefly, of Mrs. Maitland's plan. \"She said two years ago\nthat she was going to give David a lump sum. I didn't know she had got\nit salted down--she was pretty close-mouthed about some things; but I\nguess she had. Well, probably, at the last minute, she thought she had\nbeen hard on Blair, and decided to hand it over to him, instead of\ngiving it to David. She had a right to, a perfect right to. But I don't\nunderstand it! The very day she spoke of writing to David, she told me\nshe wouldn't leave Blair a cent. It isn't like her to whirl about that\nway--unless it was during one of those times when she wasn't herself.\nWell,\" he ended, sighing, \"there is nothing to be done about it, of\ncourse; but I'll see Nannie, and get at the bottom of it, just for my\nown satisfaction.\"\n\nElizabeth's color came and went; she reminded herself that she must be\nfair to Blair; his mother had a right to show her forgiveness by\nleaving the money to him instead of David. Yes; she must remember that;\nshe must be just to him. But even as she said so she ground her teeth\ntogether.\n\n\"Blair did not try to influence his mother, Uncle Robert,\" she said,\n\"if that's what you are thinking of. He didn't see her while she was\nsick. He has never seen her since--since--\" \"There are other ways of\ninfluencing people than by seeing them. He wrote to Nannie, didn't he?\"\n\n\"If I thought,\" Elizabeth said in a low voice, \"that Blair had induced\nNannie to influence Mrs. Maitland, I would--\" But she did not finish\nher sentence. \"Good-by, Uncle Robert. I'm going to see Nannie.\"\n\nAs she hurried down toward Shantytown through the Sunday emptiness of\nthe hot streets, she said to herself that if Nannie had made her\nstepmother give the money to Blair, she, Elizabeth, would do something\nabout it! \"I won't have it!\" she said, passionately.\n\nIt had been a long time since Elizabeth's face had been so vivid. The\nold sheet-lightning of anger began to flash faintly across it. She did\nnot know what she would do to Nannie if Nannie had induced Mrs.\nMaitland to rob David, but she would do something! Yet when she reached\nthe house, her purpose waited for a minute; Nannie's tremor of\nloneliness and perplexity was so pitifully in evidence that she could\nnot burst into her own perplexity.\n\nShe had been trying, poor Nannie! to make up her mind about many small,\ncrowding affairs incident to the situation. In these weeks since Mrs.\nMaitland's death, Nannie, for the first time in her life, found herself\nobliged to answer questions. Harris asked them: \"You ain't a-goin' to\nbe livin' here, Miss Nannie; 'tain't no use to fill the coal-cellar, is\nit?\" Miss White asked them: \"Your Mamma's clothes ought to be put in\ncamphor, dear child, or else given away; which do you mean to do?\"\nBlair asked them: \"When will you move out of this terrible house, Nancy\ndear?\" A dozen times a day she was asked to make up her mind, she whose\nmind had always been made up for her!\n\nThat hot Sunday morning when Elizabeth was hurrying down to Shantytown\nwith the lightning flickering in her clouded eyes, Nannie, owing to\nMiss White's persistence about camphor, had gone into Mrs. Maitland's\nroom to look over her things.\n\nOh, these \"things\"! These pitiful possessions that the helpless dead\nmust needs leave to the shrinking disposal of those who are left! How\nwell every mourner knows them, knows the ache of perplexity and dismay\nthat comes with the very touch of them. It is not the valuables that\nmake grief shrink,--they settle themselves; such-and-such books or\njewels or pieces of silver belong obviously to this or that side of the\nfamily. But what about the dear, valueless, personal things that\nneither side of the family wants? Things treasured by the silent dead\nbecause of some association unknown, perhaps, to those who mourn. What\nabout these precious, worthless things? Mrs. Maitland had no personal\npossessions of intrinsic value, but she had her treasures. There was a\nlittle calendar on her bureau; it was so old that Nannie could not\nremember when it had not been there hanging from the slender neck of a\nbottle of German cologne. She took it up now, and looked at the faded\nred crescents of the new moon; how long ago that moon had waxed and\nwaned! \"She loved it,\" Nannie said to herself, \"because Blair gave it\nto her.\" Standing on the bureau was the row of his photographs; on each\none his mother had written his age and the date when the picture had\nbeen taken. In the disorder of the top drawer, tumbled about among her\ncoarse handkerchiefs, her collars, her Sunday black kid gloves, were\nrelics of her son's babyhood: a little green morocco slipper, with a\nwhite china button on the ankle-band; a rubber rattle, cracked and\ncrumbling.... What is one to do with things like these? Burn them, of\ncourse. There is nothing else that can be done. Yet the mourner shivers\nwhen the flame touches them, as though the cool fingers of the dead\nmight feel the scorch! Poor, frightened Nannie was the last person who\ncould light such a holy fire; she took them up--the slipper or the\ncalendar, and put them down again. \"Poor Mamma!\" she said over and\nover. Then she saw a bunch of splinters tied together with one of\nBlair's old neckties; she held it in her hand for a minute before she\nrealized that it was part of a broken cane. She did not know when or\nwhy it had been broken, but she knew it was Blair's, and her eyes\nsmarted with tears. \"Oh, how she loved him!\" she thought, and drew a\nbreath of satisfaction remembering how she had helped that speechless,\ndying love to express itself.\n\nShe was standing there before the open drawer, lifting things up, then\nputting them back again, unable to decide what to do with any of them,\nwhen Elizabeth suddenly burst in:\n\n\"Nannie!\"\n\n\"Oh, I am so glad you've come!\" Nannie said. She made a helpless\ngesture. \"Elizabeth, what _shall_ I do with everything?\"\n\nElizabeth shook her head; the question which she had hurried down here\nto ask paused before such forlorn preoccupation.\n\n\"Of course her dresses Harris will give away--\"\n\n\"Oh no!\" Elizabeth interrupted, shrinking. \"Don't give them to a\nservant.\"\n\n\"But,\" poor Nannie protested, \"they are so dreadful, Elizabeth. Nobody\ncan possibly wear them, except people like some of Harris's friends.\nBut things like these--what would you do with these?\" She held out a\ndiscolored pasteboard box broken at the corners and with no lid; a pair\nof onyx earrings lay in the faded blue cotton. \"I never saw her wear\nthem but once, and they are _so_ ugly,\" Nannie mourned.\n\n\"Nannie,\" Elizabeth said, \"I want to ask you something. That\ncertificate Mrs. Maitland gave Blair: what made her give it to him?\"\n\nNannie put the pasteboard box back in the drawer and turned sharply to\nface her sister-in-law, who was sitting on the edge of Mrs. Maitland's\nnarrow iron bed; the scared attention of her eyes banished their\nvagueness. \"What made her give it to him? Why, love, of course! Don't\nyou suppose Mamma loved Blair better than anybody in the world, even if\nhe did--displease her?\"\n\n\"Uncle thinks you may have influenced her to give it to him.\"\n\n\"I did not!\"\n\n\"Did you suggest it to her, Nannie?\"\n\n\"I asked her once, while she was ill, wouldn't she please be nice to\nBlair,--if you call that suggesting! As for the certificate, that last\nmorning she sort of woke up, and told me to bring it to her to sign.\nAnd I did.\"\n\nShe turned back to the bureau, and put an unsteady hand down into the\ndrawer. The color was rising in her face, and a muscle in her cheek\ntwitched painfully.\n\n\"But Nannie,\" Elizabeth said, and paused; the dining-room door had\nopened, and Robert Ferguson was standing on the threshold of Mrs.\nMaitland's room looking in at the two girls. The astonishment he had\nfelt in his talk with his niece had deepened into perplexity. \"I guess\nI'll thresh this thing out now,\" he said to himself, and picked up his\nhat. He was hardly ten minutes behind Elizabeth in her walk down to the\nMaitland house.\n\n\"Nannie,\" he said, kindly,--he never barked at Nannie; \"can you spare\ntime, my dear, to tell me one or two things I want to know?\" He had\ncome in, and found a dusty wooden chair. \"Go ahead with your sorting\nthings out. You can answer my question in a minute; it's about that\ncertificate your mother gave Blair.\"\n\nNannie had turned, and was standing with her hands behind her gripping\nthe edge of the bureau; she gasped once or twice, and glanced first at\none inquisitor and then at the other; her face whitened slowly. She was\nlike some frightened creature at bay; indeed her agitation was so\nmarked that Robert Ferguson's perplexity hardened into something like\nsuspicion. \"Can there be anything wrong?\" he asked himself in\nconsternation. \"You see, Nannie,\" he explained, gently, \"I happen to\nknow that your mother meant it for David Richie, not Blair.\"\n\n\"If she did,\" said Nannie, \"she changed her mind.\" \"When did she change\nher mind?\"\n\n\"I don't know. She just told me to bring the check to her to sign,\nthat--that last morning.\"\n\n\"Was she perfectly clear mentally?\"\n\n\"Yes. Yes. Of course she was! Perfectly clear.\"\n\n\"Did she say why she had changed her mind?\"\n\n\"No,\" Nannie said, and suddenly fright and anger together made her\nfluent; \"but why shouldn't she change her mind, Mr. Ferguson? Isn't\nBlair her son? Her only son! What was David to Mamma? Would you have\nher give all that money to an outsider, and leave her only son\npenniless? Perhaps she changed her mind that morning. I don't know\nanything about it. I don't see what difference it makes when she\nchanged it, so long as she changed it. All I can tell you is that she\ntold me to bring her the check, or certificate, or whatever you call\nit, out of the little safe. And I did, and she made it out to Blair. I\ndidn't ask her to. I didn't even know she had it; but I am thankful she\ndid it!\"\n\nHer eyes were dilating; she put her shaking hand up to her throat, as\nif she were struggling for breath. Her statement was perfectly\nreasonable and probable, yet it left no doubt in Robert Ferguson's mind\nthat there was something wrong,--very wrong! Even Elizabeth could see\nit. They both had the same thought: Blair had in some way influenced,\nperhaps even coerced his mother. How, they could not imagine, but\nNannie evidently knew. They looked at each other in dismay. Then\nElizabeth sprang up and put her arms around her sister-in-law. \"Oh,\nUncle,\" she said, \"don't ask her anything more now!\" She felt the\nquiver through all the terrified little figure.\n\n\"Mamma wanted Blair to have the money; it's his! No one can take it\nfrom him!\"\n\n\"Nobody wants to, Nannie, if it is his honestly,\" Robert Ferguson said,\ngravely.\n\n\"_Honestly_?\" Nannie whispered, with dry lips.\n\n\"Nannie dear, tell us the truth,\" Elizabeth implored her; \"Uncle won't\nbe hard on Blair, if--if he has done wrong. I know he won't.\"\n\n\"Wrong?\" said Nannie; \"Blair done wrong?\" She pushed Elizabeth's arms\naway; \"Blair has never done wrong in his life!\" She stood there, with\nher back against the bureau, and dared them. \"I won't have you suspect\nmy brother! Elizabeth! How can you let Mr. Ferguson suspect Blair?\"\n\n\"Nannie,\" said Robert Ferguson, \"was Blair with his mother when she\nsigned that certificate?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Were you alone with her?\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"Answer me, Nannie.\"\n\nShe looked at him with wild eyes, but she said nothing. Mr. Ferguson\nput his hand on her shoulder. \"Nannie,\" he said, quietly, \"Blair signed\nit; Blair wrote his mother's name.\"\n\n\"No! No! No! He did not! He did not.\" There was something in her\nvoice--a sort of relief, a sort of triumph, even, that the other two\ncould not understand, but which made them know that she was speaking\nthe truth. \"He did not,\" Nannie said, in a whisper; \"if you accuse him\nof that, I'll have to tell you; though very likely you won't\nunderstand. I did it. For Mamma.\"\n\n\"Did _what_?\" Robert Ferguson gasped; \"not--? You don't mean--? Nannie!\nyou don't mean that you--\" he stopped; his lips formed a word which he\nwould not utter.\n\n\"Mamma wanted him to have the money. The day before she died she told\nme she was going to give him a present. That day, that last day, she\ntold me to get the check. And she wrote his name on it. No one asked\nher to. Not Blair. Not I. I never thought of such a thing! I didn't\neven know there was a check. She wanted to do it. She wrote his name.\nAnd then--she got weak; she couldn't go on. She couldn't sign it. So I\nsigned it for her...later. It was not wrong. It was right. It carried\nout her wish. I am glad I did it.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII It was not a confession; it was a statement. In the next\ndistressing hour, during which Robert Ferguson succeeded in drawing the\nfacts from Blair's sister, there was not the slightest consciousness of\nwrong-doing. Over and over, with soft stubbornness, she asserted her\nconviction: \"It was right to do it. Mamma wanted to give the money to\nBlair. But she couldn't write her name. So I wrote it for her. It was\nright to do it.\"\n\n\"Nannie,\" her old friend said, in despair, \"don't you know what the law\ncalls it, when one person imitates another person's handwriting for\nsuch a purpose.\"\n\n\"You can call it anything you want to,\" she said, passionately. \"_I_\ncall it carrying out Mamma's wishes. And I would do it over again this\nminute.\"\n\nRobert Ferguson was speechless with dismay. To find rigidity in this\nmeek mind, was as if, through layers of velvet, through fold on fold of\nyielding dullness that gave at the slightest touch, he had suddenly, at\nsome deeper pressure, felt, under the velvet, granite!\n\n\"It was right,\" Nannie said, fiercely, trembling all over, \"it was\nright, because it was necessary. Oh, what do your laws amount to, when\nit comes to dying? When it comes to a time like that! She was\n_dying_--you don't seem to understand--Mamma was dying! And she wanted\nBlair to have that money; and just because she hadn't the strength to\nwrite her name, you would let her wish fail. Of course I wrote it for\nher! Yes; I know what you call it. But what do I care what it is\ncalled, if I carried out her wish and gave Blair the money she wanted\nhim to have? Now he has got it, and nobody can take it away from him.\"\n\n\"My dear child, if he kept it, it would be stealing.\"\n\n\"You can't steal from your mother,\" Nannie said; \"Mamma would be the\nfirst one to say so!\"\n\nMr. Ferguson looked over at his niece and shook his head; how were they\nto make her understand? \"He can't keep it, Nannie. When he understands\nthat it isn't his, he will simply give it back to the estate, and then\nit will come to you.\"\n\n\"To me?\" she said, astounded. And he explained that she was her\nstepmother's residuary legatee. She looked blank, and he told her the\nmeaning of the term.\n\n\"The estate is going to meet the bequests with a fair balance; and as\nthat balance will come to you, this money you gave to Blair will be\nyours, too.\"\n\nShe had been standing, with Elizabeth's pitying arms about her; but at\nthe shock of his explanation she seemed to collapse. She sank down in a\nchair, panting. \"It wasn't necessary! I could have just given it to\nhim.\"\n\nLater, when Robert Ferguson was walking home with his niece, he, too,\nsaid, grimly: \"No; it 'wasn't necessary,' as she says, poor child! She\ncould have given it to him; just as she will give it to him, now. Well,\nwell, to think of that mouse, Nannie, upsetting the lion's plans!\"\n\nElizabeth was silent.\n\n\"What I can't understand,\" he ruminated, \"is how that signature could\npass at the bank; a girl like Nannie able to copy a signature so that a\nbank wouldn't detect it!\"\n\n\"She has always copied Mrs. Maitland's writing,\" Elizabeth said; \"that\nlast week Mrs. Maitland said she could not tell the difference herself.\"\n\nRobert Ferguson looked perfectly incredulous. \"It's astounding!\" he\nsaid; \"and it would be impossible,--if it hadn't happened. Well, come\nalong home with me, Elizabeth. I think I'd better tell you just how the\nmatter stands, so that you can explain it to Blair. I don't care to see\nhim myself--if I can help it. But in the matter of transferring the\nmoney to the estate, we must keep Nannie's name out of it, and I want\nyou to tell him how he and I must patch it up.\"\n\n\"When he returns it, I suppose the executors will give it at once to\nDavid?\" she said.\n\n\"Of course not. It will belong to the estate. Women have no financial\nmoral sense!\"\n\n\"Oh!\" Elizabeth said; and pondered.\n\nJust as he was pulling out his latch-key to open his front door, she\nspoke again: \"If Nannie gives it back to him, Blair will have to send\nit to David, won't he?\"\n\n\"I can't go into Mr. Blair Maitland's ideals of honor,\" her uncle said,\ndryly. \"Legally, if Nannie chooses to make him a gift, he has a right\nto keep it.\"\n\nShe made no reply. She sat down at the library table opposite him, and\nlistened without comment to the information which he desired her to\nconvey to Blair. But long before she got back to the hotel, Blair had\nhad the information.\n\nNannie, left to herself after that distressing interview, sat in the\ndusty desolation of Mrs. Maitland's room, her face hidden in her hands.\n_She needn't have done it_. That was her first clear thought. The\nstrain of that dreadful hour alone in the dining-room, with Death\nbehind the locked door, had been unnecessary! As she realized how\nunnecessary, she felt a resentment that was almost anger at such a\nwaste of pain. Then into the resentment crept a little fright. Mr.\nFerguson's words about wrong-doing began to have meaning. \"Of course it\nwas against the law,\" she told herself, \"but it was not wrong,--there\nis a difference.\" It was incredible to her that Mr. Ferguson did not\nsee the difference. \"Mamma wouldn't have let him speak so to me, if\nshe'd been here,\" she thought, and her lip trembled; \"oh, I wish she\nhadn't died,\" she said; and cried softly for a minute or two. Then it\noccurred to her that she had better go to the River House and tell her\nbrother the whole story. \"If Mr. Ferguson is angry about it perhaps\nBlair had better pay the money back right off; of course I'll give it\nto him the minute it comes to me; but he will know what to do now.\"\n\nShe ran up-stairs to her own room, and began to dress to go out, but\nshe was so nervous that her fingers were all thumbs; \"I don't want\nElizabeth to tell him,\" she said to herself; and tried to hurry,\ndropping her hat-pin and mislaying her gloves; \"oh, where is my veil!\"\nshe said, frantically.\n\nShe was just leaving her room when she heard Blair's voice in the lower\nhall: \"Nancy! Where are you?\"\n\n\"I'm coming,\" she called back; and came running down-stairs. \"Oh, Blair\ndear,\" she said, \"I want to see you so much!\" By that time she was on\nthe verge of tears, and the flush of worry in her cheeks made her so\npretty that her brother looked at her appreciatively.\n\n\"Black is mighty becoming to you, Nancy. Nannie dear, I have something\nto tell you. Come into the parlor!\" His voice, as he put his arm around\nher and drew her into the room, had a ring in it which, in spite of her\npreoccupation, caught her attention. \"Sit down!\" he commanded; and\nthen, standing in front of her, his handsome face alert, he told her\nthat he was not going to contest his mother's will. \"I pitched up a\npenny,\" he said, gaily; \"I was sick and tired of the uncertainty.\n'Heads, I fight; tails, I cave.' It came down tails,\" he said, with a\nhalf-sheepish laugh. \"Well, it will please Elizabeth if I don't fight.\nI'll go into business. I can get a partnership in Haines's office. He\nis a stockbroker, you know.\"\n\nNannie's attention flagged; in the nature of things she could not\nunderstand how important this decision was, so she was not disturbed\nthat it should have been made by the flip of a penny. Blair was apt to\nrely upon chance to make up his mind for him, and in regard to the\nwill, heads or tails was as good a chance as any. In her own\npreoccupation, she had not realized that he had reached the reluctant\nconviction that in any effort to break the will, the legal odds would\nbe against him. But if she had realized it she would have known that\nthe probable hopelessness of litigation would not have helped him much\nin reaching a decision, so the penny judgment would not have surprised\nher. Blair, as he told her about it, was in great spirits. He had been\nentirely sincere in his reluctance to take any step which might\nindicate contempt for his mother's late (if adequate) repentance; so\nnow, though a little rueful about the money, he was distinctly relieved\nthat his taste was not going to be sentimentally offended. He meant to\nlive on what his mother had given him until he made a fortune for\nhimself. For he was going to make a fortune! He was going to stand on\nhis own legs. He was going to buy Elizabeth's interest in him and his\naffairs, buy even her admiration by making this sacrifice of not\nfighting for his rights! He was full of the fervor of it all as he\nstood there telling his sister of his decision. When he had finished,\nhe waited for her outburst of approval.\n\nBut she only nodded nervously; \"Blair, Mr. Ferguson says you've got to\ngive back that money; Mamma's check, you know?\"\n\n\"_What?_\" Blair said; he was standing by the piano, and as he spoke he\nstruck a crashing octave; \"what on earth do you mean?\"\n\n\"Well, he--I--\" It had not occurred to Nannie that it would be\ndifficult to tell Blair, but suddenly it seemed impossible. \"You see,\nMamma didn't exactly--sign the check.\"\n\n\"What are you talking about?\" Blair said, suddenly attentive.\n\n\"She wanted you to have the money,\" Nannie began, faintly.\n\n\"Of course she did; but what do you mean about not signing the check\n'exactly'?\" In his bewilderment, which was not yet alarm, he put his\narm around her, laughing: \"Nancy, what is all this stuff?\"\n\n\"I did for her,\" Nannie said.\n\n\"Did what?\"\n\n\"Signed it.\"\n\n\"Nannie, I don't understand you; do you mean that mother made you\nindorse that certificate? Nancy, do try to be clear!\" He was uneasy\nnow; perhaps some ridiculous legal complication had arisen. \"Some of\ntheir everlasting red tape! Fortunately, I've got the money all right,\"\nhe said to himself, dryly.\n\n\"She wrote the first part of it,\" Nannie began, stammering with the\ndifficulty of explaining what had seemed so simple; \"but she hadn't the\nstrength to sign her name, so I--did it for her.\"\n\nHer brother looked at her aghast. \"Did she tell you to?\"\n\n\"No; she . . . was dead.\"\n\n\"Good God!\" he said. The shock of it made him feel faint. He sat down,\ntoo dumfounded for speech.\n\n\"I had to, you see,\" Nannie explained, breathlessly; she was very much\nfrightened, far more frightened than when she had told Mr. Ferguson. \"I\nhad to, because--because Mamma couldn't. She was ... not alive.\"\n\nBlair suddenly put his hands over his face. \"You forged mother's name!\"\nHis consternation was like a blow; she cringed away from it: \"No;\nI--just wrote it.\"\n\n\"_Nannie!_\"\n\n\"Somebody had to,\" she insisted, faintly.\n\nBlair sprang to his feet and began to pace up and down the room. \"This\nis awful. I haven't a cent!\"\n\n\"Oh,\" she said, with a gasp, \"as far as that goes it doesn't make any\ndifference, except about time. Mr. Ferguson said it didn't make any\ndifference. I'll give it all back to you as soon as I get it. Only\nyou'll have to give it back first.\"\n\n\"Nannie,\" he said, \"for Heaven's sake, tell me _straight_, the whole\nthing.\"\n\nShe told him as well as she could; speaking with that minute\nelaboration of the unimportant so characteristic of minds like hers and\nso maddening to the listener. Blair, in a fury of anxiety, tried not to\ninterrupt, but when she reached Mr. Ferguson's assertion that the\ncertificate had been meant for David Richie, the worried color suddenly\ndropped out of his face.\n\n\"For--_him?_ Nannie!\"\n\n\"No, oh no! It wasn't for David, except just at first--before--not\nwhen--\" She was perfectly incoherent, \"Let me tell you,\" she besought\nhim.\n\n\"If I thought she had meant it for him, I would send it to him before\nnight! Tell me everything,\" he said, passionately.\n\n\"I'm trying to,\" Nannie stammered, \"but you--you keep interrupting me.\nI'll tell you how it was, if you'll just let me, and not keep\ninterrupting. Perhaps she did plan to give it to David. Mr. Ferguson\nsaid she planned to more than two years ago. And even when she was sick\nMr. Ferguson thinks she still meant to.\"\n\n\"I'll fight that damned will to my last breath!\" he burst out.\nFollowing the recoil of disgust at the idea of taking\nanything--\"anything _else_\"--that belonged to David Richie, came the\nshock of feeling that he had been tricked into the sentimentality of\nforgiveness. \"I'll break that will if I take it through every court in\nthe land!\"\n\n\"But Blair! Mamma _didn't_ mean it for him at the last. Don't you see?\nOh, Blair, listen! Don't be so--terrible; you frighten me,\" Nannie\nsaid, squeezing her hands hard together in the effort to keep from\ncrying. \"Listen: she told me on Wednesday, the day before she died,\nthat she wanted to give you a present. She said, 'I must give him a\ncheck.' You see, she was beginning to realize how wrong her will was;\nbut of course she didn't know she was going to die or she would have\nchanged it.\"\n\n\"That doesn't follow,\" Blair said.\n\n\"Then came the last day\"--Nannie could not keep the tears back any\nlonger; \"the last day; but it was too late to do anything about the\nwill. Why, she could hardly speak, it was so near the--the end. And\nthen all of a sudden she remembered that certificate. And she opened\nher eyes and looked at me with such relief, as if she said to herself,\n'I can give him that!' And she told me to bring it to her. And she kept\nsaying, 'Blair--Blair--Blair.' And oh, it was pitiful to see her\n_hurry_ so to write your name! And then she wrote it; but before she\ncould sign her name, her hand sort of--fell. And she tried so hard to\nraise it so she could sign it; but she couldn't. And she kept muttering\nthat she _had_ written it 'many times, many times'; I couldn't just\nhear what she said; she sort of--mumbled, you know. Oh, it was\ndreadful!\"\n\n\"And then?\" Blair said, breathlessly. Nannie was speechless.\n\n\"Then?\" he insisted, trembling.\n\n\"Then . . . she died,\" Nannie whispered.\n\n\"But the signature! The signature! How--\"\n\n\"In the night, I--\" She stopped; terror spread over her face as wind\nspreads over a pool. \"In the night, at three o'clock, I came\ndown-stairs and--\" She stopped, panting for breath. He put his arm\naround her soothingly.\n\n\"Try and tell me, dear. I didn't mean to be savage.\" His face had\nrelaxed. Of course it was dreadful, this thing Nannie had done; but it\nwas not so dreadful as the thought that he had taken money intended for\nDavid Richie. When he had quieted her, and she was able to speak again,\nshe told him just what she had done there in the dining-room at three\no'clock in the morning.\n\n\"But didn't you know it was wrong?\" he said; \"that it was a criminal\noffense!\" He could not keep the dismay out of his voice.\n\n\"I did it for Mamma's sake and yours,\" she said, quailing.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, and in his relief at knowing that he need not think of\nDavid Richie, he was almost gay--\"well, you mustn't tell any one else\nyour motive for committing a--\" Nannie suddenly burst out crying.\n\"Mamma wouldn't say that to me,\" she said, \"Mamma was never cross to me\nin her whole life! But you and Mr. Ferguson--\" she could not go on, for\ntears. He was instantly contrite and tender; but even as he tried to\ncomfort her, he frowned; of course in the end he would suffer no loss,\nbut the immediate situation was delicate and troublesome. \"I'll have to\ngo and see Mr. Ferguson, I suppose,\" he said. \"You mustn't speak of it\nto any one, dear; things really might get serious, if anybody but Mr.\nFerguson knew about it. Don't tell a soul; promise me?\"\n\nShe promised, and Blair left her very soberly. The matter of the money\nwas comparatively unimportant; it was his, subject only to the\nformality of its transfer to the estate. But that David Richie should\nhave been connected even indirectly with his personal affairs was\nexquisitely offensive to him--and Elizabeth knew about it! \"She's\nprobably sitting there by the window, looking like that robin, and\nthinking about him,\" he said to himself angrily, as he hurried back to\nthe River House. There seemed to be no escape from David Richie. \"I\nfeel like a dog with a dead hen hanging round his neck,\" he said to\nhimself, in grimly humorous disgust; \"I can't get away from him!\"\n\nHe found his wife in their parlor at the hotel, but she was not in that\nlistless attitude that he had grown to expect,--huddled in a chair, her\nchin in her hand, her eyes watching the slow roll of the river. Instead\nshe was alert.\n\n\"Blair!\" she said, almost before he had closed the door behind him; \"I\nhave something to tell you.\"\n\n\"I know about it,\" he said, gravely; \"I have seen Nannie.\"\n\nElizabeth looked at him in silence.\n\n\"Would you have supposed that Nannie, _Nannie_, of all people! would\nhave had the courage to do such a thing?\" he said, nervously; it\noccurred to him that if he could keep the conversation on Nannie's act,\nperhaps that--that name could be avoided. \"Think of the mere courage of\nit, to say nothing of its criminality.\"\n\n\"She didn't know she was doing wrong.\"\n\n\"No; of course not. But it's a mighty unpleasant matter.\"\n\n\"Uncle says it can be arranged so that her name needn't come into it.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" he agreed.\n\nElizabeth did not speak, but the look in her eyes was a demand.\n\n\"It's going to be rather tough for us, to wait until she hands it over\nto me,\" Blair said.\n\n\"To _you_?\"\n\nThe moment had come! He came and knelt beside her, and kissed her; she\ndid not repulse him. She continued to look at him steadily. Then very\ngently, she said, \"And when Nannie gives it to you, what will you do\nwith it?\"\n\nBlair drew in his breath as if bracing himself for a struggle. Then he\ngot on his feet, pulled up one of the big, plush-covered arm-chairs,\ntook out his cigarette-case, and struck a match. His hand shook. \"Do\nwith it? Why, invest it. I am going into business, Elizabeth. I decided\nto this morning. If you would care to know why I have given up the idea\nof contesting the will, I'll tell you. I don't want to bore you,\" he\nended, wistfully. Apparently she did not hear him.\n\n\"Did Nannie tell you that that money was meant for a hospital?\"\n\nBlair sat up straight, and the match, burning slowly, scorched his\nfingers. He threw it down with an exclamation; his face was red with\nhis effort to speak quietly. \"She told me of your uncle's\nmisunderstanding of the situation. There is no possible doubt that my\nmother meant the money for me. If I thought otherwise--\"\n\n\"If you will talk to Uncle Robert, you will think otherwise.\"\n\n\"Of course I'll go and see Mr. Ferguson; I shall have to, to arrange\nabout the transfer of the money to the estate, so that it can come back\nto me through the legitimate channel of a gift from Nannie; in other\nwords, she will carry out my mother's purpose legally, instead--poor\nold Nannie! of carrying it out criminally, as she tried to do. But I\nwon't go to your uncle to discuss my mother's purpose, Elizabeth. I am\nperfectly satisfied that she meant to give me that money.\"\n\nShe was silent.\n\n\"Of course,\" he went on, \"I will hear what Mr. Ferguson has to say\nabout this idea of his--and yours, too, apparently,\" he ended, bitterly.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"and mine.\" The words seemed to tingle as she spoke\nthem.\n\n\"Oh, Elizabeth!\" he cried, \"aren't you ever going to care for me? You\nactually think me capable of keeping money intended for--some one else!\"\n\nHis indignation was too honest to be ignored. \"I suppose that you\nbelieve it is yours,\" she said with an effort; \"but you believe it\nbecause you don't know the facts. When you see Uncle Robert, you will\nnot believe it.\" And with that meager acknowledgment of his honesty he\nhad to be content.\n\nThey did not speak of it again during that long dull Sunday afternoon,\nbut each knew that the other thought of nothing else. The red September\nsun was sinking into a smoky haze on the other side of the river, when\nBlair suddenly took up his hat and went out. It had occurred to him\nthat if he could correct Robert Ferguson's misapprehension, Elizabeth\nwould correct hers. He would not wait for business hours to clear\nhimself in her eyes; he would go and see her uncle at once. It was dusk\nwhen he pushed into Mr. Ferguson's library, almost in advance of the\nservant who announced him: \"Mr. Ferguson!\" he said peremptorily;\n\"Nannie has told me. And Elizabeth gave me your message. I have come to\nsay that the transfer shall be made at once. My one wish is that\nNannie's name may not be connected with it in any possible way--of\ncourse she is as innocent as a child.\"\n\n\"It can be arranged easily enough,\" the older man said; he did not rise\nfrom his desk, or offer his hand.\n\n\"But,\" Blair burst out, \"what I came especially to say was that I hear\nyou are under the impression that my mother did not, at the end, mean\nme to have that money?\"\n\n\"I am under that impression. But,\" Robert Ferguson added,\ncontemptuously, \"you need not be too upset. Nannie will give it back to\nyou.\"\n\n\"I am not in the least upset!\" Blair retorted; \"but whether I'm upset\nor not, is not the question. The question is, did my mother change her\nmind about her will, and try to make up for it in this way? I believe,\nfrom all that I know now, that she did. But I have come to ask you\nwhether there is anything that I don't know; anything Nannie hasn't\ntold me, or that she doesn't understand, which leads you to feel as you\ndo?\"\n\n\"You had better sit down.\"\n\n\"If it was just Nannie's idea, I will break the will!\"\n\n\"You had better sit down,\" Mr. Ferguson repeated, coldly, \"and I'll\ntell you the whole business.\"\n\nBlair sat down; his hat, which he had forgotten to take off, was on the\nback of his head; he leaned forward, his fingers white on a cane\nswinging between his knees; he did not look at Elizabeth's uncle, but\nhis eyes showed that he did not lose a word he said. At the end of the\nstatement--brief, fair, spoken without passion or apparent\nprejudice--the tension relaxed and his face cleared; he drew a great\nbreath of relief.\n\n\"It seems to me,\" Robert Ferguson ended, \"that there can be no doubt of\nyour mother's intention.\"\n\n\"I agree with you,\" Blair said, triumphantly, \"there is no possible\ndoubt! She called for the certificate and wrote my name on it. What\nmore do you want than that to prove her intention?\"\n\n\"You have a right to your opinion,\" Mr. Ferguson said, \"and I have a\nright to mine. I cannot see that either opinion affects the situation.\nYou will, as a matter of common honesty, return this money to the\nestate. What Nannie will ultimately do with it, is not my affair. It is\nbetween you and her. I can't see that we need discuss the matter\nfurther.\" He took up his pen with a gesture of dismissal.\n\nBlair's face reddened as if it had been slapped, but he did not rise.\n\"I want you to know, sir, that while my sister's act is, of course,\nentirely indefensible, and I shall immediately return the money which\nshe tried to secure for me, I shall, nevertheless, allow her to give it\nback to me, because it is my conviction that, by my dying mother's\nwish, it belongs to me; not to--to any one else.\"\n\n\"Your convictions have always served your wishes. I will bid you\ngood-evening.\" For an instant Blair hesitated; then, still scarlet with\nanger, took his departure. Mr. Ferguson's belief that he was capable of\nkeeping money intended for--for any one else, was an insult; \"an\nabominable insult!\" he told himself. And it was Elizabeth's belief,\ntoo! He drew in his breath in a groan. \"She thinks I am dishonorable,\"\nhe said. Well, certainly that sneak, Richie, would feel he was avenged\nif he could know how cruel she was; \"damn him,\" Blair said, softly.\n\nHe thought to himself that he could not go back and tell Elizabeth what\nher uncle had said; he could not repeat the insult! Some time, when he\nwas calmer, he would tell her quietly that he had been wronged, that\nshe herself had wronged him. But just now he could not talk to her; he\nwas too angry and too miserable.\n\nSo, walking slowly in the foggy dusk that was pungent with the smoke of\nbonfires on the flats, he suddenly wheeled about and went in the other\ndirection. \"I'll go and have supper with Nannie,\" he thought; \"I'm\nafraid she is dreadfully worried and unhappy,--and all on my account,\ndear old Nancy!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\n\"Do you think,\" Robert Ferguson wrote Mrs. Richie about the middle of\nSeptember--\"do you think you could come to Mercer for a little while\nand look after Nannie? The poor child is so unhappy and so incapable of\nmaking up her mind about herself that I am uneasy about her.\"\n\n\"Of course I will go,\" Mrs. Richie told her son.\n\nDavid had come down to the little house on the seashore to spend Sunday\nwith her, and in the late afternoon they were sitting out on the sand\nin a sunny, sheltered spot watching the slow, smooth heave of the quiet\nsea. David's shoulder was against her knee, his pipe had gone out, and\nhe was looking with lazy eyes at the slipping sparkle of sunshine on\nthe scarcely perceptible waves; sometimes he lifted his marine glasses\nto follow a sail gleaming like a white wing against the opalescent east.\n\n\"I wonder why Nannie is unhappy,\" he ruminated; \"she was never, poor\nlittle Nannie! capable of appreciating Mrs. Maitland; so I don't\nsuppose she loved her?\"\n\n\"She loved her as much as she could,\" Mrs. Richie said; \"and that is\nall any of us can do, David. But she misses her. If a mountain went out\nof your landscape, wouldn't you feel rather blank? Well, Nannie's\nmountain has gone. Yes; I'll go and stay with her, poor child, for a\nwhile, and perhaps bring her back for a fortnight with us--if you\nwouldn't mind?\"\n\n\"Of course I wouldn't mind. Bring her along.\"\n\n\"I wonder if you could close this house for me?\" she said; \"I don't\nlike to shut it up now and leave you without a roof over your head in\ncase you had a chance to take a day off.\"\n\n\"Of course I can close it,\" he said; and added that if he couldn't shut\nup a bandbox of a summer cottage he would be a pretty useless member of\nsociety. \"I'll come down the first chance I get in the next fortnight.\n. . . Mother, I suppose you will see--_her?_\"\n\nMrs. Richie gave him a startled look. \"I suppose I shall.\"\n\nHe was silent for several minutes. She did not dare to help him by a\nword. Then, as if he had wrenched the question up by the roots, torn it\nout of his sealed heart, he said, \"Do you suppose she cares for him?\"\n\nIt was the first time in these later speechless months that he had\nturned to her. Steadying herself on that advice of Robert Ferguson's:\n'when he does blurt it out don't get excited,' she answered, calmly\nenough, \"I don't know.\"\n\nHe struck his heel down into the sand, then pulled out his knife and\nbegan to clean the bowl of his pipe. The blade trembled in his hand.\n\n\"Until I saw her in May,\" he said, \"I suppose I really thought--I\ndidn't formulate it, but I suppose I thought . . .\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"That somehow I would get her yet.\"\n\n\"Oh, David!\" she breathed.\n\nHe glanced at her cynically. \"Don't get agitated, Materna. That May\nvisit cured me. I know I won't. I know she doesn't care for me. But I\ncan't tell whether she cares for him.\"\n\n\"I hope she does,\" she said.\n\nAt which he laughed: \"Do you expect me to agree to that?\"\n\n\"David, think what you are saying!\"\n\n\"My dear mother, have you been under the impression that I am a saint?\"\nhe said, dryly. \"If so let me correct you. I am not. Yes, until I went\nout there in May I always had the feeling that I would get her,\nsomehow, some time.\" He paused; his knife scraped the bowl of his pipe\nuntil the fresh wood showed under the blade. \"I don't know that I ever\nexactly admitted it to myself; but I realize now that the feeling was\nthere.\"\n\n\"You shock me very much,\" she said; and leaning against her knee he\nfelt the quiver that ran through her.\n\n\"I have shocked myself several times in the last few years,\" he said,\nbriefly.\n\nHis mother was silent. Suddenly he began to talk:\n\n\"At first--I mean when it happened; I thought she would send for me,\nand I would take her away from him, and then kill him.\" Her broken\nexclamation made him laugh. \"Don't worry; I was terribly young in those\ndays. I got over all that. It was only just at first; it was the\neverlasting human impulse. The cave-dweller had it, I suppose, when\nsomebody stole his woman. But it's only the body that wants to kill.\nThe mind knows better. The mind knows that life can be a lot better\npunishment than death. I knew he'd get his punishment and I was willing\nto wait for it. I thought that when she left him, his hell would be as\nhot as mine. I took it for granted that she would leave him. I thought\nthere would be a divorce, and then\"--his voice was smothered to the\nbreaking-point; \"then I would get her. Or I would get her without a\ndivorce.\"\n\n\"David!\"\n\nHe did not seem to hear her; his elbows were on his knees, his chin on\nhis two fists; he spoke as if to himself; \"Well; she didn't leave him.\nI suppose she couldn't forgive me. Curious, isn't it? how the mind can\nbelieve two entirely contradictory things at the same time: I realized\nshe couldn't forgive me,--yet I still thought I would get her, somehow.\nMeantime, I consoled myself with the reflection that even if she hated\nme for having pushed her into his arms, she hated him worse. I thought\nthat where I had been stabbed once, he would be stabbed a thousand\ntimes.\" David spoke with that look of primitive joy which must have\nbeen on the face of the cave-dweller when he felt the blood of his\nenemy spurt warm between his fingers.\n\nHelena Richie gave a little cry and shrank back. These were the\nthoughts that her boy had built up between them in these silent years!\nHe gave her a faintly amused glance.\n\n\"Yes, I had my dreams. Bad dreams you would call them, Materna. Now I\ndon't dream any more. After I saw her in May, I got all over such\nnonsense. I realized that perhaps she . . . loved him.\"\n\nHis mother was trembling. \"It frightens me that you should have had\nsuch thoughts,\" she said. She actually looked frightened; her\nleaf-brown eyes were wide with terror.\n\nHer son nuzzled his cheek against her hand; \"Bless your dear heart! it\nfrightens you, because you can't understand. Materna, there are several\nthings you can't understand--and I shouldn't like it if you could!\" he\nsaid, his face sobering with that reverent look which a man gives only\nto his mother; \"There is the old human instinct, that existed before\nlaws or morals or anything else, the man's instinct to keep his woman.\nAnd next to that, there is the realization that when it comes to what\nyou call morals, there is a morality higher than the respectability you\ngood people care so much about--the morality of nature. But of course\nyou don't understand,\" he said again, with a short laugh.\n\n\"I understand a good many things, David.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, I didn't mean to talk about it,\" he said, sighing; \"I don't\nknow what started me; and--and I'm not howling, you know. I was only\nwondering whether _you_ thought she had come to care for him?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" she said, faintly.\n\nHe snapped his knife shut. \"Neither do I. But I guess she does. Nature\nis a big thing, Materna. When a girl's loyalty comes up against that,\nit hasn't much show; especially when nature is assisted by behavior\nlike mine. Yes, I guess by this time she loves him. I'll never get her.\"\n\n\"Oh, David,\" his mother said, tremulously, \"if you could only meet some\nnice, sweet girl, and--\"\n\n\"Nice girl?\" he said, smiling. \"They're scarce, Materna, they're\nscarce. But I mean to get married one of these days. A man in my trade\nought to be married. I sha'n't bother to look for one of those 'sweet\ngirls,' however. I've got over my fondness for sugar. No more\nsentimentalities for me, thank you. I shall marry on strictly\ncommon-sense principles: a good housekeeper, who has good sense, and\ngood looks--\"\n\n\"And a good temper, I hope,\" Mrs. Richie said, almost with temper\nherself; and who can blame her?--he had been so cruelly injured! The\nsweetness, the silent, sunny honesty of the boy, the simple belief in\nthe goodness of his fellow-creatures, had been changed to this! Oh, she\ncould almost hate the girl who had done it! \"A good temper is more\nimportant than anything else,\" she said, hotly.\n\nInstantly the dull cynicism of his face flashed into anger.\n\"Elizabeth's temper,--I suppose that is what you are referring to; her\ntemper was not responsible for what happened. It was my assinine\nconceit.\"\n\nShe winced. \"I didn't mean to hurt you,\" she said. He was silent. \"But\nit is terrible to have you so hard, David.\"\n\n\"Hard? I? I am a mush of amiability. Come now! I oughtn't to have made\nyou low-spirited. It's all an old story. I was only telling you how I\nfelt at first. As for bad thoughts,--I haven't any thoughts now, good\nor bad! I am a most exemplary person. I don't know why I slopped over\nto you, anyhow. So don't think of it again. Materna! Can you see that\nsail?\" He was looking through his glasses; \"it's the eleventh since we\ncame out here.\"\n\n\"But David, that you should think--\"\n\n\"Oh, but I don't think any more,\" he declared, watching the flitting\nwhite gleam on the horizon; \"I always avoid thinking, nowadays. That's\nwhy I am such a promising young medical man. I'm all right and\nperfectly happy. I'll hold my base, I promise you! That's a brig,\nMaterna. Do you know the difference between a brig and a schooner? I\nbet you don't.\"\n\nApparently the moment of confidence was over; he had opened his heart\nand let her see the blackness and bleakness; and now he was closing it\nagain. She was silent. David thrust his pipe into his pocket and turned\nto help her to rise; but she had hidden her face in her hands. \"It is\nmy fault,\" she said, with a gasp; \"it must be my fault! Oh, David, have\nI made you wicked? If you had had a different mother--\" Instantly he\nwas ashamed of himself.\n\n\"Materna! I am a brute to you,\" he said. He flung his arm around her,\nand pressed his face against hers; \"I wish somebody would kick me. You\nmade me wicked? You are the only thing that has kept me anyways\nstraight! Mother--I've been decent; your goodness has saved me\nfrom--several things. I want you to know that. I would have gone right\nstraight to the devil if it hadn't been for your goodness. As for how I\nfelt about Elizabeth, it was just a mood; don't think of it again.\"\n\n\"But you said,\" she whispered; \"_without_ a divorce.\"\n\n\"Well, I--I didn't mean it, I guess,\" he comforted her; \"anyhow, the\njig is up, dear. Even if I had a bad moment now and then in the first\nyear, nothing came of it. Oh, mother, what a beast I am!\" He was\npressing his handkerchief against her tragic eyes. \"Your fault? Your\nonly fault is being so perfect that you can't understand a poor critter\nlike me!\"\n\n\"I do understand. I do understand.\"\n\nIn spite of himself, David laughed. \"You! That's rich.\" He looked at\nher with his old, good smile, tender and inarticulate. \"What would I\nhave done without you? You've stood by and put up with my cussedness\nthrough these three devilish years. It's almost three years, you know,\nand yet I--I don't seem to get over it--Oh, I'm a perfect _girl_! How\ncan you put up with me?\" He laughed again, and hugged her. \"Mother,\nsometimes I almost wish you weren't so good.\"\n\n\"David,\" she burst out passionately, \"I am--\" She stopped, trembling.\n\n\"I take it back,\" he apologized, smiling; \"I seem bent on shocking you\nto-day. You can be as good as you want. Only, once in a while you do\nseem a little remote. Elizabeth used to say she was afraid of you.\"\n\n\"Of _me!_\"\n\n\"Well, an angel like you never could quite understand her,\" he said,\nsoberly.\n\nHis mother was silent; then she said in a low voice:\n\n\"I am not an angel; but perhaps I haven't understood her. I can\nunderstand love, but not hate. Elizabeth never loved you; she doesn't\nknow the meaning of love.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken, dear,\" he said, gently.\n\nThey went back to the house very silently; David's confidences were\nover, but they left their mark on his mother's face. She showed the\nstrain of that talk even a week later when she started on her kindly\nmission to cheer poor Nannie. On the hazy September morning, when\nRobert Ferguson met her in the big, smoky station at Mercer, there were\nnew lines of care in her face. Her landlord, as he persisted in calling\nhimself, noticed them, and was instantly cross; crossness being his way\nof expressing anxiety.\n\n\"You look tired,\" he scolded, as he opened the carriage door for her,\n\"you've got to rest at my house and have something to eat before you go\nto Nannie's; besides, you don't suppose I got you on here just to cheer\nher? You've got to cheer me, too! It's enough to give a man melancholia\nto live next to that empty house of yours, and you owe it to me to be\npleasant--if you can be pleasant,\" he barked.\n\nBut his barking was strangely mild. His words were as rough as ever,\nbut he spoke with a sort of eager gentleness, as if he were trying to\nmake his voice soft enough for some unuttered pitifulness. She was so\npleased to see him, and to hear the kind, gruff voice, that for a\nminute she forgot her anxiety about David, and laughed. And when her\neyes crinkled in that old, gay way, it seemed to Robert Ferguson,\nlooking at her with yearning, as if Mercer, and the September haze, and\nthe grimy old depot hack were suddenly illuminated.\n\n\"Oh, these children!\" he said; \"they are worrying me to death. Nannie\nwon't budge out of that old house; it will have to be sold over her\nhead, to get her into a decent locality. Elizabeth isn't well, but the\nLord only knows what's the matter with her. The doctor says she's all\nright, but she's as grumpy a--her uncle; you can't get a word out of\nher. And Blair has been speculating,\"--he was so cross that, when at\nhis own door he put out his hand to help her from the carriage, she\npatted his arm, and said, \"Come; cheer up!\"\n\nAt which, smiling all over his face, he growled at her that it was a\npretty thing to expect a man to cheer up, with an empty house on his\nhands. \"You seem to think I'm made of money! You take the house _now_;\ndon't wait till that callow doctor is ready to settle down here. If\nyou'll move in now, I'll cheer up--and give Elizabeth the rent for\npin-money.\" He was really cheerful by this time just because he was\nable to scold her, but behind his scolding there was always this new\ngentleness. Later, when he spoke again of the house, her face fell.\n\n\"I am doubtful about our coming to Mercer.\"\n\n\"Doubtful?\" he said; \"what's all this? There never was a woman yet who\nknew her own mind for a day at a time--except Mrs. Maitland. You told\nme that David was coming here next spring, and I've been keeping this\nhouse for you; I've lost five months' rent\"--there was a worried note\nin his voice; \"what in thunder?\" he demanded.\n\nMrs. Richie sighed. \"I don't suppose I ought to tell you, but I can't\nseem to help it. I discovered the other day that David is not\nheart-whole, yet. He is dreadfully bitter; dreadfully! I don't believe\nit's prudent for him to live in Mercer. Do you? He would be constantly\nseeing Elizabeth.\"\n\nShe had had her breakfast, and they had gone into Mr. Ferguson's garden\nso that he might throw some crumbs to the pigeons and smoke his morning\ncigar before taking her to the Maitland house. They were sitting now in\nthe long arbor, where the Isabella grapes were ripening sootily in the\nsparse September sunshine which sifted down between the yellowing\nleaves, and touched Mrs. Richie's brown hair; Robert Ferguson saw, with\na pang, that there were some white threads in the soft locks. His eyes\nstung, so he barked as gruffly as he could.\n\n\"Well, suppose he does see her? You can't wrap him up in cotton batting\nfor the rest of his life. That's what you've always tried to do, you\nhen with one chicken! For the Lord's sake, let him alone. Let him take\nhis medicine like any other man. After he gets over the nasty taste of\nit, he'll find there's sugar in the world yet; just as I did. Only I\nhope he won't be so long about it as I was.\"\n\nShe sighed, and her soft eyes filled. \"But you don't know how he\ntalked. Oh, I can't help thinking it must be my fault! If he had had\nanother kind of a mother, if his own mother had lived--\"\n\n\"Own grandmother!\" said Robert Ferguson, disgustedly; \"the only trouble\nwith you as a mother, is that you've been too good to the cub. If you'd\nknocked his head against the wall once or twice, you'd have made a man\nof him. My dear, you really must not be a goose, you know. It's the one\nthing I can't stand. Helena,\" he interrupted himself, chuckling, \"you\nwill be pleased to know that Cherry-pie (begging her pardon!) thinks\nthat David will ultimately console himself by falling in love with\nNannie! 'It would be very nice,' she says.\"\n\nThey both laughed, then David's mother sighed: \"But just think how\ndelightful to feel that life is as simple as that,\" she said.\n\nRobert Ferguson picked a grape, and took careful aim at a pigeon;\n\"Helena,\" he said, in a low voice, \"before you see Nannie, perhaps I\nought to tell you something. I wouldn't, only I know she will, and you\nought to understand it. Can you keep a secret?\"\n\n\"I can,\" Mrs. Richie said briefly.\n\n\n\"I believe it,\" he said, with a sudden dryness. Then he told her the\nstory of the certificate.\n\n\"What! Nannie forged? _Nannie!_\"\n\n\"We don't use that word; it isn't pretty. But that's what it amounts\nto, of course. And that's where David's money went.\"\n\n\"I suppose Mrs. Maitland changed her mind at the last,\" Mrs. Richie\nsaid; \"well, I'm glad she did. It would have been too cruel if she\nhadn't given something to Blair.\"\n\n\"I don't think she did,\" he declared; \"changing her mind wasn't her\nstyle; she wasn't one of your weak womanish creatures. _She_ wouldn't\nhave said she was coming to live in Mercer, and then tried to back out\nof it! No, she simply wrote Blair's name by mistake. Her mind wandered\nconstantly in those last days. And seeing what she had done, she didn't\nindorse it.\"\n\nMrs. Richie looked doubtful. \"I think she meant it for him.\"\n\nRobert Ferguson laughed grimly. \"_I_ think she didn't; but you'll be a\ngreat comfort to Nannie. Poor Nannie! She is unhappy, but not in the\nleast repentant. She insists that she did right! Would you have\nsupposed that a girl of her age could be so undeveloped, morally?\"\n\n\"She's only undeveloped legally,\" she amended; \"and what can you\nexpect? What chance has she had to develop in any way?\"\n\n\"She had the chance of living with one of the finest women I ever\nknew,\" he said, stiffly, and paused for their usual wrangle about Mrs.\nMaitland. As they rose to go indoors, he looked at his guest, and shook\nhis head. \"Oh, Helena, how conceited you are!\"\n\n\"I? Conceited?\" she said, blankly.\n\n\"You think you are a better judge than I am,\" he complained.\n\n\"Nonsense!\" she said, blushing charmingly; but she insisted on walking\ndown to Nannie's, instead of letting him take her in the carriage; a\ncarriage is not a good place to ward off a proposal.\n\nAt the Maitland house she found poor Nannie wandering vaguely about in\nthe garret. \"I am putting away Mamma's clothes,\" she said, helplessly.\nBut a minute later she yielded, with tears of relief, to Mrs. Richie's\nplacid assumption of authority;\n\n\"I am going to stay a week with you, and to-morrow I'll tell you what\nto do with things. Just now you must sit down and talk to me.\"\n\nAnd Nannie sat down, with a sigh of comfort. There were so many things\nshe wanted to say to some one who would understand! \"And you do\nunderstand,\" she said, sobbing a little. \"Oh, I am so lonely without\nMamma! She and I always understood each other. You know she meant the\nmoney for Blair, don't you, Mrs. Richie? Mr. Ferguson won't believe me!\"\n\n\"Yes; I am sure she did,\" Mrs. Richie said, heartily; \"but dear, you\nought not to have--\"\n\nNannie, comforted, said: \"Well, perhaps not; considering that I can\ngive it to him. But I didn't know that, you know, when I did it.\"\nPretty much all that day, poor Nannie poured out her full little heart\nto her kind listener; they sat down together at the office-dining-room\ntable--at the head of which stood a chair that no one ever dreamed of\noccupying; and Harris shuffled about as he had for nearly thirty years,\nserving coarse food on coarse china, and taking a personal interest in\nthe conversation. After dinner they went into Nannie's parlor that\nsmelt of soot, where the little immortal canvas still hung in its\ngleaming gold frame near the door, and the cut glass of the great\nchandeliers sparkled faintly through slits in the old brown\npaper-muslin covers. Sometimes, as they talked, the house would shake,\nand Nannie's light voice be drowned in the roar of a passing train\nwhose trail of smoke brushed against the windows like feathers of\ndarkness. But Nannie gave no hint that she would ever go away and leave\nthe smoke and noise, and just at first Mrs. Richie made no such\nsuggestion. She did nothing but infold the vague, frightened, unhappy\ngirl in her own tranquillity. Sometimes she lured her out to walk or\ndrive, and once she urged her to ask Elizabeth and Blair to come to\nsupper.\n\n\"Oh, Blair won't come while you are here!\" Nannie said, simply; and the\ncolor came into David's mother's face. \"I know,\" Nannie went on, \"that\nElizabeth thinks Mamma meant that money for David. And she is not\npleased because Mr. Ferguson won't make the executors give it to him.\"\n\nMrs. Richie laughed. \"Well, that is very foolish in Elizabeth; nobody\ncould give your mother's money to David. I must straighten that out\nwith Elizabeth.\"\n\nBut she did not have a chance to do so; Elizabeth as well as Blair\npreferred not to come to the old house while David's mother was there.\nAnd Mrs. Richie, unable to persuade Nannie to go back to Philadelphia\nwith her, stayed on, in the kindness of her heart, for still another\nweek. When she finally fixed a day for her return, she said to herself\nthat at least Blair and Elizabeth would not be prevented by her\npresence from doing what they could to cheer Nannie.\n\n\"But is she going to live on in that doleful house forever?\" Robert\nFerguson protested.\n\n\"She's like a poor little frightened snail,\" Helena Richie said. \"You\ndon't realize the shock to her of that night when she--she tried to do\nwhat she thought Mrs. Maitland wanted to have done. She is scared\nstill. She just creeps in and out of that dingy front door, or about\nthose awful, silent rooms. It will take time to bring her into the\nsunshine.\"\n\n\"Helena,\" he said, abruptly--she and Nannie had had supper with him and\nwere just going home; Nannie had gone up-stairs to put on her hat.\n\"Helena, I've been thinking a good deal about your cruelty to me.\"\n\nShe laughed: \"Oh, you are impossible!\"\n\n\"No, I'm only permanent. Don't laugh; just listen to me.\" He was\nevidently nervous; the old friendly bullying had been put aside; he was\nvery grave, and was plainly finding it difficult to say what he wanted\nto say: \"I don't know what your reason is for refusing me, but I know\nit isn't a good reason. You are fond of me, and yet you keep on saying\n'no' in this exasperating way;--upon my word,\" he interrupted himself,\ndespairingly, \"I could shake you, sometimes, it is so exasperating! You\nlike me, well enough; but you won't marry me.\"\n\n\"No, I won't,\" she assured him, gently.\n\n\"It is so unreasonable of you,\" he said, simply, \"that it makes me\nthink you've got some bee in your bonnet: some silly woman-notion. You\nthink--Heaven knows what you think! perhaps that--that you ought not to\nmarry because of something--anything--\" he stammered with earnestness;\n\"but I want you to know this: that I don't _care_ what your reason is!\nYou may have committed murder, for all the difference it makes to me.\"\nThe clumsy and elaborate lightness of his words trembled with the\nseriousness of his voice. \"You may have broken every one of the Ten\nCommandments; _I_ don't care! Helena, do you understand? It's nothing\nto me! You may have broken--_all of them_.\" He spoke with solemn\npassion, holding out his hands toward her; his voice shook, but his\nmelancholy face was serene with knowledge and understanding. \"Oh, my\ndear,\" he said, \"I love you and you are fond of me. That's all I care\nabout! Nothing else, nothing else.\"\n\nHer start of attention, her dilating eyes, made the tears spring to his\nown eyes. \"Helena, you do believe me, don't you?\"\n\nShe could not answer him; she had grown pale and then red, then pale\nagain. \"Oh,\" she said in a whisper, \"you are a good man! What have I\ndone to deserve such a friend? But no, dear friend, no.\"\n\nHe struck her shoulder heavily, as if she had been another man. \"Well,\nanyway,\" he said, \"you'll remember that when you are willing, I am\nwaiting?\"\n\nShe nodded. \"I shall never forget your goodness,\" she said, brokenly.\n\nHe did not try to detain her with arguments or entreaties, but as she\nturned toward the library door he suddenly pushed it shut, and quietly\ntook her in his arms and kissed her.\n\nShe went away quite speechless. She did not even remember to say\ngood-night and good-by to Miss White, although she was to leave Mercer\nthe next morning. When Blair heard that Mrs. Richie was coming to stay\nwith Nannie he said, briefly, \"I won't come in while she is here.\" He\nwrote to his sister during those three weeks and sent her\nflowers--kindness to Nannie was a habit with Blair; and indeed he\nreally missed seeing her, and was glad for other reasons than his own\nembarrassment when he heard that her visitor was going away. \"I\nunderstand Mrs. Richie takes the 7.30 to-night,\" he said to his wife.\nElizabeth was silent; it did not occur to her to mention that she had\nseen Nannie and heard that Mrs. Richie had decided to stay over another\nnight. She rarely volunteered any information to Blair.\n\n\"Elizabeth,\" he said, \"what do you say to going down to Willis's for\nsupper, and rowing home in the moonlight? We can drop in and see Nannie\non the way back to the hotel--after Mrs. Richie has gone.\" He saw some\nlistless excuse trembling on her lips, and interrupted her: \"Do say\n'yes'! It is months since we have been on the river.\"\n\nShe hesitated, then seemed to reach some sudden decision. \"Yes,\" she\nsaid, \"I'll go.\"\n\nBlair's face lighted with pleasure. Perhaps the silence which had\nhardened between them since the day the question of his money had been\ndiscussed would break now.\n\nThe late afternoon was warm with the yellow haze of October sunshine\nwhen they walked out over the bridge to the toll-house wharf, where\nBlair hired a boat. He made her as comfortable as he could in the\nstern, and when he gave her the tiller-ropes she took them in a\nbusiness-like way, as if really entering into the spirit of his little\nexpedition. A moment later they were floating down the river; there was\nnearly half a mile of furnaces and slag-banked shore before they left\nMercer's smoke and grime behind them and began to drift between\nlow-lying fields or through narrow reaches where the vineyard-covered\nhills came down close to the water.\n\n\"Elizabeth, what do you say to going East next month?\" Blair said;\n\"perhaps we can persuade Nannie to go, too.\"\n\nShe was leaning back against the cushions he had arranged for her,\nholding her white parasol so that it hid her face. \"I don't see,\" she\nsaid, \"how you can afford to travel much; where will you get the money?\"\n\n\"Oh, it has all been very easily arranged; Nannie can draw pretty\nfreely against the estate now, and she makes me an 'allowance,' so to\nspeak, until things are settled; then she'll hand my principal over to\nme. It's a nuisance not to have it now; but we can get along well\nenough.\"\n\nThen Elizabeth asked her question: \"And when you get the principal,\nwhat will you do with it?\"\n\n\"Invest it; pretty tough, isn't it, when you think what I ought to have\nhad?\"\n\n\"And when,\" said Elizabeth, very softly, \"will you build the hospital?\"\nShe lifted her parasol slightly, and gave him a look that was like a\nknife; then lowered it again.\n\n\"Build the hospital! What hospital?\"\n\n\"The hospital near the Works, that your mother put that money aside\nfor.\"\n\nBlair's hands tightened on his oars. Instinctively he knew that a\ncritical moment was confronting him. He did not know just what the\ndanger in it was, but he knew there was danger. \"My mother changed her\nmind about that, Elizabeth.\"\n\nShe lifted the parasol again, and looked full at him; the white shadow\nof the silk made the dark amber of her unsmiling eyes singularly\nluminous. \"No,\" she said; \"your mother did not change her mind. Nannie\nthought she did, but it was not so.\" She spoke with stern certainty.\n\"Your mother didn't mean you to have that money. She meant it for--a\nhospital.\"\n\nBlair stopped rowing and leaned on his oars. \"Why don't you speak his\nname?\" he said, between his teeth.\n\nThe parasol fell back on her shoulder; she grew very white; the hard\nline that used to be a dimple was like a gash in her cheek; she looked\nsuddenly old. \"I will certainly speak his name: _David Richie_. Your\nmother meant the money for David Richie.\"\n\n\"That,\" said Blair, \"is a matter of opinion. You think she did. I think\nshe didn't. I think she meant it for the person whose name she wrote on\nthe certificate. That person will keep it.\"\n\nElizabeth was silent. Blair began to row again, softly. The anger in\nhis face died out and left misery behind it. Oh, how she hated him; and\nhow she loved--_him_. At that moment Blair hated David as one only\nhates the human creature one has injured. They did not speak again for\nthe rest of the slow drift down to Willis's. Once Blair opened his lips\nto bid her notice that the overhanging willows and chestnuts mirrored\nthemselves so clearly in the water that the skiff seemed to cut through\nautumnal foliage, and the sound of the ripple at the prow was like the\nrustle of leaves; but the preoccupation in her face silenced him. It\nwas after four when, brushing past a fringe of willows, the skiff\nbumped softly against a float half hidden in the yellowing sedge and\ngrass at Willis's landing. Blair got out, and drawing the boat\nalongside, held up his hand to his wife, but she ignored his\nassistance. As she sprang lightly out, the float rocked a little and\nthe water splashed over the planks. There was a dank smell of wet wood\nand rankly growing water-weeds. A ray of sunshine, piercing the roof of\nwillow leaves, struck the single blossom of a monkey-flower, that\nsparkled suddenly in the green darkness like a topaz.\n\n\"Elizabeth,\" Blair said in a low voice--he was holding the gunwale of\nthe boat and he did not look at her; \"Elizabeth, all I want money for\nis to give you everything you want.\" She was silent. He made the skiff\nfast and followed her up the path to the little inn on the bank. There\nwere some tables out under the locust-trees, and a welcoming landlord\ncame hurrying to meet them with suggestions of refreshments.\n\n\"What will you have?\" Blair asked.\n\n\"Anything--nothing; I don't care,\" Elizabeth said; and Blair gave an\norder he thought would please her.\n\nBelow them the river, catching the sunset light, blossomed with a\nthousand stars. Elizabeth watched the dancing glitter absently; when\nBlair, forgetting for a moment the depression of the last half-hour,\nsaid impulsively, \"Oh, how beautiful that is!\" she nodded, and came out\nof her abstraction to call his attention to the reflected gold of a\ngreat chestnut on the other side of the stream.\n\n\"Are you warm enough?\" he asked. He said to himself, with a sigh of\nrelief, that evidently she had dropped the dangerous subject of the\nhospital. \"There is a chill in these October evenings as the sun goes\ndown,\" he reminded her.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Elizabeth,\" he burst out, \"why can't we talk sometimes? Haven't we\nanything in common? Can't we ever talk, like ordinary husbands and\nwives? You would show more civility to a beggar!\" But as he spoke the\nwaiter pushed his tray between them, and she did not answer. When Blair\npoured out a glass of wine for her she shook her head.\n\n\"I don't want anything.\"\n\nHe looked at her in despair: \"I love you. I suppose you wouldn't\nbelieve me if I should try to tell you how I love you--and yet you\ndon't give me a decent word once a month!\"\n\n\"Blair,\" she said, quietly, \"that is final, is it--about the money? You\nare going to keep it?\"\n\n\"I am certainly going to keep it.\"\n\nElizabeth's eyes narrowed. \"It is final,\" she repeated, slowly.\n\n\"You are angry,\" he cried, \"because I won't give the money my mother\ngave me, all the money I have in the world, to the man whom you threw\noff like an old glove!\"\n\n\"No,\" she said, slowly, \"I don't _think_ I am angry. But it seems\nsomehow to be more than I can bear; a sort of last straw, I suppose,\"\nshe said, smiling faintly. \"But I'm not angry, I think. Still, perhaps\nI am. I don't really know.\"\n\nBlair struck a match under the table. His hand holding his cigarette\ntrembled. \"To the best of my knowledge and belief, Elizabeth, I am\nhonest. I believe my mother meant me to have that money. She did not\nmean to have it go to--to a hospital.\"\n\n\nElizabeth dug the ferrule of her parasol into the gravel at her feet.\n\"It is David's money. You took his wife. Now you are taking his money.\n. . . You can't keep both of them.\" She said this very gently, so\ngently that for a moment he did not grasp the sense of her words. When\nhe did it seemed to him that she did not herself realize what she had\nsaid, for immediately, in the same calmly matter-of-fact way, she began\nto speak of unimportant things: the river was very low, wasn't it? What\na pity they were cutting the trees on the opposite hill. \"They are\nburning the brush,\" she said; \"do you smell the smoke? I love the smell\nof burning brush in October.\" She was simpler and pleasanter than she\nhad been for a long time. But he could not know that it was because she\nfelt, inarticulately, that her burden had been lifted; she herself\ncould not have said why, but she was almost happy. Blair was confused\nto the point of silence by her abrupt return to the commonplace. He\nglanced at her with furtive anxiety. \"Oh, see the moon!\" Elizabeth\nsaid, and for a moment they watched the great disk of the Hunter's moon\nrising in the translucent dusk behind the hills.\n\n\"That purple haze in the east is like the bloom on a plum,\" Blair said.\n\n\"I think we had better go now,\" Elizabeth said, rising. But though she\nhad seemed so friendly, she did not even turn her head to see if he\nwere following her, and he had to hurry to overtake her as she went\ndown the path to the half-sunken float that was rocking slightly in the\ngrassy shallows. As he knelt, steadying the boat with one hand, he held\nthe other up to her, and this time she did not repulse him; but when\nshe put her hand into his, he kissed it with abrupt, unhappy\npassion,--and she drew it from him sharply. When she took her place in\nthe stern and lifted the tiller-ropes she looked at him, gathering up\nhis oars, with curious gentleness. . . .\n\nShe was sorry for him, for he seemed to care so much;--and this was the\nend! She had tried to bear her life. Nobody could imagine how hard she\nhad tried; life had been her punishment, so with all her soul and all\nher body, she had tried to bear it! But this was the end. It was not\npossible to try any more. \"I have borne it as long as I can,\" she\nthought. Yet as she had said, she was not angry. She wondered, vaguely,\nlistening to the dip of the oars, at this absence of anger. She had\nbeen able to talk about the bonfires, and she had thought the moon\nbeautiful. No; she was not angry. Or if she were, then her anger was\nunlike all the other angers that had scourged and torn the surface of\nher life; they had been storms, all clamor and confusion and blinding\nflashes, with more or less indifference to resulting ruin. But this\nanger, which could not be recognized as anger, was a noiseless\ncataclysm in the very center of her being; a tidal wave, that was\nlifting and lifting, moving slowly, too full for sound, in the\nresistless advance of an absorbing purpose of ruin. \"I am not angry,\"\nshe said to herself; \"but I think I am dying.\"\n\nThe pallor of her face frightened Blair, who was straining at his oars\nagainst the current: \"Elizabeth! What is the matter? Shall I stop?\nShall we go ashore? You are ill!\"\n\n\"No; I'm not. Go on, please.\"\n\n\"But there is something the matter!\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"Don't stop. We've gone ever so far down-stream,\njust in this minute.\"\n\nBlair looked at her anxiously. A little later he tried to make her\ntalk; asked her how she felt, and called her attention to the bank of\nclouds that was slowly climbing up the sky. But she was silent. As\nusual, she seemed to have nothing to say to him. He rowed steadily, in\nlong, beautiful strokes, and she sat watching the dark water lap and\nglimmer past the side of the skiff. As they worked up-stream, the sheen\nof oil began to show again in faint and rocking iridescence; once she\nleaned over and touched the water with her fingers; then looked at them\nwith a frown.\n\n\"Look out!\" Blair said; \"trim a little, will you?\"\n\nShe sat up quickly: \"I wonder if it is easy to drown?\"\n\n\"Mighty easy--if you lean too hard on the gunwale,\" he said,\ngood-naturedly.\n\n\"Does it take very long?\"\n\n\"To drown? I never tried it, but I believe not; though I understand\nthat it's unpleasant while it lasts.\" He watched her wistfully; if he\ncould only make her smile!\n\n\"I suppose dying is generally unpleasant,\" she said, and glanced down\ninto the black oily water with a shiver.\n\nIt was quite dark by this time, and Blair was keeping close to the\nshore to avoid the current narrowing between the piers of the old\nbridge. When they reached Mrs. Todd's wharf Elizabeth was still staring\ninto the water.\n\n\"It is so black here, so dirty! I wouldn't like to have it touch me.\nIt's cleaner down at Willis's,\" she said, thoughtfully. Blair, making\nfast at the landing, agreed: \"Yes, if I wanted a watery grave I'd\nprefer the river at Willis's to this.\" Then he offered her a pleading\nhand; but she sat looking at the water. \"How clean the ocean is,\ncompared to a river,\" she said; then noticed his hand. She took it\ncalmly enough, and stepped out of the boat. She had forgotten, he\nthought, her displeasure about the money; there was only the usual\ndetachment. When he said it was too early to go to Nannie's,--\"it isn't\nseven yet, and Mrs. Richie won't leave the house until a quarter past;\"\nshe agreed that they had better go to the hotel.\n\n\"What do you say to the theater to-night?\" he asked. But she shook her\nhead.\n\n\"You go; I would rather be alone.\"\n\n\"I hear there's a good play in town?\"\n\nShe was silent.\n\nBlair said something under his breath with angry hopelessness. This was\nalways the way so far as any personal relation between them went; she\ndid not seem to see him; she did not even hear what he was saying. \"You\nalways want to be alone, so far as I am concerned,\" he said. She made\nno answer. After dinner he took himself off. \"She doesn't want me\nround, so I'll clear out,\" he said, sullenly; he had not the heart even\nto go to Nannie's. \"I'll drop into the theater, or perhaps I'll just\nwalk,\" he thought, drearily. He wandered out into the street, but the\nsky had clouded over and there was a soft drizzle of rain, so he turned\ninto the first glaring entrance that yawned at him from the pavement.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\nWhen Blair came home, a little after eleven, she had gone.\n\nAt first he did not grasp the significance of her absence. He called to\nher from their parlor: \"I want to tell you about the play; perfect\ntrash!\" No answer. He glanced through the open door of her bedroom; not\nthere. He hurried to his own room, crying: \"Elizabeth! Where are you?\"\nThen stood blankly waiting. Had she gone down-stairs? He went out into\nthe hall and, leaning over the banisters, listened to the\nstillness--that unhuman stillness of a hotel corridor; but there was no\nbang of an iron door, no clanking rumble of an ascending elevator. Had\nshe gone out? He looked at his watch, and his heart came up into his\nthroat; out--at this hour! But perhaps after he had left her, she had\nsuddenly decided to spend the night at her uncle's or Nannie's. In that\ncase she would have left word in the office. He was thrusting his arms\ninto his overcoat and settling his hat on his head, even while he was\ndashing downstairs to inquire:\n\n\"Has Mrs. Maitland left any message for me?\"\n\nThe clerk looked vague: \"We didn't see her go out, sir. But I suppose\nshe went by the ladies' entrance. No; she didn't leave any message,\nsir.\"\n\nBlair suddenly knew that he was frightened. He could not have said why.\nCertainly he was not conscious of any reason for fright; but some blind\ninstinct sent a wave of alarm all through him. His knees felt cold;\nthere was a sinking sensation just below his breast-bone.\n\n\"What an ass I am!\" he said to himself; \"she has gone to her uncle's,\nof course.\" He said something of the kind, with elaborate carelessness,\nto the clerk; \"if she comes back before I do, just say I have gone out\non an errand.\" He was frightened, but not to the extent of letting that\ninquisitive idiot behind the counter know it. \"If he had been attending\nto his business,\" he thought, angrily, \"he would have seen her go, and\nhe could have told me when it was. I'll go to Mr. Ferguson's. Of course\nshe's there.\"\n\nHe stood on the curb-stone for a minute, looking for a carriage; but\nthe street was deserted. He could not take the time to go to the\nlivery-stable. He started hurriedly; once he broke into a run, then\nchecked himself with the reminder that he was a fool. As he drew near\nher uncle's house, he began to defend himself against disappointment:\n\"She's at Nannie's. Why did I waste time coming here? I know she is at\nNannie's!\"\n\nRobert Ferguson's house was dark, except for streaks of light under the\nblinds of the library windows. Blair, springing up the front steps,\nrang; then held his breath to listen for some one coming through the\nhall; his heart seemed smothering in his throat. \"I _know_ she isn't\nhere; she's at Nannie's,\" he told himself. He was acutely conscious of\nthe dank smell of the frosted honeysuckle clinging limply to the old\niron trellis that inclosed the veranda; but when the door opened he was\ncasual enough--except for a slight breathlessness.\n\n\"Mr. Ferguson! is Elizabeth here?\"\n\n\"No,\" Robert Ferguson said, surprised, \"was she coming here?\"\n\n\"She was to be here, or--or at Nannie's,\" Blair said, carelessly, \"I\ndidn't know which. I'll go and get her there.\" His own words reassured\nhim, and he apologized lightly. \"Sorry to have disturbed you, sir.\nGood-night!\" And he was gone before another question could be asked.\nBut out in the street he found himself running. \"Of course she's at\nNannie's!\" he said, panting. He even had a twinge of anger at Elizabeth\nfor giving him all this trouble. \"She ought to have left word,\" he\nthought, crossly. It was a relief to be cross; nothing very serious can\nhave happened to a person who merely makes you cross. The faint drizzle\nof the early evening had turned to rain, which added to his irritation.\n\"She's all right; and it's confoundedly unpleasant to get soaking wet,\"\nhe reflected. Yes; he was honestly cross. Yet in spite of the\nreassurances of his mind and his temper, his body was still frightened;\nhe was hurrying; his breath came quickly. He dashed on, so absorbed in\ndenying his alarm that on one of the crossings only a quick leap kept\nhim from being knocked down by a carriage full of revelers. \"Here, you!\nLook out! What's the matter with you?\" the cab-driver yelled, pulling\nhis horses back and sidewise, but not before the pole of the hack had\ngrazed Blair's shoulder. There was a screech of laughter, a woman's\nvociferating fright, a whiff of cigar smoke, and a good-natured curse:\n\"Say, darn you, you're too happy to be out alone, sonny!\" Blair did not\nhear them. Shantytown, black and silent and wet, huddled before him;\nfrom the smokestacks of the Works banners of flame flared out into the\nrain, and against them his mother's house loomed up, dark in the\ndarkness. At the sight of it all his panic returned, and again he tried\nto discount his disappointment: \"She isn't here, of course; she has\ngone to the hotel. Why didn't I wait for her there? What a fool I am!\"\nBut back in his mind, as he banged the iron gate and rushed up the\nsteps, he was saying: \"If she _isn't_ here--?\"\n\nThe house was absolutely dark; the fan-light over the great door was\nblack; there was no faintest glimmer of light anywhere. Everybody was\nasleep. Blair rang violently, and pounded on the panels of the door\nwith both hands. \"Nannie! Elizabeth! Harris!--confound the old idiot!\nwhy doesn't he answer the bell? Nannie--\"\n\nA window opened on the floor above. \"What is it?\" demanded a quavering\nfeminine voice. \"Who's there?\"\n\n\"Nannie! Darn it, why doesn't somebody answer the bell in this house?\nIs Elizabeth--\" His voice died in his throat.\n\n\"Oh, Blair! Is that you? You scared me to death,\" Nannie called down.\n\"What on earth is the matter?\"\n\n\"Is--is Elizabeth here?\"\n\n\"Elizabeth? No; of course not! Where is she?\"\n\n\"If I knew, would I be asking you?\" Blair called back furiously; \"she\nmust be here!\"\n\n\"Wait. I'll come down and let you in,\" Nannie said; he heard a muffled\ncolloquy back in the room, and then the window closed sharply. Far off,\na church clock struck one. Blair stood with a hand on the doorknob;\nthrough the leaded side-windows he saw a light wavering down through\nthe house; a moment later Nannie, lamp in hand, shivering in her thin\ndressing-gown, opened the door.\n\n\"Has she been here this evening?\"\n\n\"Blair! You scare me to death! No; she hasn't been here. What is the\nmatter? Your coat is all wet! Is it raining?\"\n\n\"She isn't at the hotel, and I don't know where she is.\"\n\n\"Why, she's at Mr. Ferguson's, of course!\"\n\n\"No, she isn't. I've been there.\"\n\n\"She may be at home by this time,\" Nannie faltered, and Blair,\nassenting, was just turning to rush away, when another voice said, with\ncalm peremptoriness:\n\n\"What is the matter?\"\n\nBlair turned to see Mrs. Richie. She had come quietly down-stairs, and\nwas standing beside Nannie. Even in his scared preoccupation, the sight\nof David's mother shook him. \"I--I thought,\" he stammered, \"that you\nhad gone home, Mrs. Richie.\"\n\n\"She had a little cold, and I would not let her go until to-morrow\nmorning,\" Nannie said; \"you always take more cold on those horrid\nsleeping-cars.\" Nannie had no consciousness of the situation; she was\nfar too alarmed to be embarrassed. Blair cringed; he was scarlet to his\ntemples; yet under his shame, he had the feeling that he had when, a\nlittle boy, he clung to David's pretty mother for protection.\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Richie,\" he said, \"I am so worried about Elizabeth!\"\n\n\"What about her?\"\n\n\"She said something this afternoon that frightened me.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nBut he would not tell her. \"It was nothing. Only she was very angry;\nand--she will do anything when she is angry.\" Mrs. Richie gave him a\nlook, but he was too absorbed to feel its significance. \"It was\nsomething about--well, a sort of silly threat. I didn't take it in at\nthe time; but afterward I thought perhaps she meant something. Really,\nit was nothing at all. But--\" his voice died in his throat and his eyes\nwere terrified. There was such pain in his face that before she knew it\nDavid's mother was sorry for him; she even put her hand on his shoulder.\n\n\"It was just a mood,\" she comforted him. And Blair, taking the white,\nmaternal hand in both of his, looked at her speechlessly; his chin\ntrembled. Instantly, without words of shame on one side or of\nforgiveness on the other, they were back again, these two, in the old\nfriendship of youth and middle age. \"It was a freak,\" said Mrs. Richie,\nsoothingly. \"She is probably at the hotel by this time. Don't be\ntroubled, Blair. Go and see. If she isn't at the hotel let me know at\nonce.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes; I will,\" Blair said. \"She must be there now, of course. I\nknow there's nothing the matter, but I don't like to have her out so\nlate by herself.\" He turned to open the front door, fumbling with haste\nover the latch; Nannie called to him to wait and she would get him an\numbrella. But he did not hear her. He was saying to himself that of\ncourse she was at the hotel; and he was off again into the darkness!\n\nAs the door banged behind him the two women looked at each other in\ndismay. \"Oh, Mrs. Richie, what can be the matter?\" Nannie said.\n\n\"Just one of Elizabeth's moods. She has gone out to walk.\"\n\n\"At this time of night? It's after one o'clock!\"\n\n\"She is probably safe and sound at the River House now.\"\n\n\"I wish we had one of those new telephone things,\" Nannie said. \"Mamma\nwas always talking about getting one. Then Blair could let us know as\nsoon as he gets to the hotel.\" Nannie was plainly scared; Mrs. Richie\ngrave and a little cold. She had had, to her amazement, a wave of\ntenderness for Blair; the reaction from it came in anger at Elizabeth.\nElizabeth was always making trouble! \"Poor Blair,\" she said,\ninvoluntarily. At the moment she was keenly sorry for him; after all,\nabominable as his conduct had been, love, of a kind, had been at the\nroot of it. \"I can forgive love,\" Helena Richie said to herself, \"but\nnot hate. Elizabeth never loved David or she couldn't have done what\nshe did.... Nothing will happen to her,\" she said aloud. It occurred to\nthis gentle woman that nothing ever did happen to the people one felt\ncould be spared from this world; which wicked thought made her so\nshocked at herself that she hardly heard Nannie's nervous chatter: \"If\nshe hasn't come home, Blair will be back here in half an hour; it takes\nfifteen minutes to go to the hotel and fifteen minutes to come back. If\nhe isn't here at a quarter to two, everything is all right.\"\n\nThey went into the parlor and lit the gas; Nannie suggested a fire, but\nMrs. Richie said it wasn't worth while. \"We'll be going up-stairs in a\nfew minutes,\" she said. She was not really worried about Elizabeth;\npartly because of that faintly cynical belief that nothing could happen\nto the poor young creature who had made so much trouble for everybody;\nbut also because she was singularly self-absorbed. Those words of\nRobert Ferguson's, when he kissed her in his library, had never left\nher mind. She thought of them now when she and Nannie sat down in that\nsilence of waiting which seems to tingle with speech. The dim light\nfrom the gas-jet by the mantelpiece did not penetrate beyond the\ndividing arch of the great room; behind the grand piano sprawling\nsidewise between the black marble columns, all was dark. The shadow of\nthe chandelier, muffled in its balloon of brown paper muslin, made an\nisland of darkness on the ceiling, and the four big canvases were four\nblack oblongs outlined in faintly glimmering gilt.\n\n\"I remember sitting here with your mother, the night you children were\nlost,\" Mrs. Richie said. \"Oh, Nannie dear, you must move out of this\nhouse; it is too gloomy!\" But Nannie was not thinking of the house.\n\n\"Where _can_ she have gone?\" she said.\n\nMrs. Richie could offer no suggestion. Her explanation to herself was\nthat Blair and Elizabeth had quarreled, and Elizabeth, in a paroxysm of\ntemper, had rushed off to spend the night in some hotel by herself. But\nshe did not want to say this to Nannie. To herself she said that things\ndid sometimes turn out for the best in this world, after all--if only\nDavid could realize it! \"She would have made him dreadfully unhappy,\"\nHelena Richie thought; \"she doesn't know what love means.\" But alas!\nDavid did not know that he had had an escape. She sighed, remembering\nthat talk on the beach, and those wicked things he had said,--things\nfor which she must be in some way to blame. \"If he had had a different\nmother,\" she thought, heavily, \"he might not have--\" A sudden shock of\nterror jarred all through her--_could Elizabeth have gone to David?_\nThe very thought turned her cold; it was as if some slimy, poisonous\nthing had touched her. Then common sense came in a wave of relief: \"Of\ncourse not! Why should she do such an absurd thing?\" But in spite of\ncommon sense, Helena Richie's lips went dry.\n\n\"It's a quarter to two,\" Nannie said. \"He hasn't come; she must be at\nthe hotel.\"\n\n\"I'm sure she is,\" Mrs. Richie agreed.\n\n\"Let's wait five minutes,\" Nannie said; \"but I'm certain it's all\nright.\"\n\n\"Of course it's all right,\" Mrs. Richie said again, and got on her feet\nwith a shiver of relief.\n\n\"It gave me a terrible scare,\" Nannie confessed, and turned out the\ngas. \"I had a perfectly awful thought, Mrs. Richie; a wicked thought. I\nwas afraid she had--had done something to herself. You know she is so\ncrazy when she is angry, and--\"\n\nThe front gate banged. Nannie gave a faint scream. \"Oh, Mrs. Richie!\nOh--\"\n\nIt was Helena Richie who opened the door before Blair had even reached\nit. \"Well? Well?\"\n\n\"Not there. . . .\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\nAll night long Elizabeth watched a phantom landscape flit past the\nwindow of the sleeping-car. Sometimes a cloud of smoke, shot through\nwith sparks, brushed the glass like a billowing curtain, and sometimes\nthe thunderous darkness of a tunnel swept between her and spectral\ntrees or looming hilltops. She lay there on her pillows, looking at the\nflying glimmer of the night and drawing long breaths of peace. The\nsteady, rhythmical pounding of the wheels, the dull, rushing roar of\nthe rails, the black, spinning country outside her window, shut away\nher old world of miseries and shames. Behind the stiff green curtains,\nthat swung in and out, in and out, to the long roll of the car, there\nwere no distractions, no fears of interruption, no listening\napprehensions; she could relax into the wordless and exultant certainty\nof her purpose.\n\nFor at last, after these long months of mere endurance, she had a\npurpose.\n\nAnd how calmly she was fulfilling it! \"For I am not angry,\" she said to\nherself, with the same surprise she had felt when, at Willis's that\nafternoon, she had denied Blair's charge of anger. Outside in the\ndarkness, all the world was asleep. The level stretches of vanishing\nfields, the faint glisten of roads, were empty. When the train swept\nthundering through little towns, the flying station lights, the twinkle\nof street lamps, even the solitary lanterns of switchmen running along\nthe tracks, made the sleep seem only more profound. But Elizabeth was\nawake in every fiber; once or twice, for the peace of it, she closed\nher eyes; but she did not mean to sleep. She meant to think out every\nstep that she must take; but just at first, in the content of decision,\nshe did not even want to think. She only wanted to feel that the end\nhad come.\n\nIt was during the row up the river that her purpose had cleared before\nher eyes; for an instant the sight of it had startled her into that\npallor which had frightened Blair; then she accepted it with a\npassionate satisfaction. It needed no argument; she knew without\nreasoning about it what she must do. But the way to do it was not\nplain; it was while she and Blair sat at dinner, and he read his paper\nand she played with her food, that a plan grew slowly in her mind. The\ncarrying it out--at least to this point; the alert and trembling fear\nof some obstacle, had greatly exhausted her. It had also blotted out\neverything but itself. She forgot her uncle and Miss White; that she\nwas going to give them pain did not occur to her until safe from their\npossible interference, in the dark, behind the slowly swaying curtains\nof her section, her fatigue began to lessen. Then, vaguely, she thought\nof them. . . . they would be sorry. She frowned, faintly troubled by\ntheir sorrow. It was midnight before she remembered Blair: poor Blair!\nhe cared so much about her. How could he,--when she did not care for\nhim? Still, it did not follow that not being loved prevented you from\nloving. David had ceased to love her, but that had not made her love\ncease. Yes; she was afraid they would all be unhappy; but it would be\nonly for a while. She sighed; it was a peaceful sigh. Her regret for\nthe sorrow that she would cause was the regret of one far off, helpless\nto avert the pain, who has no relation to it except that of an\nobserver. She said to herself, calmly, \"Poor Uncle Robert.\"\n\nAs she grew more rested, the vagueness of her regret sharpened a\nlittle. She realized with a pang how worried they would be--before they\nbegan to be sorry; and worry is so hard to bear! \"I wish I could have\nspared Uncle Robert and Cherry-pie,\" she said, in real distress. It\noccurred to her that she had given them many unhappy moments. \"I was\nalways a trouble; what a pity I was ever born.\" She thought suddenly of\nher mother, remembering how she used to excuse her temper on the ground\nthat her mother had had no self-control. She smiled faintly in the\ndarkness at the childishness of such an excuse. \"She wasn't to blame. I\ncould have conquered it, but I didn't. I did nothing all my life but\nmake trouble.\" She thought of her life as a thing of the past. \"I was a\ngreat trial to them; it will be better for everybody this way,\" she\nsaid; and nestled down into the thought of the \"way,\" with a\nsatisfaction which was absolute comfort. Better; but still better if\nshe had never lived. Then Blair would not have been disinherited, and\nby being disinherited driven into the dishonor of keeping money not\nintended for him. \"It's really all my fault,\" she reflected, and looked\nout of the window with unseeing eyes. Yes; all that had happened was\nher fault. Oh, how many things she had hurt and spoiled! She had\ninjured Blair; his mother had said so. And poor Nannie! for Nannie's\noffense grew out of Elizabeth's conduct. As for David--David, who had\nstopped loving her. . . .\n\nWell, she wouldn't hurt people any more, now. Never any more.\n\nJust then the train jarred slowly to a standstill in a vast train-shed;\nup under its glass and girders, arc-lamps sent lurching shadows through\nthe smoke and touched the clouds of steam with violet gleams. Elizabeth\ncould see dark, gnome-like creatures, each with a hammer, and with a\nlantern swinging from a bent elbow, crouching along by the cars and\ntapping every wheel. She counted the blows that tested the trucks for\nthe climb up the mountains: click-click; click-click. She was glad they\nwere testing them; she must get across the mountains safely; there must\nbe no interference or delay; she had so little time! For by morning\nthey would guess, those three worried people--who had not yet begun to\nbe sorry--they would guess what she had done, and they would follow\nher. She saw the gnomes slouching back past the cars, upright this\ntime; then she felt the enormous tug of the engine beginning the\nup-grade. It grew colder, and she was glad of the blankets which she\nhad not liked to touch when she first lay down in her berth. Outside\nthere was a faint whitening along the horizon; but it dimmed, and the\nblack outlines of the mountains were lost, as if the retreating night\nhesitated and returned; then she saw that her window was touched here\nand there by slender javelins of rain. They came faster and faster,\nstriking on and over one another; now they turned to drops; she stopped\nthinking, absorbed in watching a drop roll down the glass--pause, lurch\nforward, touch another drop; then a third; then zigzag rapidly down the\npane. She found herself following the racing drops with fascinated\neyes; she even speculated as to which would reach the bottom first; she\nhad a sense of luxury in being able, in the fortress of her berth, to\nthink of such things as racing raindrops. By the time it was light\nenough to distinguish the stretching fields again, it was raining hard.\nOnce in a while the train rushed past a farm-house, where the smoke\nfrom the chimney sagged in the gray air until it lay like a rope of\nmist along the roof. It was so light now that she could see the sodden\ncarpet of yellow leaves under the maples, and she noticed that the\ncrimson pennons of the sumacs drooped and dripped and clung together.\nThe monotonous clatter of the wheels had fallen into a rhythm, which\npounded out steadily and endlessly certain words which were the refrain\nof her purpose: _\"Afterward, they will say I had the right to see\nhim.\"_ Sometimes she reminded herself, meekly, that he no longer loved\nher. But there was no trace of resentment in her mind; how could he\nlove her? Nor did the fact that his love had ceased make any difference\nin her purpose: \"Afterward, they will say I had the right to see him.\"\n\nWhen the day broke--a bleary, gray day, cold, and with sweeping showers\nof rain, she slept for a little while; but wakened with a start, for\nthe train was still. Had they arrived? Had she lost a moment? Then she\nrecognized the locality, and knew that there was an hour yet before she\ncould be in the same city with him; and again the wheels began their\nclamorous assertion: \"the right to see him; the right to see him.\"\n\nHer plan was simple enough; she would go at once to Mrs. Richie's house\nand ask for the doctor. \"I won't detain him very long; it will only\ntake a little while to tell him,\" she said to herself. It came over her\nwith the shivering sense of danger escaped, that in another day she\nwould have been too late, his mother would be at home! \"She wouldn't\nlet him see me,\" she thought, fearfully. Afterward, after she had seen\nhim, she would take a train to New York and cross the ferry.... \"The\nwater is pretty clean there,\" she thought.\n\nShe was dressed and ready to leave the train long before the station\nwas reached. When the unkempt, haggard crowd swarmed off the cars and\npoured its jostling, hurrying length through the train-shed dim with\npuffing clouds of steam and clamorous with engines, Elizabeth was as\nfresh as if she had just come from her own house. She looked at herself\nin one of the big mirrors of the station dressing-room with entire\nsatisfaction. \"I am a little pretty even yet,\" she told herself,\ncandidly. She wanted very much to be pretty now. When she went out to\nthe street and found it raining in a steady, gray downpour, her heart\nsank,--oh, she must not get wet and draggled, now! Just for this hour\nshe must be the old Elizabeth, the Elizabeth that he used to love,\nfresh, with starry eyes and a shell-like color in her cheeks!--and\nindeed the cold rain was making her face glow like a rose; but her eyes\nwere solemn, not starry. As her cab jolted along the rainy streets,\npast the red-brick houses with their white shutters and scoured\ndoor-steps--houses were people were eating their breakfasts and reading\ntheir morning papers--Elizabeth, sitting on the frayed seat of the old\nhack, looked out of the window and thought how strange it all was! It\nwould be just like this to-morrow morning, and she would not know it.\n\"How queer!\" she said to herself. But she was not frightened. \"I\nsuppose at the last minute I shall be frightened,\" she reflected. Then,\nfor a moment, she forgot David and tried to realize the unrealizable:\n\"everything will be going on just the same, and _I_--\" She could not\nrealize it, but she did not doubt it. When the cab drew up at Mrs.\nRichie's door, she was careful to pay the man before she got out so\nthat her hat should not be spoiled by the rain when David saw it.\n\n\"He isn't in, miss,\" the maid told her in answer to her ring.\n\nElizabeth gasped. \"What! Not here? Where is he?\"\n\n\"He went down to the beach, 'm, yesterday, to see to the closing-up of\nthe cottage, 'm.\"\n\n\"When is he coming back?\" she said, faintly; and the woman said,\nsmiling, \"To-morrow, 'm.\"\n\nElizabeth stood blankly on the door-step. To-morrow? There was not\ngoing to be any to-morrow! What should she do? Her plan had been so\ndefinite and detailed that this interruption of his absence--a\npossibility which had not entered into her calculations--threw her into\nabsolute confusion. He was away from home! What could she do?\n\nEntirely forgetting the rain, she turned away and walked aimlessly down\nthe street. \"They'll know I've come here, and they'll find me before I\ncan see him!\" she said to herself, in terror. \"I must go somewhere and\ndecide what to do.\" She went into the nearest hotel and took a room. \"I\nmust plan; if I wait until he comes back, they'll find me!\" But it was\nan hour before her plan was made; when it was, she sprang up with the\nold, tumultuous joyousness. Why, of course! How stupid not to have\nthought of it at once! She was so entirely oblivious of everything but\nher own purpose that she would have gone out of the hotel on the\nmoment, had not the clerk checked her with some murmur about \"a little\ncharge.\" Elizabeth blushed to her temples. \"Oh, I _beg_ your pardon!\"\nshe said. In her mortification she wished that the bill had been twice\nas large. But when she was out in the rain, hurrying to the station,\nagain she forgot everything except her consuming purpose. In the\nwaiting-room--there were four hours before the train started--the panic\nthought took possession of her that she might miss him if she went down\nto the beach. \"It's raining, and he may not stay over until to-morrow;\nhe may be coming up this afternoon. But if I stay here they'll come and\nfind me!\" She could not face this last alternative. \"They'll find me,\nand I won't be able to tell him; they'll take me home, and he will not\nhave been told!\" Sitting on the wooden settee in the ladies'\nwaiting-room, she watched the clock until its gaunt white face blurred\nbefore her eyes. How the long hand crawled! Once, in a spasm of fright,\nshe thought that it had stopped, and perhaps she had lost her train!\n\nBut at last the moment came; she started,--and as she drew nearer and\nnearer her goal, her whole body strained forward, as a man dying of\nthirst strains toward a spring gleaming in the desert distance; once\nshe sighed with that anticipation of relief that is a shiver. Again the\nmonotonous clatter of the wheels beat out the words that all night long\nover the mountains had grooved themselves into her brain: \"Afterward,\nthey will say I had the right to see him.\" Love, which that one mad\nhour, nearly three years before, had numbed and paralyzed, was\nawakening. It was as if a slowly rising torrent, dammed by some\nimmovable barrier, had at last reached the brim,--trembled, hesitated:\nthen leaped in foaming overflow into its old course! She thought of all\nthe things she was going to tell him (but oh, they were so many, so\nmany; how could she say them all?). \"'I never was so true as when I was\nfalse. I never loved you so much as when I hated you. I never longed\nfor your arms as I did when--' O God, give me time to tell him that!\nDon't let them find me before I can tell him that. _Don't_ let him have\ngone back. God, please, _please_ let me find him at the cottage so I\ncan tell him.\" She was sitting on the plush cushion of the jolting,\nswaying old car, her hand on the back of the seat in front of her,\nevery muscle tense with readiness to spring to her feet the moment the\ntrain stopped.\n\nIt was still raining when she got off at the little station which had\nsprung up out of the sand to accommodate a summer population. It was\ndeserted now, and the windows were boarded over. A passer-by, under a\ndripping umbrella, lounged along the platform and stopped to look at\nher. \"Come down to see cottages?\" he inquired. She said no; but could\nshe get a carriage to take her over to Little Beach?\n\nHe shook his head sympathetically. \"A hack? _Here?_ Lord, no! There\nisn't no depot carriage running at this time of year. You'd ought to\nhave got off at Normans, the station above this, and then you could\nhave drove over; fourteen miles, though. Something of a drive on an\nevening like this! But Normans is quite a place. They run two depot\ncarriages there all winter and a dozen in summer.\"\n\n\"I'll walk,\" she told him, briefly.\n\n\"It's more 'an three miles,\" he warned her; \"and it's sheeting down! If\nI had such a thing as an umbrella, except this one, I'd--\"\n\nBut she had gone. She knew the way; she remembered the summer--oh, so\nlong ago!--when she and Nannie had driven over that sandy road along\nthe beach on their way to Mrs. Richie's house. It was so deep with mud\nnow that sometimes she had to walk outside the wheel-ruts into the wiry\nbeach-grass. The road toiled among the dunes; on the shore on her right\nshe could hear the creaming lap of the waves; but rain was driving in\nfrom the sea in an impenetrable curtain, and only when in some turn of\nthe wind it lifted and shifted could she catch a glimpse of the scarf\nof foam lying on the sands, or see the gray heave of an endless expanse\nthat might be water or might be sky folded down into the water. It was\ngrowing dark; sometimes she blundered from the road to one side or the\nother; sometimes she thought she saw approaching figures--a man,\nperhaps, or a vehicle; but as she neared them they were only bushes or\nleaning, wind-beaten pines. She was drenched and her clothes seemed\nintolerably heavy. Oh, how David would laugh at her hat! She put up her\nhand, in its soaked and slippery glove, and touched the roses about the\ncrown and laughed herself. \"He won't mind,\" she said, contentedly. She\nhad forgotten that he had stopped loving her. She began to sing under\nher breath the old tune of her gay, inconsequent girlhood--\n\n    \"Oh, won't it be joyful, joyful, joyful,\n    Oh, won't it be joyful, to meet...\"\n\nShe stopped; something warm was on her face; she had not known that she\nwas weeping. Suddenly, far off, she saw a glimmer of light.... Mrs.\nRichie's house! Her heart rose in her throat. \"David,\" she said aloud,\nweakly, \"David, I'm coming just as fast as I can.\"\n\nBut when she opened the door of the living-room in the little house\nthat sat so close to the crumpling lap and crash of the tide, and saw\nhim, his pipe in his hand, half rising from his chair by the fire and\nturning around to see who had entered, she could hardly speak his\nname--\"_David_.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\n\"... And that was Thursday; your letter had come in the first mail;\nand--oh, hush, hush; it was not a wicked letter, David. Don't you\nsuppose I know that, now? I knew it--the next day. And I read it. I\ndon't know just what happened then. I can't remember very clearly. I\nthink I felt 'insulted.' ... It sounds so foolish to say that, doesn't\nit? But I was just a girl then, and you know what girls are like....\nDavid, I am not making any excuse. There isn't any excuse. I am\njust--telling you. I have to talk slowly; I am tired. You won't mind if\nI talk slowly? ... I suppose I thought I had been 'insulted'; and I\nremember something seemed to flame up. You know how it always was with\nme? David, I have never been able to be angry since that day. Isn't\nthat strange? I've never been angry since. Well, then, I went out to\nwalk. I remember Cherry-pie called down-stairs to know if I had a clean\npocket-handkerchief. I remember that; and yet I can't seem to remember\nwhy I went out to walk. ... And he came up and spoke to me. Oh, I\nforgot to tell you: he'd been in love with me. I meant to tell you\nabout that as soon as we were married.... Where was I?--Oh, yes; he\nspoke to me....\"\n\nHer voice broke with exhaustion; she closed her eyes and lay back in\nthe big chair. David put her hand against his face, and held it there\nuntil she opened her eyes. She looked at him dumbly for a little while;\nthen the slow, monotonous outpouring of all the silent months began\nagain: \"And I said I hated you. And he said if I married him, it would\nshow you that I hated you. David, he was fond of me. I have to remember\nthat. It wouldn't be fair not to remember that, would it? I was really\nthe one to blame. Oh, I must be fair to him; he was fond of me.... And\nall that afternoon, after he married me, I was so glad to think how\nwicked I was. I knew how you would suffer. And that made me glad to be\nwicked....\"\n\nThere was a long pause; he pulled a little shawl across her feet, and\nlaid her hand over his eyes; but he was silent.\n\n\"Then,\" she said, in a whisper, \"I died, I think. I suppose that is why\nI have never been angry since. Something was killed in me.... I've\nwondered a good deal about that. David, isn't it strange how part of\nyou can die, and yet you can go on living? Of course I expected to die.\nI prayed all the time that I might. But I went on living;--you are glad\nI lived?\" she said, incredulously, catching some broken murmur from\nbehind his hands in which his face was hidden; \"glad? Why, I should\nhave thought--Well, that was the most awful time of all. The only peace\nI had, just single minutes of peace, was when I remembered that you\nhated me.\"\n\nHe laid his face against her knee, and she felt the fierce intake of\nhis breath.\n\n\"You _didn't_ hate me? Oh, don't say you didn't, David. Don't! It was\nthe only comfort I had, to have you despise me. Although that was just\nat first. Afterward, last May, when you walked down to Nannie's with me\nthat afternoon, and I thought you had got all over it, I...something\nseemed to be eating my heart away. That seems like a contradiction,\ndoesn't it? I don't understand how I could feel two ways. But just at\nfirst I wanted you to hate me. I thought you would be less unhappy if\nyou hated me; and besides, I wanted to feel the whips. I felt them--oh,\nI felt them!...And all the time I thought that soon I would die. But\ndeath would have been too easy. I had to go on living.\" There was\nanother long silence; he kissed her hand once; but he did not speak....\n\"And the days went on, and went on, and went on. Sometimes I didn't\nfeel anything; but sometimes it was like stringing sharp beads on a\nred-hot wire. I suppose that sounds foolish? But when his mother\ndisinherited him, I knew I would have to go on--stringing beads.\nBecause it would have been mean, then, to leave him. You see that,\nDavid? Besides, I was a spoiled thing, a worthless thing. If staying\nwith him would make up for the harm I had done him,--Mrs. Maitland told\nme I had injured him; why of course, there was nothing else to do. I\nknew you would understand. So I stayed. 'Unkind to me?'\" She bent\nforward a little to hear his smothered question. \"Oh no; never. I used\nto wish he would be. But he--loved me\"--she shuddered. \"Oh, David, how\nI have dreamed of your arms. David . . . David . . .\"\n\nThey had forgotten that each had believed love had ceased in the other;\nthey did not even assert that it was unchanged. Nor was there any plea\nfor forgiveness on either side. The moment was too great for that.\n\nShe sank back in her chair with a long breath. He rose, and kneeling\nbeside her, drew her against his breast. She sighed with comfort.\n\"_Here_! At last to be here. I never thought it would be. It is heaven.\nYes; I shall remember that I have been in heaven. But I don't think I\nshall be sent to hell. No; God won't punish me any more. It will be\njust sleep.\"\n\nHe had to bend his ear almost to her white lips to catch her whisper.\n\"What did I say? I don't remember exactly; I am so happy. . . . Let me\nbe quiet a little while. I'm pretty tired. May I stay until morning? It\nis raining, and if I may stay . . . I will go away very early in the\nmorning.\" The long, rambling, half-whispered story had followed the\nfierce statement, flung at him when she burst in out of the storm, and\nstood, sodden with rain, trembling with fatigue and cold, and pushing\nfrom her his alarmed and outstretched hands,--the statement that she\nhad left Blair! There were only a few words in the outburst of terrible\nanger which had been dormant in her for all these years: \"He stole your\nwife. Now he is stealing your money. I told him he couldn't keep them\nboth. Your wife has come back to you. I have left him--\"\n\nEven while she was stammering, shrilly, the furious finality, he caught\nher, swaying, in his arms. It was an hour before she could speak\ncoherently of the happenings of the last twenty-four hours; she had to\nbe warmed and fed and calmed. And it was curious how the lover in him\nand the physician in him alternated in that hour; he had been instant\nwith the soothing commonplace of help,--her wet clothes, her chilled\nbody, her hunger, were his first concern. \"I know you are hungry,\" he\nsaid, cheerfully; but his hands shook as he put food before her. When\nhe drew her chair up to the fire, and kneeling down, took off her wet\nshoes, he held her slender, tired feet in his hands and chafed them\ngently; but suddenly laid them against his breast, warming them,\nmurmuring over them with a sobbing breath, as though he felt the\nweariness of the little feet, plodding, plodding, plodding through the\nrain to find him. The next minute he was the doctor, ordering her with\nsmiling words to lie back in her chair and rest; then looking at her\nwith a groan.\n\nWhen at last she was coherent again, she began that pitiful confession,\nand he listened; at first walking up and down; then coming nearer;\nsitting beside her; then kneeling; then lifting her and holding her\nagainst his breast. When, relaxing in his arms like a tired child, she\nended, almost in a whisper, with her timid plea to be allowed to stay\nuntil morning, the tears dropped down his face.\n\n\"Until morning?\" he said, with a laugh that broke into a sob--\"until\ndeath!\"\n\nLong before this his first uneasiness, at the situation--for her\nsake,--had disappeared. The acquired uneasinesses of convention vanish\nbefore the primal realities. The long-banked fire had glowed, then\nbroken into flames that consumed such chaff as \"propriety.\" As he held\nher in his arms after that whispered and rambling story of despair, he\ntrembled all over. For Elizabeth there had never been a single moment\nof conventional consciousness; she was solemnly unaware of everything\nbut the fact that they were together for this last moment. When he said\n\"until death,\" she lifted her head and looked at him.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"_until death_.\"\n\nSomething in her broken whisper touched him like ice. He was suddenly\nrigid. \"Elizabeth, where did you mean to go to-morrow morning?\" She\nmade no answer, but he felt that she was alert. \"Elizabeth! Tell me!\nwhat do you mean?\" His loud and terrified command made her quiver; she\nwas bewildered by the unexpectedness of his suspicion, but too dulled\nand stunned to evade it. David, with his ear close to her lips, raised\nhis head. \"Elizabeth, don't you understand? Dear, this is life, not\ndeath, for us both.\"\n\nShe drew away from him with a long sigh, struggling up feebly out of\nhis arms and groping for her chair; she shook her head, smiling\nfaintly. \"I'm sorry you guessed. No, I can't go on living. There's no\nuse talking about it, David. I can't.\"\n\nHe stood looking down at her, pale from the shock of his discovery.\n\"Listen to me, Elizabeth: you belong to me. Don't you understand, dear?\nYou always have belonged to me. He knew it when he stole you from\nyourself, as well as from me. You have always been mine. You have come\nback to me. Do you think I will let Blair Maitland or death or God\nAlmighty, steal you now? Never. You belong to me! to me!\"\n\n\"But--\" she began.\n\n\"Oh, Elizabeth, what do we care for what they call right and wrong?\n'Right' is being together!\"\n\nShe frowned in a puzzled way. She had not been thinking of \"right and\nwrong\"; her mind had been absorbed by the large and simple necessity of\ndeath. But his inevitable reasonableness, ignoring her organic impulse,\nwas already splitting hairs to justify an organic impulse of his own.\n\n\"God gave you to me,\" he said, \"and by God I'll keep you! That's what\nis right; if we parted now it would be wrong.\"\n\nIt seemed as if the gale of passion which had been slowly rising in him\nin these hours they had been together blew away the mists in which her\nmind had been groping, blew away the soothing fogs of death which had\nbeen closing in about her, and left her, shrinking, in sudden,\nconfusing light.\n\n\"Wrong?\" she said, dazed; \"I hadn't thought about that. David, I\nwouldn't have come to you except--except because it was the end.\nAnything else is impossible, you know.\"\n\n\"Why?\" he demanded.\n\n\"I am married,\" she said, bewildered.\n\nHe laughed under his breath. \"Blair Maitland will take his own\nmedicine, now,\" he said;--\"you are married to _me!_\"\n\nThe triumph in his voice, while it vaguely alarmed her, struck some\nanswering chord in her mind, for while mechanically she contradicted\nhim, some deeper self was saying, \"yes; yes.\"\n\nBut aloud she said, \"It can't be, David; don't you see it can't be?\"\n\n\"But it _is_ already; I will never let you go. I've got you--at last.\nElizabeth, listen to me; while you've been talking, I've thought it all\nout: as things are, I don't think you can possibly get a divorce from\nBlair and marry me. He's 'kind' to you, you say; and he's 'decent,' and\nhe doesn't drink--and so forth and so forth. I know the formula to keep\na woman with a man she hates and call it being respectable. No, you\ncan't get a divorce from him; but he can get a divorce from you ... if\nyou give him the excuse to do so.\"\n\nElizabeth looked at him with perfectly uncomprehending eyes. The\ninnocence of them did not touch him. For the second time in her life\nshe was at the mercy of Love. \"Blair is fond of me,\" she said; \"he\nnever would give me a divorce. He has told me so a hundred times. Do\nyou suppose I haven't begged him to let me go? On my knees I begged\nhim. No, David, there is no way out except--\"\n\n\"There is a way out if you love me enough to--come to me. Then,\" he\nsaid in a whisper, \"he will divorce you and we can be married. Oh,\nElizabeth, death is not the way out; it is _life_, dear, life! Will you\nlive? Will you give me life?\" He was breathing as if he had been\nrunning; he held her fingers against his lips until he bruised them.\n\nShe understood. After a minute of silence she said, faintly: \"As for\nme, nothing matters. Even if it is wicked--\"\n\n\"It is not wicked!\"\n\n\"Well, if it were, if you wanted me I would come. I don't seem to care.\nNothing seems to me wrong in the whole world. And nothing right. Do you\nunderstand, David? I am--done. My life is worthless, anyhow. Use\nit--and throw it away. But it would ruin you. No, I won't do it.\"\n\n\"Ruin me? It would make me! I have shriveled, I have starved, I have\nfrozen without you. Ask my mother if what I tell you isn't true.\" She\ncaught her breath and drew away from him. \"Your mother!\" she said,\nfaintly. But he did not notice the recoil.\n\n\"It would end your career,\" she said. She was confused by the mere\ntumult of his words.\n\n\"Career! The only career I want is _you_. Medicine isn't the only thing\nin the world, nor Philadelphia the only place to practise it. And if I\ncan't be a doctor, I can break stones for my wife. Elizabeth, to love\nyou is the only career I want. But you--can you? Am I asking more than\nyou can give? Do you care what people say? We may not be able to be\nmarried for a year. Longer, perhaps; the law takes time. They will call\nit disgrace, you know, the people who don't know what love means. Could\nyou bear that--for me? Do you love me enough for that, Elizabeth?\"\n\nHis voice was hoarse with passion. He was on his knees beside her, his\nface hot against hers, his arms around her. Not only his bitterly\nthought-out theories of individualism, but all his years of decent\nliving, contributed to his overthrow at that moment. He was a man; and\nhere was his woman, who had been torn from him by a thief: she had come\nback to him, she had toiled back through the storm, she had fought back\nthrough cruel and imprisoning ties that had held her for nearly three\nyears; should he not keep her, now that she had come? The cave-dweller\nin him cried out \"_Yes!_\" To let her go now, would be to loosen his\nfingers just as they gripped the neck of the thief who had robbed him!\nIn the madness of that moment of hate and love, his face on hers, his\narms around her, David did not know that his tears were wet on her lips.\n\n\"Mine,\" he said, panting; \"_mine_! my own has come back to me. Say so;\ntell me so yourself. Say it! I want to hear you say it.\"\n\n\"Why David, I have always been yours. But I am not worth taking. I am\nnot--\"\n\n[Illustration: \"WILL YOU LIVE? WILL YOU GIVE ME LIFE?\"]\n\n\"Hush! You are mine. They shall never part us again.\nElizabeth--to-morrow we will go away.\" She sank against him in silence;\nfor a while he was silent, too. Then, in a low voice, he told her how\nthey must carry out a plan which had sprung, full-winged, from his\nmind; \"when he knows you have been here to-night,\" David said,--and\ntrembled from head to foot; \"he will divorce you.\"\n\nShe listened, assenting, but bewildered. \"I was going to die,\" she\nsaid, faintly; \"I don't know how to live. Oh, I think the other way\nwould be better.\"\n\nBut he did not stop to discuss it; he had put her back into the\nreclining chair--once in a while the physician remembered her fatigue,\nthough for the most part the lover thought only of himself; he saw how\nwhite she was, and put her in the big chair; then, drawing up a\nfootstool, he sat down, keeping her hand in his; sometimes he kissed\nit, but all the time he talked violently of right and wrong. Elizabeth\nwas singularly indifferent to his distinctions; perhaps the deep and\nprimitive experience of looking into the face of Death made her so. At\nany rate, her question was not \"Is it right?\" it was only \"Is it best?\"\nWas it best for him to do this thing? Would it not injure him? David,\nbrushing away her objections with an exultant belief in himself, was\nfar less elemental. Right? What made right and wrong? Law? Elizabeth\nknew better! Unless she meant God's law. As far as that went, she was\nbreaking it if she went on living with Blair. As for dying, she had no\nright to die! She was his. Would she rob him again?\n\nIt was all the everlasting, perfectly sincere sophistry of the man who\nhas been swept past honor and prudence and even pity, that poured from\nDavid's lips; and with it, love! love! love! Elizabeth, listening to\nit, carried along by it, had, in the extraordinary confusion of the\nmoment, nothing to oppose to it but her own unworth. To this he refused\nto listen, closing her lips with his own, and then going on with his\nquite logical reasoning. His mind was alert to meet and arrange every\ndifficulty and every detail; once, half laughing, he stopped to say,\n\"We'll have to live on your money, Elizabeth. See what I've come to!\"\nThe old scruples seemed, beside this new reality, merely\nridiculous--although there was a certain satisfaction in throwing\noverboard that hideous egotism of his, which had made all the trouble\nthat had come to them. \"You see,\" he explained, \"we shall go away for a\nwhile, until you get your divorce. And it will take time to pick up a\npractice, especially, in a new place. So you will probably have to\nsupport me,\" he ended, smiling. But she was too much at peace in the\nhaven of his clasping arms even to smile. Once, when he confessed his\nshame at having doubted her--\"for I did,\" he said; \"I actually thought\nyou cared for him!\" she roused herself: \"It was my fault. I won't let\nyou blame yourself; it was all my fault!\" she said; then sank again\ninto dreaming quiet.\n\nIt was midnight; the fire had died down; a stick of drift-wood on the\niron dogs, gnawed through by shimmering blue and copper flames, broke\napart, and a shower of sparks flew up, caught in the soot, and\nsmoldered in spreading rosettes on the chimney-back. The night,\npressing black against the windows, was full of the murmurous silence\nof the rain and the soft advancing crash of the incoming tide; the man\nand woman were silent, too. Sometimes he would kiss the little scar on\nher wrist; sometimes press his lips into the soft cup of her palm;\nthere seemed no need of words. It was in one of these silences that\nDavid suddenly raised his head and frowned.\n\n\"Listen!\" he said; then a moment later: \"wheels! _here?_ at this time\nof night!\"\n\nElizabeth crouched back in her chair. \"It is Blair. He has followed\nme--\"\n\n\"No, no; it is somebody who has lost his way in the rain. Yes, I hear\nhim; he is coming in to ask the road.\"\n\nThere were hurried steps on the porch, and Elizabeth grew so deadly\nwhite that David said again, reassuringly: \"It's some passer-by. I'll\nsend him about his business.\"\n\nLoud, vehement knocking interrupted him, and he said, cheerfully:\n\"Confound them, making such a noise! Don't be frightened; it is only\nsome farmer--\"\n\nHe took up a lamp and, closing the door of the living-room behind him,\nwent out into the hall; some one, whoever it was, was fumbling with the\nknob of the front door as if in terrible haste. David slipped the bolt\nand would have opened the door, but it seemed to burst in, and against\nit, clinging to the knob, panting and terrified, stood his mother.\n\n\"David! Is she--Am I too late? David! Where is Elizabeth? _Am I too\nlate?_\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nThe rainy dawn which Elizabeth had seen glimmering in the steam and\nsmoke of the railroad station filtered wanly through Mercer's yellow\nfog. In Mrs. Maitland's office-dining-room the gas, burning in an\norange halo, threw a livid light on the haggard faces of four people\nwho had not slept that night.\n\nWhen Blair had come frantically back from his fruitless quest at the\nhotel to say, \"Is she here, _now?_\" Mrs. Richie had sent him at once to\nMr. Ferguson, who, roused from his bed, instantly took command.\n\n\"Tell me just what has happened, please?\" he said.\n\nBlair, almost in collapse, told the story of the afternoon. He held\nnothing back. In the terror that consumed him, he spared himself\nnothing; he had made Elizabeth angry; frightfully angry. But she didn't\nshow it; she had even said she was not angry. But she said--and he\nrepeated that sword-like sentence about \"David's money and David's\nwife.\" Then, almost in a whisper, he added her question\nabout--drowning. \"She has--\" he said; he did not finish the sentence.\n\nRobert Ferguson made no comment, but his face quivered. \"Have you a\ncarriage?\" he asked, shrugging into his overcoat. Blair nodded, and\nthey set out.\n\nIt was after five when they came back to Mrs. Maitland's dining-room,\nwhere the gaslight struggled ineffectually with the fog. They had done\neverything which, at that hour, could be done.\n\n\"Oh, when will it ever get light!\" Blair said, despairingly. He pushed\naside the food Nannie had placed on the table for them, and dropped his\nface on his arms. He had a sudden passionate longing for his mother;\nshe would have _done_ something! She would have told these people,\nthese dazed, terrified people! what to do. She always knew what to do.\nFor the first time in his life he needed his mother.\n\nRobert Ferguson, standing at the window, was staring out at the blind,\nyellow mist. \"As soon as it's light enough, we'll get a boat and go\ndown the river,\" he said, with heavy significance.\n\n\"But it is absurd to jump at such a conclusion,\" Mrs. Richie protested.\n\n\"You don't know her,\" Elizabeth's uncle said, briefly.\n\nBlair echoed the words. \"No; you don't know her.\"\n\n\"All the same, I don't believe it!\" Mrs. Richie said, emphatically.\n\"For one thing, Blair says that her comb and brush are not on her\nbureau. A girl doesn't take her toilet things with her when she goes\nout to--\"\n\n\"Elizabeth might,\" Mr. Ferguson said.\n\nBlair, looking up, broke out: \"Oh, that money! It's that that has made\nall the trouble. Why did I say I wouldn't give it up? I'd throw it into\nthe fire, if it would bring her back to me!\"\n\nMrs. Richie was silent. Her face was tense with anxiety, but it was not\nthe same anxiety that plowed the other faces. \"Did you go to the\ndepot?\" she said. \"Perhaps she took the night train. The ticket-agent\nmight have seen her.\"\n\n\"But why should she take a night train?\" Blair said; \"where would she\ngo?\"\n\n\"Why should she do a great many things she has done?\" Mrs. Richie\nparried; and added, softly, \"I want to speak to you, Blair; come into\nthe parlor for a minute.\" When they were alone, she said,--her eyes\navoiding his; \"I have an idea that she has gone to Philadelphia. To see\nme.\"\n\n\"You? But you are here!\"\n\n\"Yes; but perhaps she thought I went home yesterday; you thought so.\"\n\nBlair grasped at a straw of hope. \"I will telegraph--\" \"No; that would\nbe of no use. The servants couldn't answer it; and--and there is no one\nelse there. I will take the morning express, and telegraph you as soon\nas I get home.\"\n\n\"But I can't wait all day!\" he said; \"I will wire--\" he paused; it\nstruck him like a blow that there was only one person to whom to wire.\nThe blood rushed to his face. \"You think that she has gone to him?\"\n\n\"I think she has gone to me,\" she told him, coldly. \"What more natural?\nI am an old friend, and she was angry with you.\"\n\n\"Yes; she was, but--\"\n\n\"As for my son,\" said Mrs. Richie, \"he is not at home; but I assure\nyou,\"--she stumbled a little over this; \"I assure you that if he were\nhe would have no desire to see your wife.\"\n\nBlair was silent. Then he said, in a smothered voice: \"If she is at\nyour house, tell her I won't keep the money. I'll make Nannie build a\nhospital with it; or I'll ... tell her, if she will only just come back\nto me, I'll--\" He could not go on.\n\n\"Blair,\" Robert Ferguson said, from the doorway, \"it is light enough\nnow to get a boat.\"\n\nBlair nodded. \"If she has gone to you, if she is alive,\" he said, \"tell\nher I'll give him the money.\"\n\nHelena Richie lifted her head with involuntary hauteur. \"My son has no\ninterest in your money!\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he said, brokenly, \"you can't seem to think of anything but his\nquarrel with me. Somehow, all that seems so unimportant now! Why, I'd\nask David to help me, if I could reach him.\" He did not see her\nrelenting, outstretched hand; for the first time in a life starved for\nwant of the actualities of pain, Blair was suffering; he forgot\nembarrassment, he even forgot hatred; he touched fundamentals: the need\nof help and the instinctive reliance upon friendship. \"David would help\nme!\" he said, passionately; \"or my mother would know what to do; but\nyou people--\" He dashed after Mr. Ferguson, and a moment later Mrs.\nRichie heard the carriage rattling down the street; the two men were\ngoing to the river to begin their heart-sickening search.\n\nIt was then that she started upon a search of her own. She made a\nsomewhat lame excuse to Nannie--Nannie was the last person to be\nintrusted with Helena Richie's fears! Then she took the morning express\nacross the mountains. She sat all day in fierce alternations of hope\nand angry concern: Surely Elizabeth was alive; but suppose she was\nalive--with David! David's mother, remembering what he had said to her\nthat Sunday afternoon on the beach, knew, in the bottom of her heart,\nthat she would rather have Elizabeth dead than alive under such\nconditions. Her old misgivings began to press upon her: the conditions\nmight have held no danger for him if he had had a different mother! She\nfound herself remembering, with anguish, a question that had been asked\nher very long ago, when David was a little boy: Can _you_ make him\nbrave; can _you_ make him honorable; can _you_--\"I've tried, oh, I have\ntried,\" she said; \"but perhaps Dr. Lavendar ought not to have given him\nto me!\" It was an unendurable idea; she drove it out of her mind, and\nsat looking at the mist-enfolded mountains, struggling to decide\nbetween a hope that implied a fear and a fear that destroyed a\nhope;--but every now and then, under both the hope and the fear, came a\npang of memory that sent the color into her face: Robert Ferguson's\nlibrary; his words; his kiss....\n\nAs the afternoon darkened into dusk, through sheer fatigue she relaxed\ninto certainty that both the hope and the fear were baseless: Elizabeth\nhad not gone to David; she couldn't have done such an insane thing!\nDavid's mother began to be sorry she had suggested to Blair that his\nwife might be in Philadelphia. She began to wish she had stayed in\nMercer, and not left them all to their cruel anxiety. \"If she has done\nwhat they think, I'll go back to-morrow. Robert will need me, and David\nwould want me to go back.\" It occurred to her, with a lift of joy, that\nshe might possibly find David at home. Owing to the bad weather, he\nmight not have gone down to the beach to close the cottage as he had\nwritten her he meant to do. She wondered how he would take this news\nabout Elizabeth. For a moment she almost hoped he would not be at home,\nso that she need not tell him. \"Oh,\" she said to herself, \"when will he\nget over her cruelty to him?\" As she gathered up her wraps to leave the\ncar, she wondered whether human creatures ever did quite \"get over\" the\ncatastrophes of life. \"Have I? And I am fifty,--and it was twenty years\nago!\"\n\nWhen with a lurch the cab drew up against the curb, her glance at the\nunlighted windows of her parlor made her sigh with relief; there was\nnobody there! Yes; she had certainly been foolish to rush off across\nthe mountains, and leave those poor, distressed people in Mercer.\n\n\"The doctor is at Little Beach, I suppose?\" she said to the woman who\nanswered her ring; \"By-the-way, Mary, no one has been here to-day? No\nlady to see me?\"\n\n\"There was a lady to see the doctor; she was just possessed to see him.\nI told her he was down at the beach, and she was that upset,\" Mary\nsaid, smiling, \"you'd 'a' thought there wasn't another doctor in\nPhiladelphia!\" Patients were still enough of a rarity to interest the\nwhole friendly household.\n\n\"Who was she? What was she like? Did she give her name?\" Mrs. Richie\nwas breathless; the servant was startled at the change in her; fear,\nlike a tangible thing, leaped upon her and shook her.\n\n\"Who was she?\" Mrs. Richie said, fiercely.\n\nThe surprised woman, giving the details of that early call, was, of\ncourse, ignorant of the lady's name; but after the first word or two\nDavid's mother knew it. \"Bring me a time-table. Never mind my supper! I\nmust see the lady. I think I know who she was. She wanted to see me,\nand I must find her. I know where she has gone. Hurry! Where is the new\ntime-table?\"\n\n\"She didn't ask for you, 'm,\" the bewildered maid assured her.\n\nMrs. Richie was not listening; she was turning the leaves of the\n_Pathfinder_ with trembling fingers; the trains had been changed on the\nlittle branch road, but somehow she must get there,--_\"to-night!\"_ she\nsaid to herself. To find a train to Normans was an immense relief,\nthough it involved a fourteen-mile drive to Little Beach. She could not\nreach them (\"them!\" she was sure of it now), she could not reach them\nuntil nearly twelve, but she would be able to say that Elizabeth had\nspent the night with her.\n\nThe hour before the train started for Normans seemed endless to Helena\nRichie. She sent a despatch to Blair to say:\n\n_\"I have found her. Do not come for her yet. This is imperative. Will\ntelegraph you to-morrow.\"_\n\nAfter that she walked about, up and down, sometimes stopping to look\nout of the window into the rainswept street, sometimes pausing to pick\nup a book but though she turned over the pages, she did not know what\nshe read. She debated constantly whether she had done well to telegraph\nBlair. Suppose, in spite of her command, he should rush right on to\nPhiladelphia, \"then what!\" she said to herself, frantically. If he\nfound that Elizabeth had followed David down to the cottage, what would\nhe do? There would be a scandal! And it was not David's fault--she had\nfollowed him; how like her to follow him, careless of everything but\nher own whim of the moment! She would have recalled the despatch if she\ncould have done so. \"If Robert were only here to tell me what to do!\"\nshe thought, realizing, even in her cruel alarm, how greatly she\ndepended on him. Suddenly she must have realized something else, for a\nstartled look came into her eyes. \"No! of course I'm not,\" she said;\nbut the color rose in her face. The revelation was only for an instant;\nthe next moment she was tense with anxiety and counting the minutes\nbefore she could start for the station.\n\nIt was a great relief when she found herself at last on the little\nlocal train, rattling out into the rainy night. When she reached\nNormans it was not easy to get a carriage to go to Little Beach. No\ndepot hack-driver would consider such a drive on such a night. She\nfound her way through the rainy streets to a livery-stable, and\nstanding in the doorway of a little office that smelled of harnesses\nand horses, she bargained with a reluctant man, who, though polite\nenough to take his feet from his desk and stand up before a lady, told\nher point-blank that there wasn't no money, no, nor no woman, that he'd\ndrive twenty-eight miles for--down to the beach and back; on no such\nnight as this; \"but maybe one of my men might, if you'd make it worth\nhis while,\" he said, doubtfully.\n\n\"I will make it worth his while,\" Mrs. Richie said.\n\n\"There's a sort of inlet between us and the beach, kind of a river,\nlike; you'll have to ferry over,\" the man warned her.\n\n\"Please get the carriage at once,\" she said.\n\nSo the long drive began. It was very dark. At times the rain sheeted\ndown so that little streams of water dripped upon her from the top of\nthe carryall, and the side curtains flapped so furiously that she could\nscarcely hear the driver grumbling that if he'd 'a' knowed what kind of\na night it was he wouldn't have undertook the job.\n\n\"I'll pay you double your price,\" she said in a lull of the storm; and\nafter that there was only the sheeting rain and the tugging splash of\nmud-loaded fetlocks. At the ferry there was a long delay. \"The\nferry-man's asleep, I guess,\" the driver told her; certainly there was\nno light in the little weather-beaten house on the riverbank. The man\nclambered out from under the streaming rubber apron of the carryall,\nand handing the wet reins back to her to hold--\"that horse takes a\nnotion to run sometimes,\" he said, casually; made his way to the\nferry-house. \"Come out!\" he said, pounding on the door; \"tend to your\nbusiness! there's a lady wants to cross!\"\n\nThe ferry-man had his opinion of ladies who wanted to do such things in\nsuch weather; but he came, after what seemed to the shivering passenger\nan interminable time, and the carryall was driven onto the\nflat-bottomed boat. A minute later the creak of the cable and the slow\nrock of the carriage told her they had started. It was too dark to see\nanything, but she could hear the sibilant slap of the water against the\nside of the scow and the brush of rain on the river. Once the dripping\nhorse shook himself, and the harness rattled and the old hack quivered\non its sagging springs. She realized that she was cold; she could hear\nthe driver and the ferryman talking; there was the blue spurt of a\nmatch, and a whiff of very bad tobacco from a pipe. Then a dash of rain\nblew in her face, and the smell of the pipe was washed out of the air.\n\nIt was after twelve when, stumbling up the path to her own house, she\nleaned against the door awaiting David's answer to her knock; when he\nopened it to the gust of wet wind and her drawn, white face, he was\nstunned with astonishment. He never knew what answer he made to those\nfirst broken, frantic words; as for her, she did not wait to hear his\nanswer. She ran past him and burst into the fire-lit silence that was\nstill tingling with emotion. She saw Elizabeth rising, panic-stricken,\nfrom her chair. Clutching her shoulder, she looked hard into the\nyounger woman's face; then, with a great sigh, she sank down into a\nchair.\n\n\"Thank God!\" she said, faintly.\n\nDavid, following her, stammered out, \"How did you get here?\" The full,\nhot torrent of passion of only a moment before had come to a crashing\nstandstill. He could hardly breathe with the suddenness of it. His\nthoughts galloped. He heard his own voice as if it had been somebody\nelse's, and he was conscious of his foolishness in asking his question;\nwhat difference did it make how she got here! Besides, he knew how: she\nhad come over the mountains that day, taken the evening train for\nNormans, and driven down here, fourteen miles--in this storm! \"You must\nbe worn out,\" he said, involuntarily.\n\n\"I am in time; nothing else matters. David, go and pay the man. Here is\nmy purse.\"\n\nHe glanced at Elizabeth, hesitated, and went. The two women, alone,\nlooked at each other for a speechless instant.\n\n[Illustration: CLUTCHING HER SHOULDER, SHE LOOKED HARD INTO THE YOUNGER\nWOMAN'S FACE]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX\n\n\"You ought not to be here, you know,\" Helena Richie said, in a low\nvoice.\n\nElizabeth was silent.\n\n\"They are all very much frightened about you at home.\"\n\n\"I am sorry they are frightened.\"\n\n\"Your coming might be misunderstood,\" David's mother said; her voice\nwas very harsh; the gentle loveliness of her face had changed to an\nincredible harshness. \"I shall say I was here with you, of course; but\nyou are insane, Elizabeth! you are insane to be here!\"\n\n\"Mother,\" David said, quietly, \"you mustn't find fault with Elizabeth.\"\nHe had come back, and even as he spoke retreating wheels were heard.\nThey were alone, these three; there was no world to any of them outside\nthat fire-lit room, encompassed by night, the ocean, and the storm.\n\"Elizabeth did exactly right to come down here to--to consult me,\"\nDavid said; \"but we won't talk about it now; it's too late, and you are\ntoo tired.\"\n\nThen turning to Elizabeth, he took her hand. \"Won't you go up-stairs\nnow? You are as tired as Materna! But she must have something to eat\nbefore she goes to bed.\" Still holding her hand, he opened the door for\nher. \"You know the spare room? I'm afraid it's rather in disorder, but\nyou will find some blankets and things in the closet.\"\n\nElizabeth hesitated; then obeyed him.\n\nDavid was entirely self-possessed by this time; in that moment while he\nstood in the rain, counting out the money from his mother's purse for\nthe driver, and telling the man of a short cut across the dunes, the\nemotion of a moment before cooled into grim alertness to meet the\nemergency: _there must be no scene_. To avoid the possibility of such a\nthing, he must get Elizabeth out of the room at once. As he slipped the\nbolt on the front door and hurried back to the living room, he said a\nsingle short word between his teeth. But he was not angry; he was only\nirritated--as one might be irritated at a good child whose ignorant\ninnocence led it into meddling with matters beyond its comprehension.\nAnd he was not apprehensive; his mother's coming could not alter\nanything; it was merely an embarrassment and distress. What on earth\nshould he do with her the next morning! \"I'll have to lie to her,\" he\nthought, in consternation. David had never lied to his mother, and even\nin this self-absorbed moment he shrank from doing so. He was keenly\ndisturbed, but as the door closed upon Elizabeth he spoke quietly\nenough: \"You are very tired, Materna; don't let's get to discussing\nthings tonight. I'll bring you something to eat, and then you must go\nup to your room.\"\n\n\"There is nothing to discuss, David,\" she said; \"of course Elizabeth\nought not to have come down here to you. But I am here. To-morrow she\nwill go home with me.\"\n\nShe had taken off her bonnet, and with one unsteady hand she brushed\nback the tendrils of her soft hair that the rain had tightened into\ncurls all about her temples; the glow in her cheeks from the cold air\nwas beginning to die out, and he saw, suddenly, the suffering in her\neyes. But for the first time in his life David Richie was indifferent\nto pain in his mother's face; that calm declaration that Elizabeth\nwould go home with her, brushed the habit of tenderness aside and stung\nhim into argument--which a moment later he regretted. \"You say she'll\n'go home.' Do you mean that you will take her back to Blair Maitland?\"\n\n\"I hope she will go to her husband.\"\n\n\"Why?\" He was standing before her, his shoulder against the\nmantelpiece, his hands in his pockets; his attitude was careless, but\nhis face was alert and hard; she no longer seemed a meddlesome good\nchild; she was his mother, interfering in what was not her business.\n\"Why?\" he repeated.\n\n\"Because he is her husband,\" Helena Richie said.\n\n\"You know how he became her husband; he took advantage of an insane\nmoment. The marriage has ended.\"\n\n\"Marriage can't end, David. Living together may end; but Blair is not\nunkind to Elizabeth; he is not unfaithful; he is not unloving--\"\n\n\"No, my God! he is not. My poor Elizabeth!\"\n\nHis mother, looking at the suddenly convulsed face before her, knew\nthat it was useless to pretend that this was only a matter of\npreserving appearances by her presence. \"David,\" she said, \"what do you\nmean by that?\"\n\n\"I mean that she has done with that thief.\" As he spoke it flashed into\nhis mind that perhaps it was best to have things out with her now; then\nin the morning he would arrange it, somehow, so that she and Elizabeth\nshould not meet;--for Elizabeth must not hear talk like this. Not that\nhe was afraid of its effect; certainly this soft, sweet mother of his\ncould not do what he had declared neither Blair Maitland, nor death,\nnor God himself could accomplish! But her words would make Elizabeth\nuncomfortable; so he had better tell her now, and get it over. In the\nmidst of his own discomfort, he realized that this would spare him the\nnecessity of a lie the next morning; and he was conscious of relief at\nthat. \"Mother,\" he said, gently, \"I was going to write to you about it,\nbut perhaps I had better tell you now.... She is coming to me.\"\n\n\"Coming to you!\"\n\nHe sat down beside her, and took her hand in his; the terror in her\nface made him wince. For a moment he wished he had not undertaken to\ntell her; a letter would have been better. On paper, he could have\nreasoned it out calmly; now, her quivering face distressed him so that\nhe hardly knew what he said.\n\n\"Materna, I am awfully sorry to pain you! I do wish you would realize\nthat things _have_ to be this way.\"\n\n\"What way?\"\n\n\"She and I have to be together,\" he said, simply. \"She belongs to me.\nWhen I keep her from going back to Blair I merely keep my own. Mother,\ncan't you understand? there is something higher than man's law, which\nties a woman to a man she hates; there is God's law, which gives her to\nthe man she loves! Oh, I am sorry you came to-night! To-morrow I would\nhave written to you. You don't know how distressed I am to pain you,\nbut--poor mother!\"\n\nShe had sunk back in her chair with a blanched face. She said, faintly,\n\"_David!_\"\n\n\"Don't let's talk about it, Materna,\" he said, pitifully. He could not\nbear to look at her; it seemed as if she had grown suddenly old; she\nwas broken, haggard, with appalled eyes and trembling lips. \"You don't\nunderstand,\" David said, greatly distressed.\n\nHelena Richie put her hands over her face. \"Don't I?\" she said. There\nwas a long pause; he took her hand and stroked it gently; but in spite\nof tenderness for her he was thinking of that other hand, young and\nthrilling to his own, which he had held an hour before; his lips stung\nat the memory of it; he almost forgot his mother, cowering in her\nchair. Suddenly she spoke:\n\n\"Well, David, what do you propose to do? After you have seduced another\nman's wife and branded Elizabeth with a--a dreadful name--\"\n\nHis pity broke like a bubble; he struck the arm of his chair with a\nclenched hand. \"You must not use such words to me! I will not listen to\nwords that soil your lips and my ears! Will you leave this room or\nshall I?\"\n\n\"Answer my question first: what do you mean to do after you have taken\nElizabeth?\"\n\n\"I shall marry her, of course. He will divorce her, and we shall be\nmarried.\" He was trembling with indignation: \"I will not submit to this\nquestioning,\" he said. He got up and opened the door. \"Will you leave\nme, please?\" he said, frigidly.\n\nBut she did not rise. She was bending forward, her hands gripped\nbetween her knees. Then, slowly, she raised her bowed head and there\nwas authority in her face. \"Wait. You must listen. You owe it to me to\nlisten.\"\n\nHe hesitated. \"I owe it to myself not to listen to such words as you\nused a moment ago.\" He was standing before her, his arms folded across\nhis breast; there was no son's hand put out now to touch hers.\n\n\"I won't repeat them,\" she said, \"although I don't know any others that\ncan be used when a man takes another man's wife, or when a married\nwoman goes away with a man who is not her husband.\"\n\n\"You drag me into an abominable position in making me even defend\nmyself. But I will defend myself. I will explain to you that, as things\nare, Elizabeth cannot get a divorce from Blair Maitland. But if she\nleaves him for me, he will divorce her; and we can marry.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he will not divorce her.\"\n\n\"You mean out of revenge? I doubt if even he could be such a brute as\nthat.\"\n\n\"There have been such brutes.\"\n\n\"Very well; then we will do without his divorce! We will do without the\nrespectability that you think so much of.\"\n\n\"Nobody can do without it very long,\" she said, mildly. \"But we won't\nargue about respectability; and I won't even ask you whether you will\nmarry her, if she gets her divorce.\"\n\nHis indignation paused in sheer amazement. \"No,\" he said. \"I should\nhardly think that even you would venture to ask me such a question!\"\n\n\"I will only ask you, my son, if you have thought how you would smirch\nher name by such a process of getting possession of her?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he said, despairingly, \"what is the use of talking about it? I\ncan't make you understand!\"\n\n\"Have you considered that you will ruin Elizabeth?\" she insisted.\n\n\"You may call happiness 'ruin,' if you want to, mother. We don't--she\nand I.\"\n\n\"I suppose you wouldn't believe me if I told you it wouldn't be\nhappiness?\"\n\nHer question was too absurd to answer. Besides, he was determined not\nto argue with her; argument would only prolong this futile and\ndistressing interview. So, holding in the leash of respect for her,\ncontempt for her opinions, he listened with strained and silent\npatience to what she had to say of duty and endurance. It all belonged,\nhe thought, to her generation and to her austere goodness; but from his\npoint of view it was childish. When at last he spoke, in answer to an\ninsistent question as to whether Elizabeth realized how society would\nregard her course, his voice as well as his words showed his entire\nindifference to her whole argument. \"Yes,\" he said; \"I have pointed out\nto Elizabeth the fact that though our course will be in accordance with\na Law that is infinitely higher than the laws that you think so much\nof, there will be, as you say, people to throw mud at her.\"\n\n\"A 'higher law,'\" she said, slowly. \"I have heard of the 'higher law,'\nDavid.\"\n\n\"That Elizabeth will obey it for me, that she is willing to expose\nherself to the contempt of little minds, makes me adore her! And I am\nwilling, I love her enough, to accept her sacrifice--\"\n\n\"Though you did not love her enough to accept the trifling matter of\nher money?\" his mother broke in.\n\nSarcasm from her was so totally unexpected that for a moment he did not\nrealize that his armor had been pierced. \"God knows I believe it is for\nher happiness,\" he said; then, suddenly, his face began to burn, and in\nan instant he was deeply angry.\n\n\"David,\" she said, \"you seem very sure of God; you speak His name very\noften. Have you really considered Him in your plan?\"\n\nHe smothered an impatient exclamation; \"Mother, that sort of talk means\nnothing to me; and apparently my reason for my course means nothing to\nyou. I can't make you understand--\"\n\n\"I don't need you to make me understand,\" she interrupted him; \"and\nyour reason is older than you are; I guess it is as old as human\nnature: You want to be happy. That is your reason, David; nothing else.\"\n\n\"Well, it satisfies us,\" he said, coldly; \"I wish you wouldn't insist\nupon discussing it, mother, you are tired, and--\"\n\n\"Yes, I am tired,\" she said, with a gasp. \"David, if you will promise\nme not to speak to Elizabeth of this until you and I can talk it over\nquietly--\"\n\n\"Elizabeth and I are going away together, to-morrow.\"\n\n\"You shall not do it!\" she cried.\n\nHis eyes narrowed. \"I must remind you,\" he said, \"that I am not a boy.\nI will do what seems to me right,--right?\" he interrupted himself, \"why\nis it you can't see that it is right? Can't you realize that Elizabeth\nis _mine?_ It is amazing to me that you can't see that Nature gives her\nto me, by a Law that is greater than any human law that was ever made!\"\n\n\"The animals know that law,\" she said. He would not hear her: \"That\nunspeakable scoundrel stole her; he stole her just as much as if he had\ndrugged her and kidnapped her. Yes; I take my own!\"\n\nHis voice rang through the house; Elizabeth, in her room, shivering\nwith excitement, wondering what they were saying, those two--heard the\njar of furious sound, and crept, trembling, halfway down-stairs.\n\n\"I take my own,\" he repeated, \"and I will make her happy; she belongs\nin my arms, if, my God! we die the next day!\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Helena Richie, suddenly sobbing, \"what _am_ I to do? what am\nI to do?\" As she spoke Elizabeth entered. David's start of dismay, his\nquick protest, \"Go back, dear; don't, don't get into this!\" was\ndominated by his mother's cry of relief; she rose from her chair and\nran to Elizabeth, holding out entreating hands. \"You will not let him\nbe so mad, Elizabeth? You will not let him be so bad?\"\n\n\"Mother, for Heaven's sake, stop!\" David implored her; \"this is awful!\"\n\n\"He is not bad,\" Elizabeth said, in a low voice, passing those\noutstretched hands without a look. All her old antagonism to an\nuntempted nature seemed to leap into her face. \"I heard you talking,\nand I came down. I could not let you reproach David.\"\n\n\"Haven't I the right to reproach him?--to save him from dishonoring\nhimself as well as you?\"\n\n\"You must not use that word!\" Elizabeth cried out, trembling all over.\n\"David is not dishonorable.\"\n\n\"Not dishonorable! Do you say there is nothing dishonorable in taking\nthe wife of another man?\"\n\n\"Elizabeth,\" David said, quietly, putting his arm around her, \"my\nmother is very excited. We are not going to talk any more to-night. Do\ngo up-stairs, dear.\" His one thought was to get her out of the room; it\nhad been dreadful enough to struggle with his mother alone--power and\npassion and youth, against terror and weakness. But to struggle in\nElizabeth's presence would be shocking. Not, he assured himself, that\nhe had the slightest misgiving as to the effect upon her of the\narguments to which he had been obliged to listen, but. . .\n\n\"Do leave us, dearest,\" he said, in a low voice; the misgiving which he\ndenied had driven the color out of his face.\n\nHis mother raised her hand with abrupt command: \"No, Elizabeth must\nhear what I have to say.\" She heard it unmoved; the entreaty not to\nwound her uncle's love, and hurt Nannie's pride, and betray old Miss\nWhite's trust, did not touch her. All she said was, \"I am sorry; but I\ncan't help it. David wants me.\"\n\nThen Helena Richie turned again to her son. \"How do you mean to support\nyour mistress, David? Of course the scandal will end your career.\"\n\nInstantly Elizabeth quivered; the apprehension in her eyes made his\nwords stumble: \"There--there are other things than my profession. I am\nnot afraid that I cannot support my _wife_.\"\n\nBut that flicker of alarm in Elizabeth's eyes had caught Helena\nRichie's attention. \"Why, Elizabeth,\" she said, in an astonished voice.\n\"_You love him!_\" Then she added, simply: \"Forgive me.\" Her words were\nwithout meaning to the other two, but they brought a burst of hope into\nher entreaty: \"Then you won't ruin him! I know you won't ruin my\nboy--if you love him.\"\n\nElizabeth flinched: \"David! I told you--that is what I--\"\n\nHe caught her hand and pressed it to his mouth. \"Darling, she doesn't\nunderstand.\"\n\n\"I _do_ understand!\" his mother said. She paused for a breathless\nmoment, and stood gripping the table, looking with dilating eyes and\nthese two, who, loving each other, were yet preparing to murder Love.\n\"I thank God,\" she said, and the elation in her face was almost joy; \"I\nthank God, Elizabeth, that I understand the disgrace such wickedness\nwill bring! No honest man will trust him; no decent woman will respect\nyou! And listen, Elizabeth: even _you_ will not really trust him; and\nhe will never entirely respect you!\"\n\nElizabeth slowly drew her hand from David's--and instantly he knew that\nshe was frightened. What! Was he to lose her again? He shook with rage.\nWhen under that panic storm of words, that menace of distrust and\ndisgrace, Elizabeth, in an agony of uncertainty, hid her face in her\nhands, David could have killed the robber who was trying to tear her\nfrom him. He burst into denunciation of the littleness which could\nregard their course in any other way than he did himself. He had no\npity because his assailant was his mother. He gave no quarter because\nshe was a woman; she was an enemy! an enemy who had stolen in out of\nthe night to rob him of his lately won treasure. \"Don't listen to her,\"\nhe ended, hoarsely; \"she doesn't know what she is talking about!\"\n\n\"But, David, that was what I said. I said it would be bad for you; she\nsays it will ruin you--\"\n\n\"It is a lie!\" he said.\n\nIt was nearly three o'clock. They were all at the breaking-point of\nanger and terror.\n\n\"Elizabeth,\" Helena Richie implored, \"if you love him, are you willing\nto destroy him? You could not bear to have me, his mother, speak of his\ndishonor; how about letting the world speak of it--if you love him?\"\n\n\"David,\" Elizabeth said again, her shaking hands on his arm; \"you hear\nwhat she says? Perhaps she is right. Oh, I think she is right! What\nshall I do?\"\n\nThe entreaty was the entreaty of a child, a frightened, bewildered\nchild. Helena Richie caught her breath; for a single strange moment she\nforgot her agony of fear for her son; the woman in her was stronger\nthan the mother in her; some obscure impulse ranged her with this girl,\nas if against a common enemy. \"My dear, my dear!\" she said, \"he shall\nnot have you. I will save you.\"\n\nBut Elizabeth was not listening. \"David, if I should injure you\"--\n\n\"You will ruin him,\" his mother repeated.\n\nDavid gave her a deadly look. \"You will kill me, Elizabeth, unless you\ncome to me,\" he said, roughly. \"Do you want to rob me again?--You've\ndone it once,\" he reminded her; love made him brutal.\n\nThere was a moment of silence. The eyes of the mother and son crossed\nlike swords. Elizabeth, standing between them, shivered; then slowly\nshe turned to David, and held out her hands, her open palms falling at\nher sides with a gesture of complete and pitiful surrender. \"Very well,\nDavid. I won't do it again. I won't hurt you again. I will do whatever\nyou tell me.\"\n\nDavid caught her in his arms. His mother trembled with despair; the\nabsolute immovability of these two was awful!\n\n\"Elizabeth, he is selfish and wicked! David, have you no manhood? Shame\non you!\" Contempt seemed her last resource; it did not touch him. \"Wait\ntwo days,\" she implored him; \"one day, even--\"\n\n\"I told you we are going to-morrow,\" he said. He was urging Elizabeth\ngently from the room, but at his mother's voice she paused.\n\n\"Suppose,\" Helena Richie was saying--\"suppose that Blair does not give\nyou a divorce?\"\n\nElizabeth looked into David's eyes silently.\n\n\"And,\" his mother said, \"when David gets tired of you--what then?\"\n\n\"Mother!\"\n\n\"Men do tire of such women, Elizabeth. What then?\"\n\n\"I am not afraid of that,\" the girl said.\n\nThe room was very still. The two looking into each other's eyes needed\nno words; the battling mother had apparently reached the end of effort.\nYet it was not the end. As she stood there a slow illumination grew in\nher face--the knowledge, tragic and triumphant, that if Love would save\nothers, itself it cannot save! . . . \"I'm not afraid that he will tire\nof me,\" Elizabeth had said; and David's mother, looking at him with\nineffable compassion, said, very gently:\n\n\"I was not afraid of that, once, myself.\"\n\nThat was all. She was standing up, clinging to the table; her face\ngray, her chin shaking. They neither of them grasped the sense of her\nwords; then suddenly David caught his breath:\n\n\"What did you say?\"\n\n\"I said--\" She stopped. \"Oh, my poor David, I wouldn't tell you if I\ncould help it; if only there was any other way! But there isn't. I have\ntried, oh, I have tried every other way.\" She put her hands over her\nface for an instant, then looked at him. \"David, I said that _I_ was\nnot afraid, once, myself, that _my_ lover would tire of me.\" There was\nabsolute silence in the room. \"But he did, Elizabeth. He did. He did.\"\n\nThen David said, \"I don't understand.\"\n\n\"Yes, you do; you understand that a man once talked to me just as you\nare talking to Elizabeth; he said he would marry me when I got my\ndivorce. I think he meant it--just as you mean it, now. At any rate, I\nbelieved him. Just as Elizabeth believes you.\"\n\nDavid Richie stepped back violently; his whole face shuddered. \"You?\"\nhe said, \"my mother? No!--no!--no!\"\n\nAnd his mother, gathering up her strength, cringing like some faithful\ndog struck across the face, pointed at him with one shaking hand.\n\n\"Elizabeth, did you see how he looked at me? _Some day your son will\nlook that way at you._\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL\n\nNo one spoke. The murmuring crash along the sands was suddenly loud in\ntheir ears, but the room was still. It was the stillness of finality;\nDavid had lost Elizabeth.\n\nHe knew it; but he could not have said why he knew it. Perhaps none of\nthe great decisions of passion can at the moment say \"why.\" Under the\nlash of some invisible whip, the mind leaps this way or that without\nwaiting for the approval of Reason. Certainly David did not wait for it\nto know that all was over between him and Elizabeth. He did not\nreason--he only cringed back, his eyes hidden in his bent arm, and\ngasped out those words which, scourging his mother, arraigned himself.\nNor was there any reason in Elizabeth's cry of \"Oh, Mrs. Richie, I love\nyou\"; or in her run across the room to drop upon the floor beside\nDavid's mother, clasping her and pressing her face against the older\nwoman's shaking knees. \"I _do_ love you--\" Only in Helena Richie's mind\ncould there have been any sort of logic. \"This,\" her ravaged and\nexalted face seemed to say, \"this was why he was given to me.\" Once he\nhad told her that her goodness had saved him; that night her goodness\nhad not availed. And God had used her sin! Aloud, all that she said was:\n\n\"David, don't feel so badly. It isn't as if I were your own mother, you\nknow; you needn't be so un-happy, David.\" Her eyes yearned over him.\n\"You won't do it?\" she said, in a breathless whisper.\n\nTo himself he was saying: \"It makes no difference! What difference can\nit possibly make? Not a particle; not a particle.\" Yet some deeper self\nmust have known that the difference was made, for at that whispered\nquestion he seemed to shake his head. But Elizabeth, weeping, said:\n\n\"No; we won't--we won't! Dear Mrs. Richie, I love you. David! Speak to\nher.\"\n\nHe got up with a stupid look, then his eye fell on his mother's face.\n\"You are worn out,\" he said in a dazed way, \"You'll come up-stairs now?\nElizabeth, make her go up-stairs.\"\n\nShe was worn out; she nodded, with a sort of meek obedience, and put\nout her hand to Elizabeth. David opened the door for them and followed\nthem up-stairs. Would his mother have this or that? Could he do\nanything? Nothing, nothing. No, Elizabeth must not stay with her,\nplease; she would rather be alone. As he turned away she called to him,\n\"Elizabeth and I will take the noon train, David.\"\n\nAnd he said, \"Yes, I will have a carriage here.\"\n\nThe door closed; on one side of it was the mother, exhausted almost to\nunconsciousness, yet elate, remembering no more the anguish for joy of\nwhat had been born out of it. On the other side these two, still\nignorant--as the new-born always are--of the future to which that\ntravail had pledged them. They stood together in the narrow upper hall\nand their pitiful eyes met in silence. Then David took her in his arms\nand held her for a long moment. Then he kissed her. She whispered,\n\"Good-by, David.\" But he was speechless. He went with her to her own\ndoor, left her without a word, and went down-stairs.\n\nIn the clamorous emptiness of the living-room he looked about him;\nnoticed that the table-cover was still crumpled from his mother's hands\nand smoothed it automatically; then he sat down. He had the sensation,\nspiritually, that a man might have physically whose face had been\nviolently and repeatedly slapped. The swiftness of the confounding\nexperiences of the last nine hours made him actually dizzy. His\nthoughts rushed to one thing, then to another. Elizabeth? No, no; he\ncould not think of her yet. His mother? No, he could not think of her,\neither. It occurred to him that he was cold, and getting up abruptly,\nhe went to the fireplace, and kicked the charred sticks of driftwood\ntogether over a graying bed of ashes. Then he heard a chair pushed back\noverhead and a soft, tired step, and he wondered vaguely if his\nmother's room was comfortable. Reaching for the bellows, he knelt down\nand blew the reluctant embers into a faint glow; when a hesitant\nflicker of flame caught the half-burned logs he got on his feet and\nstood, his fingers on the mantelpiece, his forehead on the back of his\nhand, watching the fire catch and crackle into cheerful warmth. He\nstood there for a long time. Suddenly his cheek grew rigid: some man,\nsome _beast_, had--my God! wronged Materna! It was the first really\nclear thought; instantly some other thought must have sprung up to meet\nit, for he said, under his breath, \"No, because I didn't mean . . . it\nis different with us; quite different!\" The thought, whatever it was,\nmust have persisted, for it stung him into restless movement. He began\nto walk about; once or twice he stumbled over a footstool, that his\neyes, looking blindly at the floor, apparently did not see. Once he\nstood stock-still, the blood surging in his ears, his face darkly red.\nBut his mind was ruthlessly clear. He was remembering; he was putting\ntwo and two together. She was a widow; he knew that. Her marriage had\nbeen unhappy; he knew that. There had been a man--he dimly remembered a\nman. He had not thought of him for twenty years! . . . \"Damn him,\"\nDavid said, and the tears stood in his eyes. Then again that thought\nmust have come to him, for he said to himself, violently, \"But I _love_\nElizabeth, it is different with me!\" Perhaps that persistent inner\nvoice said, \"In what way?\" for he said again, \"Entirely different! It\nis the only way to make him divorce her so we can be married.\" Again he\nstood still and stared blindly at the floor. That a man could live who\nwould be base enough to take advantage of--_Materna!_ Between rage and\npity, and confusion he almost forgot Elizabeth, until suddenly the\nwhirl of his thoughts was pierced by the poignant realization that his\noutcry of dismay at his mother's confession had practically told\nElizabeth that he was willing to let her do what he found unthinkable\nin his mother. His whole body winced with mortification. It was the\nfirst prick of the sword of shame--that sword of the Lord! Even while\nhe reddened to his forehead the sword-thrust came again in a flash of\nmemory. It was only a single sentence; neither argument nor entreaty\nnor remonstrance; merely the statement of a fact: \"_you did not love\nher enough to accept her money._\" At the time those ironical words were\nspoken they had scarcely any meaning to him, and what meaning they had\nwas instantly extinguished by anger. Now abruptly they reverberated in\nhis ears. He forgot his mother; he forgot the \"beast,\" who was, after\nall, only the same kind of a beast that he was himself. \"You, who could\nnot accept a girl's money could take her good name; could urge her to a\ncourse which in your mother overwhelms you with horror; could ask her\nto give you that which ranks a man who accepted it from your mother as\na 'beast.'\" David had never felt shame before; he had known\nmortification, and regret, too, to a greater or less degree; and\ncertainly he had known remorse; he had experienced the futile rage of a\nman who realizes that he has made a fool of himself; these things he\nhad known, as every man nearly thirty years old must know them.\nEspecially and cruelly he had known them when he understood the effect\nof the reasoning egotism of his letter upon Elizabeth. But the\nbeneficent agony of shame he had never known until this moment.\n\nIn the next hour or two, while the flame of the lamp still burning on\nthe table, whitened in the desolating morning light that crept into the\nroom, David Richie did not reason things out consecutively. His\nthoughts came without apparent sequence; sometimes he wondered, dully,\nif it were still raining; wondered how he would get a carriage in the\nmorning; wondered if Elizabeth was asleep; wondered if she would go\nback to Blair Maitland? \"No, no, no!\" he said aloud; \"not that; that\ncan't be.\" Yet through all this disjointed thought his eyes, cleared by\nshame, saw Reason coming slowly up to explain and confirm his\nconviction that, whatever Elizabeth did or did not do, for the present\nhe had lost her. And Reason, showing him his likeness to that other\n\"beast,\" showing him his arrogance to his mother, his cruelty to his\npoor girl, his poor, pitiful Elizabeth! showed him something else: his\nassertions of his intrinsic right to Elizabeth--how much of their force\nwas due to love for her, how much to hatred of Blair? David's habit of\ncorroborating his emotions by a mental process had more than once\nshackled him and kept him from those divine impetuosities that add to\nthe danger and the richness of life; but this time the logical habit\nled him inexorably into deeper depths of humiliation. It was dawn when\nhe saw that he had hated Blair more than he had loved Elizabeth. This\nwas the most intolerable revelation of all; he had actually been about\nto use Love to express Hate!\n\nUp-stairs Elizabeth had had her own vision; it was not like David's.\nThere was no sense of shame. There was only Love! Love, pitiful,\nheart-breaking, remorseful. When David left her she sank down on the\nedge of her bed and cried--not for disappointment or dread or\nperplexity, not for herself, not for David, but for Helena Richie. Once\nshe crept across the hall and listened at the closed door. Silence.\nThen she pushed it open and listened again. Oh, to go to her, to put\nher arms about her, to say, \"I will be good, I will do whatever you\nsay, I love you.\" But all was still except for soft, scarcely heard,\ntranquil breathing. For David's mother slept.\n\nWhen Elizabeth came down the next morning it was to the crackle of\nflames and the smell of coffee and the sight of David scorching his\nface over toasting bread. It was so unheroic that it was almost heroic,\nfor it meant that they could keep on the surface of life. David said,\nsimply, \"Did you get any sleep, Elizabeth?\" and she said: \"Well, not\nmuch. Here, let me make the toast; you get something for your mother.\"\nBut when she carried a little tray of food up to Mrs. Richie, and\nkneeling by the bedside took the soft mother-hand in hers, she went\nbelow the surface.\n\n\"I am going back to him,\" she said; and put Mrs. Richie's hand against\nher lips.\n\nDavid's mother gave her a long look, but she had nothing to say.\n\nLater, as they came down-stairs together, Elizabeth, still holding that\ngentle hand in hers, felt it tremble when Helena Richie met her son.\nPerhaps his trembled, too. Yet his tenderness and consideration for\nher, as he told her how he had arranged for her journey to town was\nalmost ceremonious; it seemed as if he dared not come too near her. It\nwas not until he was helping her into the carriage that he made any\nreference to the night before:\n\n\"I have given her up,\" he said, almost in a whisper, \"but she can't go\nback to him, you know--that can't be! Mother, that can't be?\"\n\nBut she was silent. Then Elizabeth came up behind him and got into the\ncarriage; there were no good-bys between them.\n\n\"I shall come to town to-morrow on the noon train,\" he told his mother;\nand she looked at him as one looks at another human creature who turns\nhis face toward the wilderness. There was nothing more that she could\ndo for him; he must hunger and know how he might be fed; he must hear\nthe lying whisper that if he broke the Law, angelic hands would prevent\nthe law from breaking him; he must see the Kingdom he desired, the\nglory of it, and its easy price. He must save himself.\n\nElizabeth, groping for Mrs. Richie's hand, held it tightly in hers, and\nthe old carriage began its slow tug along the road that wound in and\nout among the dunes....\n\nThe story of David and Elizabeth and Blair pauses here.\n\nOr perhaps one might say it begins here. A decision such as was reached\nin the little house by the sea is not only an end, it is also a\nbeginning. In their bleak certainty that they were parted, David and\nElizabeth had none of that relief of the dismissal of effort, which\nmarks the end of an experience. Effort was all before them; for the\ndecision not to change conditions did not at the moment change\ncharacter; and it never changed temperaments. Elizabeth was as far from\nself-control on the morning after that decision as she had been in the\nevening that preceded it. There had to be many evenings of rebellion,\nmany mornings of taking up her burden; the story of them begins when\nshe knew, without reasoning about it, that the hope of escape from them\nhad ceased.\n\nBecause of those gray hours of dawn and shame and self-knowledge, love\ndid not end in David, nor did he cease to be rational and inarticulate;\nthere had to be weeks of silent, vehement refusal to accept the\nsituation: something must be done! Elizabeth must get a divorce\n\"somehow\"! It would take time, a long time, perhaps; but she must get\nit, and then they would marry. There had to be weeks of argument: \"why\nshould I sacrifice my happiness to 'preserve the ideal of the\npermanence of marriage'?\" There had to be weeks of imprisonment in\nhimself before a night came when his mother woke to find him at her\nbedside: \"Mother--mother--mother,\" he said. What else he said, how in\nhis agonizing dumbness he was able to tell her that she was the mother,\nnot, indeed, of his body, but of his soul--was only for her ears; what\nhis face, hidden in her pillow, confessed, the quiet darkness held\ninviolate. This silent man's experiences of shame and courage, began\nthat night when, in the fire-lit room, besieged by darkness and the\nstorm, that other experience ended.\n\nBlair's opportunity--the divine opportunity of sacrifice, had its\nbeginning in that same desolate End. But there had to be angry days of\nrefusing to recognize any opportunity--life had not trained him to such\ncourageous recognition! There had to be days when the magnanimity of\nhis prisoner in returning to her prison was unendurable to him. There\nhad to be months, before, goaded by his god, he urged his hesitating\nmanhood to abide by the decision of chance whether or not he should\noffer her her freedom. There even had to be days of deciding just what\nthe chance should be!\n\nThere had to be for these three people, caught in the mesh of\ncircumstance, time for growth and for hope, and that is why their story\npauses just when the angel has troubled the water. All the impulses and\nthe resolutions that had their beginnings in that End, are like circles\non that troubled water, spreading, spreading, spreading, until they\ntouch Eternity. At first the circles were not seen; only the turmoil in\nthe pool when the angel touched it. And how dark the water was with the\nsediment of doubt and fear and loss in the days that followed that\ndecision which was the beginning of all the circles!\n\nRobert Ferguson and David's mother used to wonder how they could any of\nthem get through the next few months. \"But good is going to come out of\nit somehow,\" Helena Richie said once. \"Oh, you mean 'character' and all\nthat sort of thing,\" he said, sighing. \"I tell you what it is, I'm a\nlot more concerned about my child's happiness than her 'character.'\nElizabeth is good enough for me as she is.\"\n\nDavid's mother had no rebuke for him; she looked at him with pitying\neyes; he was so very unhappy in his child's unhappiness! She herself\nwas doing all she could for the \"child\"; she was in Mercer most of that\nwinter. \"No, I won't hire the house,\" she told the persistent landlord;\n\"I can't afford it; I'm only here for a few days at a time. No, you\n_sha'n't_ lower the rent! Robert, Robert, what shall I do to keep you\nfrom being so foolish? I wouldn't live there if you gave me the house!\nI want to stay at the hotel and be near Elizabeth.\"\n\nIn her frequent visits in those next few months she grew very near to\nElizabeth; it was a wonderfully tender relation, full of humility on\nboth sides.\n\n\"I never knew how good you were, Mrs. Richie,\" Elizabeth said.\n\n\"I never really understood you, dear child,\" Helena Richie confessed.\nShe drew near Blair, too; she knew how he had borne the story Elizabeth\ntold him when she came back to Mercer; she knew the recoil of anger and\njealousy, then the reaction of cringing acceptance of the fact; she\nknew his passionate efforts, as the winter passed, to buy his way into\nhis wife's friendship by doing everything he fancied might please her.\nShe knew why he asked Mr. Ferguson to find a place for him in the\nWorks, and why he induced Nannie to take the money he believed to be\nhis, and build a hospital. \"He is going to use the old house for it,\"\nMrs. Richie told Mr. Ferguson; \"well! it's one way of getting Nannie\nout of it, though I'm afraid he'll have to turn the workmen in and\nrebuild over her head before he can move her.\"\n\n\"It's the bait in the trap,\" Robert Ferguson said, contemptuously.\n\"Well, suppose it is? Can you blame him for trying to win her?\"\n\n\"He'll never succeed. If he was half-way honest he would have offered\nto let her go in the first place. If he expects any story-book business\nof 'duty creating love' he'll come out the small end of the horn.\"\n\n\"I suppose he hopes,\" she admitted. But she sighed. She knew those\nhopes would never be realized, and she felt the pain of that poor,\nselfish, passionate heart until her own ached. Yes, of course he ought\nto 'offer to let her go.' She knew that as well as Elizabeth's uncle\nhimself. \"And he will,\" she said to herself. Then her face was softly\nilluminated by the lambent flame of some inner serenity: \"But she won't\ngo!\"\n\nThose were the days when Blair would not recognize his opportunity. It\nwas not because it was not pointed out to him.\n\n\"I'm certain that a divorce could be fixed up some way,\" Robert\nFerguson said once, \"and I hinted as much to him. I told him she\ncouldn't endure the sight of him.\"\n\n\"Do you call that a hint?\"\n\n\"Well, he didn't take it, anyway. Of course, if nothing moves him, I\nsuppose I can shoot him?\"\n\nShe smiled. \"You won't have to shoot him. He is very unhappy. Wait.\"\n\n\"For a change of heart? It will never come! No, the marriage was a\ntravesty from the beginning, and I ought to have pulled her out of it.\nI did suggest it to her, but she said she was going to stick it out\nlike a man.\"\n\nBlair was indeed unhappy. His god was tormenting him by contrasting\nElizabeth's generosity with his selfishness. It was then that he saw,\nterror-stricken, his opportunity. He tried not to see it. He denied it,\nhe struggled against it; yet all the while he was drawn by an agonized\ncuriosity to consider it. Finally, with averted eyes, he held out\nshrinking hands to chance, to see if opportunity would fall into them.\nThis was some six months after she had come back to him; six months on\nher part of clinging to Mrs. Richie's strength; of wondering if David,\nworking hard in Philadelphia, was beginning to be happier; of wondering\nif Blair was really any happier for her weariness of soul. Six months\non Blair's part, of futile moments of hope because Elizabeth seemed a\nlittle kinder;--\"perhaps she's beginning to care!\" he would say to\nhimself; six months of agonizing jealousy when he knew she did not\ncare; of persistent, useless endeavors to touch her heart; of endless\nsmall, pathetic sacrifices; of endless small, pathetic angers and\nrepentances. \"Blair,\" she used to say, with wonderful patience, after\none of these glimmerings of hope had arisen in him because of some\ncareless amiability on her part, \"I am sorry to be unkind; I wish you\nwould get over caring about me, but all I can do _ever_ is just to be\nfriends. No, I don't hate you. Why should I hate you? You didn't wrong\nme any more than I wronged you. We are just the same; two bad people.\nBut I'm trying to be good, truly I am; and--and I'm sorry for you,\nBlair, dear. That's all I can say.\"\n\nIt was after one of those miserable discussions between the husband and\nwife that Blair had gone out of the hotel with violent words of\ndespair. He never knew just where he spent that day--certainly not in\nthe office at the Works; but wherever it was, it brought him face to\nface with his opportunity. Should he accept it? Should he refuse it? He\nsaid to himself that he could not decide. Perhaps he was right; he had\nshirked decisions all his life; perhaps so great a decision was\nimpossible for him. At any rate, he thought it was. Something must\ndecide for him. What should it be? All that afternoon he tried to make\na small decision which should settle the great decision. Of course, he\nmight pitch up a penny? no, the swiftness of such judgment seemed\nbeyond endurance; he might say: \"if it rains before noon, I'll let her\ngo;\" then he could watch the skies, and meet the decision gradually;\nno; it rained so often in March! If when he got back to the hotel he\nfound her wearing this piece of jewelry or that; if the grimy pigeon,\nteetering up and down on the granite coping across the street, flew\naway before he reached the next crossing. . . . On and on his mind\nwent, jibing away, terrified, from each suggestion; then returning to\nit again. It was dusk when he came back to the hotel. David's mother\nwas sitting with Elizabeth, and they were talking, idly, of Nannie's\nnew house, or Cherry-pie's bad cold, or anything but the one thing that\nwas always on their minds, when, abruptly, Blair entered. He flung open\nthe door with a bang,--then stood stock-still on the threshold. He was\nvery pale, but the room was so shadowy that his pallor was not noticed.\n\n\"Why are you sitting here in the dark!\" he cried out, violently. \"Why\ndon't you light the gas? Good God!\" he said, almost with a sob.\nElizabeth looked at him in astonishment; before she could reply that\nshe and Mrs. Richie liked the dusk and the firelight, he saw that she\nwas not alone, and burst into a loud laugh: \"Mrs. Richie here? How\nappropriate!\" He came forward into the circle of flickering light, but\nhe seemed to walk unsteadily and his face was ghastly. Helena Richie\ngave him a startled look. Blair's gentleness had never failed David's\nmother before; she thought, with consternation, that he had been\ndrinking. Perhaps her gravity checked his reckless mood, for he said\nmore gently: \"I beg your pardon; I didn't see you, Mrs. Richie. I was\nstartled because everything was dark. Outer darkness! Please don't\ngo,--it's so appropriate for you to be here!\" he ended. Again his voice\nwas sardonic. Mrs. Richie said, coldly, that she had been just about to\nreturn to her own room. As she left them, she said to herself,\nanxiously, that she was afraid there was something the matter. She\nwould have been sure of it had she stayed in the twilight with the\nhusband and wife.\n\n\"I'll light the gas,\" Elizabeth said, rising. But he caught her wrist.\n\"No! No! there's no use lighting up now.\" As he spoke he pulled her\ndown on his knee. \"Elizabeth, is there no hope?\" he said; \"none?\n_none?_\" She was silent. He leaned his forehead on her shoulder for a\nmoment, and she heard that dreadful sound--a man's weeping. Then\nsuddenly, roughly, he flung his arms about her, and kissed her\nviolently--her lips, her eyes, her neck; the next moment he pushed her\nfrom his knee. \"Why, why did you sit here in the dark to-night? I never\nknew you to sit in the dark!\" He got on his feet, leaving her, standing\namazed and offended, her hair ruffled, the lace about her throat in\ndisorder; at the window, his back turned to her, he flung over his\nshoulder: \"Look here--you can go. I won't hold you any longer. I\nsuppose your uncle can fix it up; some damned legal quibble will get\nyou out of it. I--I'll do my part.\"\n\nBefore she could ask him what he meant he went out. He had accepted his\nopportunity!\n\nBut it was not until the next day that she really understood.\n\n\"He says,\" Mrs. Richie told Robert Ferguson, \"that he will take Nannie\nand go abroad definitely; she can call it desertion. Yes; on Nannie's\nmoney of course; how else could he go? Oh, my poor Blair!\"\n\n\"'Poor Blair'? He deserves all he gets,\" Elizabeth's uncle said, after\nhis first astonishment. Then, in spite of himself, he was sorry for\nBlair. \"I suppose he's hard hit,\" he said, grudgingly, \"but as for\n'poor Blair,' I don't believe it goes very deep with him. You say he\nwas out of temper because she had not lighted up, and told her she\ncould go? Rather a casual way of getting rid of a wife.\"\n\n\"Robert, how can you be so unjust?\" she reproached him. \"Oh, perhaps he\nwill be a man yet! How proud his mother would be.\"\n\n\"My dear Helena, one swallow doesn't make a summer.\" Then, a little\nashamed of his harshness, he added, \"No, he'll never be very much of a\nperson; but he's his mother's son, so he can't be all bad; he'll just\nwander round Europe, with Nannie tagging on behind, enjoying himself\nmore or less harmlessly.\"\n\n\"Robert,\" she said, softly, \"I'm not sure that Elizabeth will accept\nhis sacrifice.\"\n\n\"What! Not accept it? Nonsense! Of course she'll accept it. I should\nhave doubts of her sanity if she didn't. If Blair had been half as much\nof a man as his mother, he'd have made the 'sacrifice,' as you call it,\nlong ago. Helena, you're too extreme. Duty is well enough, but don't\nrun it into the ground.\"\n\nMrs. Richie was silent.\n\n\"Helena, you _know_ she ought to leave him!\"\n\n\"If every woman left unpleasant conditions--mind, he isn't unkind or\nwicked; what would become of us, Robert?\"\n\nElizabeth's uncle would not pursue her logic; his face suddenly\nsoftened: \"Well, David will come to his own at last! I wonder how soon\nafter the thing is fixed up (_if_ it can be fixed up) they can marry?\"\n\nThe color rose sharply in her face.\n\n\"You think they won't?\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"I hope not. Oh, I hope not!\"\n\n\"Why not?\" he said, affronted.\n\n\"Because I don't want them, just for their own happiness, to do what\nseems to me wrong.\"\n\n\"Wrong! If the law permits it, you can't say 'wrong.'\"\n\n\"_I_ think it is,\" she said timidly; then tried to explain that it\nseemed to her that no one, for his own happiness, had a right to do a\nthing which would injure an ideal by which the rest of us live; \"I\ndon't express it very well,\" she said, flushing.\n\nRobert Ferguson snorted. \"That's high talk; well enough for angels; but\nno men and mighty few women are angels. I,\" he interrupted himself\nhurriedly, \"I don't like angel women myself.\"\n\nShe smiled a little sadly. \"And besides that,\" she said, \"it seems to\nme we ought to take the consequences of our sins. I think they ought,\nall three of them, to just try and make the best of things. Robert, did\nit ever strike you that making the best of things was one way of\nentering the Kingdom of Heaven?\"\n\nHe gave her a tender look, but he shook his head. \"Helena,\" he said,\ngently, \"do you mind telling me how you finally brought them to their\nsenses that night? Don't if you'd rather not.\"\n\nHer face quivered. \"I would rather. There was only one way; I ... told\nthem, Robert.\"\n\nThere was a moment of silence, then Robert Ferguson twitched his\nglasses off and began to polish them. \"You are an angel, after all,\" he\nsaid. Then he lifted a ribbon falling from her waist, and kissed it.\n\n\"I sha'n't try to influence either David or Elizabeth,\" she said; \"they\nwill do what they think right; it may not be _my_ right--\"\n\n\"It won't be,\" he told her, dryly; \"once a man is free to marry his\ngirl, mothers take a back seat.\"\n\nShe smiled wisely.\n\n\"Oh, you can smile; but, my dear Helena, the apron-string won't do for\na man who is thirty years old. Yes, they'll do as they choose, in spite\nof either you or me--and _I_ know what it will be!\"\n\n\"Poor Blair,\" she said, sighing. \"Robert, if she leaves him you will be\nkind to him, won't you? He's never had a chance--\"\n\nBut he was not thinking of Blair; he was looking into her face, and his\nown face moved with emotion: \"Helena, don't be obstinate any longer. We\nhave so little time left! I don't ask you to love me, but just marry\nme, Helena.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear Robert--\"\n\n\"Will you?\"\n\n\"If I lived here,\" she said breathlessly, \"my boy could not come to see\nme.\"\n\n\"Is that the reason you won't say yes?\"\n\nShe was silent.\n\n\"Will you?\" he said again.\n\nHer voice was so low he could hardly hear her answer: \"No.\"\n\nAnd at that his face glowed with sudden, amazed assurance. \"Why,\" he\ncried, \"_you love me!_\"\n\nShe looked at him beseechingly. \"Robert, please--\"\n\n\"Life has been good to me, after all,\" he said, joyously: \"I've got\nwhat I don't deserve!\"\n\nHelena was silent.\n\n\n\nTHE END"